Bared to the Viscount (The Rites of May Book 1) (13 page)

His tone was that of a philosopher, not a lover, and Miss Lawton’s comfortable expression faltered. “Of course,” she said, but she sounded wary.

“Have you ever thought of leading a different sort of life? Of ignoring what everyone else expects, and deciding for yourself what you truly want to be?”

The question clearly caught her by surprise. Her mouth dropped open. And, for just a moment, something sparked in her eyes that he’d never seen in them before—a sharpness, an intelligence, and a flash of emotion that might have been fear, or perhaps even yearning.

For that one moment he thought they might be on the verge of actually understanding one another.

But the moment was over as quickly as it came.

Miss Lawton seemed to catch hold of herself. Her lips closed back into a perfect Cupid’s bow, and her countenance went smooth and impenetrable as porcelain again. “Why should I want a different sort of life?” she said, her tone perfectly complacent. “I should think people like you and I are the luckiest people on the earth. My father always says so.”

Her father always says so.
“Of course,” John said, and tried to keep the disappointment from his voice.

Miss Lawton stood, confident as a queen once more, and laid her fingers on his forearm. “So will you call on us soon?” she asked, and her eyes were so placid he could scarcely believe he’d seen that brief moment of honest feeling in them. “You know you need no invitation to visit us at the Grange.”

“Your father is very kind,” he said. He bowed over her hand as politely as he could manage and watched her walk away, his heart full of dread.

There really was not question in his mind any longer: he couldn’t marry Annabel Lawton. He just
couldn’t
.

He felt nothing for her. She felt nothing for him.

If they were to marry, they’d do it to please their fathers, to combine their family fortunes, to do what Society told them to do. And they’d both end up miserable. In this case at least, Society and Nature were entirely at odds—and Nature’s urgings seemed vastly more likely to lead to happiness, for everyone concerned.

But how on earth was a man of honor supposed to put an end to their presumed engagement?

It didn’t matter. He had to find a way. Mary would never so much as consider his proposal while she believed he was bound to a Society marriage. And the longer he let things go on, the worse the harm he’d do to the Lawtons.

And so, a few hours later, he found himself riding through the woods on the way to Lawton Grange. The day was warm and lazy, and it seemed more than a few of the local inhabitants still held to the pagan customs of May Day—sultry, drunken laughter sounded from the shrubberies here and there, and at one point a naked man dashed across the trail not fifteen feet ahead, buttocks flashing as he ran. One of his tenant farmers, John was fairly sure, doing his part to ensure the vegetative growth for the coming year.

John rode on quickly to avoid making the acquaintance of whatever equally-naked farmwife might be in hot pursuit.

Coming up over a rise of red crag, he had a sudden view down into a slanting hollow left where a heavy length of sandstone had sheered off some years ago. And, glancing down through a veil of pine branches into the rubble that was left, he caught sight of none other than Mr. Bassett and Mrs. Trumbull.

Mrs. Trumbull was bent forward over a sandstone boulder, her bodice down to her waist and her skirts pushed up, while Mr. Bassett held her wrists tight behind her back. With his trousers down to his thighs, he was taking her roughly from behind. They both made loud sounds of pleasure. After a moment, Mr. Bassett spun his lover around and lifted her under the hips to set her arse on the rock. She lay down on her back, like a sacrifice on a pagan altar, her breasts bare, staring into the sky. Mr. Bassett pulled her knees up over his shoulders, and went back to thrusting enthusiastically while Mrs. Trumbull threw her head back in ecstasy.

Good Lord
. With all the time the pair spent fornicating, it was a wonder Mrs. Trumbull managed to run a pub and Mr. Bassett managed the keeping of the church grounds. Well, if the ancient Greeks and the Britons had been right, at least the crops should grow vigorously this year.

A sudden vision of Mary filled his mind: Mary stretched out like that, the sunlight gleaming on her bared flesh, her hair spread over the sandstone, her legs spread for him.

Flames of desire speared through him, and the heat seemed to clarify his mind.
That
was what he wanted. That was what would bring him life. Only that was real, and all the minutiae of civilization was a thin veneer laid overtop—a distraction from what truly mattered.

He spurred his horse faster along the trail.

With those thoughts of Mary distracting him, by the time he arrived at Lawton Grange, he was almost surprised to find the footmen and the parlor maids fully clothed. The perfection of the foyer seemed absurdly chill and artificial, with the black and white squares of the marble floor, the smooth mirrors in their gilt frames. Even the sculpture of a half-naked nymph at the base of the staircase seemed cold and sexless—bone white, eyes blank, with no nipples, no tempting triangle of brandy-colored curls between her legs.

No, a life focused on this superficial polish was not a life he wanted.

The Lawtons, however, made a very different assumption about his purpose in coming. The moment his presence was announced, he felt the household ripple with anticipation as servants scurried off in every direction. Within moments, Lord Lawton greeted him, ushering him into the sitting room with the self-satisfied pomp of a grandee about to sit down to a feast. Three of the Lawton girls came in in a rush a few minutes later, clearly shepherded from upstairs, where they had no doubt been resting up for the evening festivities. All three were blonde and pink and very pretty. Lucinda, the sister third in age, to her credit looked terrified by his presence. The youngest, Vanessa, was a smaller but perfect copy of Annabel, though she lacked the smug expression her eldest sister wore as Annabel swirled to a seat on the settee nearest him. Clearly, as the eldest, Annabel was ready to stake her claim.

The missing girl, Rosamund, the second sister in age, was herded in shortly afterwards by a grim-faced parlor maid. Judging by a streak of gold pollen on her skirts, Rosamund had been in the gardens. She had something hidden behind her back that she stashed guiltily under a cushion as she sat. Was it a book?

God forbid a gentleman should catch one of the Lawton girls reading.

Or thinking.

He tried to smile.

Another maidservant brought tea, and Annabel quite naturally did the pouring. Her graces were on full display—every gesture polished, her hands flawless and smooth as the porcelain she handled, the cups and saucers making not the slightest rattle, the tea not the least slosh. Did the girl have no nerves at all?

She cast a self-satisfied glance at him as if for assurance that he saw the superb hostess he was about to procure. “Cream and no sugar for you, Lord Parkhurst, isn’t that so?” she asked.

“Oh—yes. Please.” Lord, she’d been studying him.

As she passed the cup, she leaned towards him slightly more than was necessary, displaying the white bounty of her bosom. An impressive bosom to be sure, one he’d admired in the past, but somehow it seemed excessive to him now, lacking in subtlety. The pale gold of her hair seemed insipid. She was just…all wrong for him.

Her inviting smile made his stomach churn. Did she genuinely have no idea what he was thinking and feeling? Had she not read his hesitation this morning, and his distress? Or had she read them perfectly, but dismissed them as quite irrelevant to her wishes?

Though he could remember none of the content of it later, he managed to engage the family in polite conversation for the requisite fifteen minutes, during which the girls did much simpering and giggling and a sharp pain grew steadily in his temple. At last, he could bear it no longer. “Lord Lawton,” he said far too abruptly. “Might I have some private words with you in your study?”

A sort of jolt went through the line of pretty girls. It was obvious what they all assumed: that he’d been overcome with passion for Annabel and could not refrain from asking for her hand as soon as possible.

Well, there was no helping it. Let them assume what they wanted to assume.

He followed Lord Lawton out of the room with all the enthusiasm of a man heading for the gallows. How exactly was he to tell his late father’s lifelong best friend that he was rejecting all four of his daughters?

They settled into leather armchairs, and Lord Lawton—no doubt attributing his tongue-tied discomfort to a smitten suitor’s bashfulness—poured them each a snifter of brandy.

“Here,” Lord Lawton said. “Drink up, lad.”

The brandy was no doubt superb, but just at the moment, it was as welcome as glass of vinegar. John choked down a sip.

Lord Lawton smiled at him indulgently, laying a hand on his own embroidered waistcoat over his swelling patriarch’s belly. “Come now—you’ve always been like a son to me, you must know that. I daresay I rejoiced nearly as much as your father did on the day you were born.” The smile took on an edge of sentimental melancholy. “Parkhurst was the finest of men, and his loss has never gone from my heart. It never shall. But you’ve grown to be his spitting image. He would be so proud to see you now.”

A lump of lead seemed to form in John’s throat. This really couldn’t be much worse.

Mary.
He had to focus his mind on her, and he could get through this.

Lord Lawton seemed to think a broader hint was in order. “You and my Annabel have seen quite a lot of each other lately.”

“Yes, yes.” John seemed to have forgotten how to sit in a chair without shifting his weight about. “It’s been a privilege to get reacquainted with all your daughters.”

“Annabel especially?”

“Well, of course. She’s—she’s a lovely young woman.”

“No one more lovely in all the county, if a proud father may be forgiven for saying so.”

“Indeed.”

Lord Lawton gave him an odd, considering look. Surely he had begun to notice the lack of enthusiasm in John’s tone. “And perhaps,” Lawton added, a bit more forcefully, “I can also be forgiven for mentioning that many suitors have come to persuade me to allow them to court her.”

“Naturally. Naturally.” Oh, Lord, he was making a hash of this.

But perhaps Lord Lawton himself had just given him the opening he needed.

John sat up straighter, and looked his father’s old friend in the eye. “Miss Lawton is of course a charming and spirited young lady. With—with a…warm heart.” He had no idea, really, if Annabel Lawton even
had
a heart, but it seemed wisest to speak as if she did. “She might, perhaps, have formed…” What word would be appropriate, and not imply that the young lady was loose?
Attachment
?
Fondness
? “A...a preference of her own….For some particular gentleman?”

Spots of color rose on Lord Lawton’s cheeks, and his fingers tensed around his brandy glass. “If you are inquiring as to her chastity,” he said in a clipped, offended voice, “I can assure you that Annabel has always conducted herself according to the highest—”

“Oh! No, Lord Lawton! I have no doubts as to her conduct. Quite the opposite, in fact. I meant that, perhaps, out of a sense of duty and obligation, she might have forced herself to renounce any...
liking
she may have had for some other—”

“Lord Parkhurst!” Lawton said firmly. “Do not be absurd. Like all my daughters, she has lived her life almost in seclusion. And far more importantly, as you and I both know, my Annabel is not a lady for the common sort. Not even for the usual run of the nobility. She deserves the
best
of men. A man of true breeding, and the highest caliber of honor. The sort of gentleman only a peer like your father could raise.”

Guilt stabbed John’s gut. Nothing he could say now would make his actions any more acceptable to Lord Lawton, or to Society, or to his father’s memory. But he had to push forward with it.
For
Mary
. “Sir,” he said, “you must know I hold your family in the very highest esteem, as did my father before me. Annabel is an exceptional young lady, beyond any doubt. However—”

Lawton’s eyes narrowed. The man was no fool. “If Annabel is not the match you seek,” he said, glowering like a thundercloud, “I have three daughters more.” The look in his eye very clearly said,
and only the most shameless cad would dare reject them all.

“And all three are extraordinary as well. My admiration for them is complete. And, believe me, sir, my respect for you and for my father is absolute. I...I am well aware of the understanding between the two of you, made many years ago—”

“As well you should be!”

“But that is just the point. Your daughters and I were mere children, back then. Annabel was an
infant.
We could give no meaningful consent. And the world has changed greatly since those days. The modern ways of society—”

“Are an abomination to honorable men!” Lawton was red as a boiled lobster now. He slammed his brandy snifter on the side table, rattling the lamps. “
Tradition
. Tradition and tradition only forms the backbone of England. Our place is to uphold that tradition, to bind society together with the order and dignity and
honor
that have made our nation the greatest on this earth!