Miss Foster’s Folly (5 page)

“I’ll send Jack a cable from the ship if they’ll let me,” she said.

Millie’s eyes narrowed. “Something’s wrong with you. I just can’t figure out what.”

The carriage rocked as her staff and the longshoremen unloaded their trunks. Her driver opened the door and stuck his head in. He pointed toward the smaller cases that sat on the seat opposite them. “I’ll take these now, miss.”

“Thank you.”

He did and departed again.

“I guess we can board now.” Juliet made to climb out, but Millie put a hand on her arm and stopped her.

“Not yet,” Millie said. “I want the straight story.”

“The ship will leave without us.”

“Not likely. They haven’t even finished loading.”

Juliet glanced outside. Sure enough, dozens of crates and trunks still sat on the dock as others were lifted up in nets. It could take hours for them to get all that on board.

“Then let’s go and see our staterooms,” she tried.

“Oh, no. We’ll sit here until you’re honest with me.”

“Oh, all right.” She sat back down and gathered her thoughts. How could she tell this story without sounding like a prize idiot? Hell, she had been a prize idiot, offering herself to Derrington in that way. She should have known the man would be nothing but trouble. Why hadn’t she found some nice, timid man, who’d do the honors, thank her, and leave her the hell alone?

“You remember that little problem I had about pretending to be a widow?” she said.

“That you’d need to lose your virginity first.” Millie gripped her arm. “You haven’t done that, have you?”

“Not exactly.”

“Juliet, the only answers to that question are yes or no.”

“Well.” She took a deep breath. “I asked Derrington to take care of that for me.”

“Dear heaven. You asked a Peer of the Realm to deflower you?”

“He’s not the Archbishop of Canterbury,” she said. “He’s a scoundrel and a rake. I thought he’d jump at the chance.”

“I gather he didn’t.”

Juliet didn’t answer but only looked down at her hands. How humiliating. She’d asked a man to make love to her and he hadn’t done it.

“So, what did he do?” Millie said.

“He asked me to marry him.”

“Juliet!” Millie fairly gasped with excitement. “How absolutely wonderful.”

“For heaven’s sake, not you, too.”

“Why shouldn’t I think it wonderful?” Millie said. “He’s handsome, clever, and titled. Quite a catch.”

“He didn’t mean it.”

Millie looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Why would he propose if he didn’t mean it?”

“The whole thing was dishonest,” Juliet said. “I’m sure he just wants my money, not me.”

“Did he tell you he loved you?”

“He told me he was developing tender feelings. Have you ever heard anything so absurd?”

Millie put her arm around Juliet’s shoulders. “Maybe it isn’t absurd.”

“Before that, we’d met twice. Once, I surprised him in a compromising situation, and once he walked us across the park. Do you think the crocuses were shooting off tender feelings like pollen?”

“He obviously admired you and your wit.” Millie squeezed her. “He might not love you now, but love often follows marriage.”

That had happened with her parents. They’d formed a beneficial alliance of families when they’d wed, but her mother and father had come to love each other very deeply. Even Juliet had dim, childhood memories of how they were together—always touching, always gazing at each other with adoration in their eyes. She’d been so young when her mother died, but the siblings remembered things the same way. Gerard had never had a sweet disposition, and he’d turned even sourer after his wife’s death and had come to hate everyone and everything, including his children.

“You’re considering the possibility, aren’t you?” Millie said.

“Marrying Derrington? The man’s notorious. He doesn’t love me. He’d cat around, and I’d have to keep an English stiff upper lip while he was breaking my heart.”

Oh, dear Lord. What had she just said? Surely, she hadn’t given that man any power over her heart. Even if she’d given him her body, she wouldn’t have let him near her emotions. He didn’t love her now. He’d never love her. She’d better remember that.

“Let’s go back to your house,” Millie said. “Cancel the trip. Have word sent to Lord Derrington that you’ve made a mistake.”

She pulled back. “I’m not going to tell him something like that.”

“I’ll tell him somehow. I’ll haunt the park until I see him again and drop it into the conversation. Or, Mr. Carter can think of some way.”

“I will not crawl to him, and I won’t let you do it on my behalf.”

Millie took her shoulders and shook. “You could be throwing away a real chance at happiness.”

“Or I could be avoiding a marriage that would make me miserable.”

“Why do you keep saying marriage would make you miserable?” Millie said.

“I can’t be an obedient wife. I certainly can’t play Lady Derrington.” She took Millie’s hands off her shoulders and put them back into her lap. “For heaven’s sake, can you picture me pouring tea to the ladies of British nobility?”

Millie sighed. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re right, but I know what I’m doing.”

She gathered up her skirts and climbed from the carriage. If the ship wasn’t ready for passengers yet, she’d pace the dock until it was. She’d get away from New York and the Marquis of Derrington at the first moment possible.

***

Derrington sat in the study of his suite of rooms, staring at the blank page in front of him. Next to the desk, a wastepaper basket nearly overflowed with futile attempts at a letter to Miss Juliet Foster. Half of it begged her to reconsider his tender feelings. The other half agreed to perform that service for her…rid her of her virginity. One letter even suggested that marrying him was the best, most socially acceptable, way of losing her virginity. So far, he’d avoided mentioning that he was a very good lover, indeed, and would do a masterful job of introducing her to the amatory arts.

The sad fact was that no woman had ever rejected him before. He’d never learned how to deal with that, and he didn’t particularly wish to learn now. But Miss Foster had so much that he needed. Her body made his respond in ways it hadn’t since he’d been a lad and had no control over himself. Her wit and eccentric way of looking at things surprised him constantly. One never knew what to expect when she opened her mouth, and that made her intriguing.

In short, she was everything Harry had told him to look for—and more. If only, he could put together the right string of words to get “yes” from her the next time they met.

He picked up the pen to try again.

No, no, no. Too gory. He crumpled it, tossed it onto the pile in the wastepaper basket, and took another sheet of paper.

Good Lord. That made it sound as if he had a disease. He added that to the other attempts. Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.

A knock came at the door.

“Come in,” he called.

His valet entered. “News about Miss Foster, sir.”

“Well done. I could use some good news on that front.”

“My ally referred me to someone who worked in the household many years ago. A cook named Ruth. She was very close to Miss Juliet when she was a child. It appears her eccentricity started then.”

“Have a seat.”

He pointed toward a chair across the desk, and James sat. “The problem started at the death of her mother when she was four years old. Her father ignored the children except to give them some slight or cutting remark.”

“He had a reputation for a nasty temperament. I never imagined it extended to his offspring.”

“Word has it the only person he could tolerate was his wife,” James said. “He only got worse after her death.”

So, no mother and a cold, insulting father at such a tender age. Might that explain her insistence that she wasn’t desirable?

“The other children were older and better able to withstand his barbs. Little Juliet had no protection. As much as Ruth tried to reassure her, Juliet suffered from the lack of love,” James said.

“Disgraceful,” Derrington said. “No child should be treated like that.”

“She was a courageous child, strong-willed and with a quick tongue of her own, not unlike her father in some ways,” James said. “She became rebellious, running free and doing exactly what she wanted. No one could control her.”

Derrington couldn’t help but smile. That described Juliet Foster perfectly. He’d tried controlling her and had gotten nothing for his efforts. That made her even more intriguing. A challenge. A delightful challenge at that—with such a prize, if he won—that lush mouth clinging to his as his body claimed hers.

“A hellion, eh?” he said.

“I thought that might get your interest,” James said. “They sent her away to school in hopes she’d learn manners there. Instead, she seemed to have learned which boundaries she could cross and which she couldn’t.”

Clever thing. If his feelings toward her could ever have been called “tender,” they were fast changing into something else. Desire, of course, but admiration for her as an equal as well. Perhaps a bit more than an equal, as she’d bested him at every turn so far. He’d have to change that, and the contest would provide no end of fun.

“Now that she’s wealthy beyond belief, those boundaries have disappeared,” he said. “Fascinating.”

“I’ve seldom seen you so enthralled with a woman, sir,” James said.

“Ah, but Miss Foster is more than a bit of skirt. She’s a worthy opponent in a battle of wits and affairs of the heart. Just what my grandmother ordered.”

James looked at him quizzically. “Your heart, my lord?”

“I do have one.”

“I don’t doubt that. I hope I haven’t offended.”

“Not at all. It must seem odd to hear me speak of it.” It felt even odder for him to be thinking in that direction. Had the witch cast a spell on him? Of course, it would prove handy if he came to love his wife the same way his grandfather had loved Harry—much more than handy, actually. “Well, I wonder what I have to do to find my way into her heart.”

“I’m afraid that’s going to be a bit difficult.” James reddened visibly. “There’s one thing I forgot to mention.”

“Speak up.”

“My contact had mentioned a while back that Miss Foster was planning a trip. I don’t know how it slipped my mind.”

“That shouldn’t present a problem,” Derrington said. “Find out where, and I’ll get there before her.”

“Well, you see, sir…” The color of James’s face deepened. “She’s already gone. By steamship. Most likely to England.”

“When?”

“Two days ago. I only just found out she’d gone.”

“All right,” he said. “England isn’t the other side of the moon. We’re more familiar with the place than she is. We can find her.”

“And we shall, my lord.”

“Good man. Book passage for me on the next ship,” Derrington said. “We’re going home.”

And heaven help the woman when he did find her. They had unfinished business, and finish it, they would.

London, 1886

Russell and the rest of the staff had prepared the town house so well it appeared Derrington had never left it. The place felt comfortable, rather like an old slipper. It would make a fine base of operations as he set about locating the elusive Miss Foster. With her height, her remarkable looks, and her American accent, she should stand out wherever she went. He only needed to talk to the right people to bring her to ground.

He sifted through the various invitations. They’d started as a trickle, but more accumulated every day now that word had gone ‘round that he’d returned. Balls, the opera…the usual fare. He’d worked his way through much of it when a rap came at the door.

“Enter,” he called.

Russell stood on the threshold with a salver in his hand. A lone calling card sat in the center. He brought it to Derrington. He hadn’t expected anyone, but this visit was more than welcome. “Send him in.”

In a few seconds, Gabriel Hammond, Viscount Blandings burst into the room with his usual enthusiasm. “Derry, you old bastard. You should have told me you’d returned.”

Derrington rose and went to his school chum, his hand extended. “I’d planned a visit soon.”

The two men shook, and Derrington pointed Blandings toward a chair.

“Oh no, old chap. I’m far too excited to sit,” Blandings said. “In fact, I had to run right over here to show you, despite the early hour.”

“So, what’s got you so excited?”

“My latest acquisition.” Blandings reached into his pocket and produced what looked like a jewel box of a size that usually held a ring. The man had been married, more or less happily, for over five years now. Granted, he was an absent-minded fellow, but he couldn’t have forgotten Lady Blandings and have started buying jewelry for a new woman.

“My latest coleoptera.” Blandings held the box out toward Derrington. “A magnificent specimen.”

Derrington didn’t take it. “One of your bugs?”

“My dear man, they’re beetles, not bugs. An educated fellow ought to know the difference.”

Derrington still didn’t take it. “It’s not alive, is it?”

Blandings shoved the box into his hand. “Dead and perfectly preserved. I paid a small fortune for it.”

Of course. The man had more money than sense. He would pay a great deal for a mummified bug. Derrington walked behind the desk, set the box on the blotter, and sat down.

“Open it,” Blandings said.

He carefully pried the top up. Though many beetles had bright colors and magnificent mandibles, this one was merely brown and, well, buggy.

“It’s a very nice beetle,” Derrington said.

“Nice?” Blandings ran his fingers through his blond, thinning hair, making it into a more tangled mess than it usually was. “It’s more than merely nice.”

“It’s a truly wonderful beetle. The best beetle that’s crossed my desk for months, if not years. If there were an award for Beetle of the Realm, this one would surely win it.”

“Now, you’re making fun of me.” Blandings snatched the box back.

“No, really. I’m glad you brought it to me. I’ve never seen one of these before.” He could say that easily enough.

“Have pity, man. You know you’re the only one I can share my specimens with.”

Sharing specimens had an odd ring to it, but knowing Blandings, he’d only meant the best. Blandings’ tongue ran ahead of his brain sometimes, and everyone knew his mind was a maze of random, unconnected thoughts.

“Sorry, old fellow. I meant no harm,” Derrington said. “I never would have passed zoology at school if it weren’t for you.”

“And I never would have survived boxing if it weren’t for you.” Blandings put the beetle box back into his pocket and took a seat. “I’m glad you’ve come home. Things have been deadly dull without you.”

“I’ve missed you, too, and the mischief we used to get into.” They hadn’t gone bed hopping together since Blandings’ marriage, but they could still raise eyebrows here and there.

“Well, let’s kick up some trouble,” Blandings said.

“Margaret lets you do that, does she?” Derrington asked.

Blandings gave him a blank expression for a moment. “Oh, you mean my wife.”

“Lady Blandings, yes.”

“Well, you see, her mother’s Margaret, too. You might have meant her.”

“It’s natural you’d confuse the two, I imagine,” Derrington said. “Both with the same name and all.”

“Did I tell you she’s with child again?”

“Your mother-in-law?”

“Good God, no, man,” Blandings answered. “She’s well past that age. I meant Lady Blandings.”

“Of course.” Conversing with his friend was always a sort of word puzzle. It could be quite delightful unless the man had information one really needed. “No, you didn’t mention it.”

“Must have slipped my mind,” Blandings said. “That I hadn’t told you, not that she’s going to have another child. I wouldn’t forget that.”

“Perhaps you didn’t tell me because I’ve been overseas.”

“That must be it.” Blandings’ expression brightened. “There you are, then.”

“I suppose we’ll need to leave your pregnant wife behind if we’re to hunt up some trouble,” Derrington said.

Blandings pointed to the pile of invitations. “There should be something in those invitations.”

Derrington picked up the first one. “Covent Garden. I don’t feel like behaving badly in there, do you?”

“I’d rather skip the caterwauling, too.”

He lifted another envelope. “Dinner party at Hugo’s. There’s always lively conversation at his table.”

“Promising.”

Derrington put that into a separate pile from the opera. “And here…Mitford’s. A ball.”

“Mitford’s, Mitford’s.” Blandings tapped his finger against his lips. “There was something I’ve heard about his soiree.”

“Something interesting?”

“Fascinating, if I remember correctly.”

“Come on, man. Out with it,” Derrington said.

“Yes, definitely. I’d planned to attend that one and tell Margaret I’d been to the opera.”

Something intriguing enough that he’d lie to his wife about where he’d been? That held promise. “Think now. Hard. What was it about Mitford’s that piqued your interest?”

“An outrageous couple. No, no. A pair of outrageous women. No, that’s not it.”

“Come on, Blandings. Out with it.”

“I remember now. Lady Mitford’s taken a scandalous widow under her wing for some reason. The widow has a female relative who’s not scandalous.”

Scandalous widow, eh? She might prove an interesting diversion while he figured out a way to chase down Miss Foster. Provided the woman could be discreet. He’d have enough of a challenge, given his past behavior, to convince Miss Foster he’d changed his ways and was ready to settle into matrimony. A new liaison with a notorious woman could harm him beyond repair if it became gossip.

Oh, hell, he probably shouldn’t risk it at all, but he could make inquiries. If she was loose with information about her lovers, he’d avoid her. If she kept her lovers’ secrets, he might enjoy her company.

“Ah, Derry,” Blandings said. “I recognize that look.”

“I’m sorry. My mind wandered a bit.” It did that quite a bit since he’d met Miss Juliet Foster.

“You had the same expression on your face that time you sneaked out for a visit to Miss Fellowes’s Academy,” Blandings said. “As I recall, you found a willing maiden that night.”

“Not one of the pupils but a teacher.”

“A young and pretty one, no doubt.”

Derrington didn’t answer but just smiled. That had been quite a tryst for a man of his tender years. He’d learned a few tricks that had served him well since.

“Scandalous widow, it is,” he said finally.

“Well, old chap,” Blandings said. “I can’t join you in the hunt, but I’ll watch the chase from afar.”

***

Mitford’s house could hardly have held a larger crowd without bursting at the seams. Derrington’s size gave him some leverage to forge a path through the crowd, and Blandings trailed along in his wake. They made it to the main hall finally. It was a huge space—easily big enough for an orchestra at one end and a hundred or more couples on the dance floor. The gas lighting gave the room a festive atmosphere, full of color and movement. Young ladies and gentlemen swirled to a waltz while older people sat in chairs at the periphery. Footmen circulated with trays of full champagne flutes, serving groups of partygoers engaged in pockets of conversation. All very gay. All very opulent. All very predictable.

Blandings caught up with him, taking a place at his side. “I told you this was the smartest affair. It’s even smarter now that you’re here.”

“I?”

“Not every hostess can attract a marquis.”

“Of course,” he said. “I forget my own lofty status sometimes.”

“You spent too much time in the United States with American ideas of social equality.”

“To the contrary. They all treated me as if I were the late Prince Consort. Except for one person.” And she’d treated him like stud service, curse her.

“Let’s see if we can find our hosts, shall we?”

“Let’s.”

They made their way through the crowd, avoiding the dancers. A clutch of men and women directly ahead held the most promise to find Lord and Lady Mitford. If Blandings understood correctly—always a dicey proposition—when they found the lady of the house, she’d lead them to her latest attraction, the new notorious widow. They made it to the front of the group finally, and they encountered Mitford without his wife.

Derrington offered his hand. “Good of you to have me.”

“Better of you to have come,” his host answered. “My wife was excited to receive word you’d honor us.”

“I hope I’ll be able to wish her my best in person.”

“I say, Mitford,” Blandings said. “Have the Americans arrived?”

“Americans?” Derrington asked.

“Yes, the women I told you about.”

“My wife’s guests,” Mitford added.

“The widow and her friend are American?” Derrington asked.

“Mrs. Marlow and her cousin. Yes,” Mitford said.

“Didn’t I mention that?” Blandings answered. “What do you know? Must have slipped my mind.”

A scandalous American who happens to be new in town. Juliet Foster would have arrived recently, and anyone with the sense the Good Lord gave a gooseberry would find her outrageous. Ye gods, could it be he’d found her on his first attempt? “Tell me. This Mrs. Marlow, is she taller than most women?”

“A veritable Diana, or so I’ve heard,” Blandings said. “So’s the redhead.”

A redhead, too. Miss Foster’s friend. The one he’d met in Central Park. It had to be them. That description couldn’t possibly fit anyone else.

“Do they come from New York, I wonder?” Derrington asked.

“Mrs. Marlow does,” Mitford said. “I’m not as sure about Miss Fletcher.”

“And they’re both striking women?” Derrington added.

“I’d say so. But see for yourselves. Here they are.” Mitford stepped aside to let a trio of women join them. His wife, Miss Millicent Rhodes and Miss Juliet Foster.

The latter caught sight of him, and her eyes grew huge in her face. She dropped her champagne, and the glass crashed against the tiles of the floor.

“Well, well,” Derrington said. “It seems you’ve caught my penchant for dropping drinks.”

“I say, have you two met?” Blandings said.

“Figure of speech,” he said.

“It is?” Blandings’ brow furrowed. “I’ve never heard of it before.”

“My lord, I’m sure you remember my wife,” Mitford said.

He bowed. “Lady Mitford.”

She extended her hand for a kiss, which he supplied.

“May I present Mrs. Marlow and her cousin Miss Fletcher?” Lady Mitford said.

Miss Rhodes came to her senses first and dropped a curtsey. He bowed again and then straightened and glanced at Miss Foster. She still stared at him as if she’d swallowed something too large and it had stuck in her throat. After a moment, she recovered somewhat and curtseyed as well. This time, he didn’t bow but simply smiled at her.

Cornered, and she knew it. How delightful. He’d toy with her for a bit before he decided whether or not to expose her as a fraud.

“I’m sorry, Lord Mitford,” she said. “I’ve broken one of your champagne glasses.”

“No matter.” Mitford waved to a nearby servant. Miss Foster stepped aside, and the servant did his best to clear the mess.

“Shall I get you another?” Derrington asked.

“Thank you, no. I think I’ve had enough.”

“Then, perhaps you’d do me the honor of a waltz.”

The orchestra had just started another dance. Miss Foster didn’t move, and Miss Rhodes glanced from her friend to him and then toward the floor. Awkward all the way around for the Americans. Great fun for him.

Miss Foster brought her hand to her forehead. “I’m sorry. I suddenly have a headache.”

Lady Mitford clucked her sympathy. “Shall I get you something?”

“Not necessary. I’ll lie down for a bit, and I’ll be fine.”

Before she could escape, he moved to her side and took her elbow in his hand. “Let me help you.”

She looked up at him, and a bit of her usual fire entered her eyes. “I can manage on my own.”

“But I insist.” He squeezed her elbow. Gently but firmly enough to show her he wouldn’t be swayed.

“I can take care of my cousin,” Miss Rhodes tried.

He glared at her for a moment before pushing Miss Foster away from the others and heading off.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she whispered.

“Taking you somewhere quiet,” he replied. “So you can recover.”

“Let me go.”

“Not a chance in hell.”

“I don’t have to obey you,” she said.

“Oh, no?” He paused long enough to stare into her face. “Would you rather go back so I can tell Lord and Lady Mitford who you really are?”

She blanched. “You wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t depend on that, if I were you.” He started walking again, pushing her through clusters of people as they went.

He found a fairly quiet hallway. People glanced as he went by, but no one interrupted them. He turned back briefly and found that Miss Rhodes had followed at a distance. He raised a brow and gave her his most imperious glare. It had been known to frighten servants and reduce his social inferiors to stuttering. It worked well enough on her to stop her in her tracks. Good. Now, to find some privacy.