Miss Quinn's Quandary (5 page)

The following day, Randall accompanied Uncle Cyrus on his morning
calls, thus preventing him from making his own call on Lady Dorothea. Sending a
card did not properly convey his feelings, so he did the next best thing—sent a
flower bouquet with a personal note.

The lightness in Randall’s step abated once he and his uncle
stepped into the Curzon Street townhouse, residence of Miss Larissa Quinn and
her aunt. To Randall’s great relief, they found the occupants not at home.
Before leaving, Rushton left his calling card with the butler.

Once inside the carriage, Randall could not prevent the image of
Larissa from flickering into his mind, and it did so with astounding ease. She
had looked lovely last night, her golden hair pulled atop her head, curled
tendrils framing her face, teasing him to brush them back. The excited look in
her eyes was the look of an innocent who was experiencing the wonder of her
first lavish social affair. He had not seen an expression like that in years.

Randall admitted he felt an attraction to her, but in the next
lucid thought, he quickly dismissed the idea of keeping her acquaintance.
However, he did wonder what it would have been like to hold her in his arms and
dance.

“I’m afraid you’ve been right all along, my dear boy,” Rushton
said, breaking the silence.

“Right? About what, Uncle?”

“Miss Quinn, much too young.” Rushton shrugged. “Whatever would I
do with such loveliness?”

Randall had a few ideas and thought it best to keep them to
himself. Although he considered her troublesome, Larissa conjured up feelings
in him, feelings best left hidden. He wanted to avoid all thought of her and
concentrated on Lady Dorothea to make him forget Larissa. He hoped Dorothea
would make him forget Larissa.

Just one week later, Randall had the pleasure of sleeping late.
It was now scarcely after one in the afternoon. He hadn’t risen much later than
that in this last week of nonstop parties and balls. He and his uncle had seen
the dawn of each new day arrive. Most days since their arrival, Rushton had
insisted his nephew accompany him on his round of morning calls that more
likely than not seemed to stretch into the late afternoon. Today he was
fortunate enough to breakfast at his leisure.

He sat at the table enjoying his coffee and skimming the
headlines of the morning paper when his Uncle Cyrus bounded in. “I’ve found
her! I’ve found her!” Rushton exclaimed. He fairly pranced on the tips of his
toes around the length of the long breakfast table with delight. “She is the
one! She is the light of my life! The very breath in my body!”

“Already?” Randall folded the paper and set it aside. “Albeit
you’ve been searching day and night. Must have danced with every lady in town
by now.”

“Haven’t you heard a word I’ve been saying? I said I have found
her, my boy!”

“I share your happiness, Uncle. Who is she, pray tell?”

“The Dowager
Viscountess
Claiborne,”
his love struck uncle crooned.

The sparkle in Rushton’s eyes alluded to the amatory pounding of
his heart. Smitten. He was more than smitten, Randall decided. Quite taken,
indeed.

“I am to see her tomorrow night at the ball after the opera.”
Rushton took hold of his nephew’s shoulders. “I need to ask a great favor of
you, my boy.”

Wary by instinct, Randall proceeded with reluctance. “What is it
you wish me to do?”

“My angel will only spend time with me if I can assure her ward
has a suitable escort.” Rushton looked hopefully at his nephew.

“Oh, no.” Randall feared what might come next.

“It is only for the ball that follows the opera. It is such a
short while.” Rushton stared directly into Randall’s eyes. “I’ve already
promised.”

“Tell me you didn’t,” Randall said, knowing full well his uncle
already had. Worse than having to attend the Season was being forced to
tolerate some maid on her third
season.

“I knew I could count on you, my boy,” Rushton crowed with
delight. “I’m off to bed,” he announced. “I’m going to need my beauty sleep.
Haven’t had much lately.” He gave a burst of laughter and rocked his head. “If
I can fall asleep that is.” With that, he gave a knowing wink and spun with
delight out of the room.

Randall smiled, amused at the sight of his uncle. Then all of a
sudden he realized, now that Rushton had found his next countess, his time
constraints would ease. Uncle Cyrus’ good fortune was Randall’s good fortune as
well. He could use the phaeton to take Lady Dorothea for a drive in Hyde Park
that very afternoon. He wasted no time in dispatching a note to her.

“I say, Miss Larissa, is that not a new bonnet?” She and Lord
Fenton Harding had arrived just at the height of the fashionable hour at Hyde
Park. Lord Fenton gave the horses their heads to walk along the busy, well-traveled
path.

Larissa peeked out at him from beneath the brim. “Why yes, it is
new. Do you like it?” She found it tedious that Lord Fenton touched only upon
the most correct subjects for a lady’s discussion. Ladies’ fashions, last
night’s social gatherings and the latest on
dit
.

“It’s quite fetching,” he complimented in his proper manner.
Perhaps it was too proper.

“Thank you,” she replied. What Larissa found fetching was Lord
Fenton’s smile.

“Miss Larissa, did you happen to take notice of Miss
Uppington
-Styles last evening?”

“Miss
Uppington
-Styles?” Larissa tilted
her head in quizzical contemplation, holding the loose ribbons from her bonnet.
She caught Lord Fenton’s fine profile as he awaited his answer.

His aristocratic nose, while slender, was not sharp. His chin
fell to a nice point from a strong, wide jaw. She regarded how his slender yet
strong hands handled the reins with a gentle firmness. She could just as easily
imagine the way in which his long, tapered fingers would hold her fast and
deliver a gentle touch or a warm caress.

How much longer did she have to wait? She wanted him to take her
hand into his and press it. She wanted him to pull her into his arms and kiss
her breathless, just as Sir Randall had.

“Miss Larissa?”

Larissa found herself gazing into Lord Fenton’s face. “I am
sorry, my lord. We were speaking of Miss
Uppington
-Styles,
were we not?”

“Yes, that’s right.” He gave a jovial social laugh. “She wore a
simply dazzling raspberry-colored gown.”

“Raspberry? Are you sure?”

“I believe so. Too purple to be scarlet, and too red to be
violet. I thought raspberry a most apt description.”

“What a brilliant observation,” Larissa gushed, doing her best
London Miss imitation.

Lord Fenton continued to speak while he and Larissa acknowledged
other fashionable guests in passing carriages. Larissa spied a somewhat
familiar gig, not too far off in the distance. It took a gentle curve,
approaching from the opposite direction, coming toward them. The dark green
phaeton with a fine yellow stripe finally drew close enough for her to see the
passengers.

Sir Randall Trent recognized Larissa Quinn at once and drew back
on the ribbons, pulling his team to a sliding and disruptive halt. The horses
neighed, shaking their heads in protest. After they settled and stood quiet an
awkward moment of silence ensued.

“I would not wish to speak out of place,” Larissa began, her
voice, not much more than a whisper, was meant for her escort and not for
Randall. “However, I do believe someone must say something.”

It was only after Larissa spoke that Randall realized both
transports stood facing one another at a standstill, caught in an uncomfortable
social circumstance.

“I’m afraid I do not know the proper order of introducing a
younger son of a duke to a baronet.” Larissa’s attention darted from Fenton to
Randall.

“Nearly any titled person ranks above a baronet,” came the soft
reminder next to her.

Larissa gave an awkward smile. “Then, Lord Fenton, may I present
Sir Randall Trent. Sir Randall, Lord Fenton Harding.”

The men tipped their hats and exchanged gracious social
pleasantries. All of it properly done. All of it polite and yet very staged.

Randall observed the awkward silence that followed. Larissa and
Lord Fenton stared at him. He realized he had not performed the same introductions
for Lady Dorothea.

“Would you be so kind, Sir Randall, as to introduce your guest?”
Lord Fenton drawled.

Randall’s head snapped toward Lady Dorothea who remained quiet.
“Why, yes of course,” he faltered. “Lady Dorothea
Brookhurst
,
may I present Lord Fenton Hartley.”

Lord Fenton gave a chuckle. “No, no, you’ve quite mistaken, Sir
Randall. It’s Harding.”

Randall feigned an amused chuckle of his own, joining Lord
Fenton. “Yes, of course. Lord Fenton … Harding and Miss Larissa Quinn. I did
get that right, didn’t I?”

“Spot on,” Lord Fenton exclaimed with enthusiasm.

Lady Dorothea enunciated a polite “How do you do.” to each and
said nothing more.

“Well, hate to run,” Lord Fenton interjected, “but I fear we
must. Good day to you.”

“You as well,” Randall bid, taking up his ribbons. “Enjoy the
remainder of your drive.”

Randall signaled his horses to move. He rested his elbows on his
knees and pondered. Why on earth couldn’t Larissa at least have taken an
interest in a man? A real man. Harding wasn’t a man, he was a confounded piece
of fluff. Randall did not care. He need not concern himself with her any
longer. Larissa was out of his life for good.

Randall felt the touch on his leg. It was the pink gloved hand of
Lady Dorothea. Gads, he had nearly forgotten her again. Bumping into Larissa
had distracted him. What a cad he was.

He looked down the tunnel of Lady Dorothea’s poke bonnet. Large
blue eyes framed by full lashes gazed back at him, drawing every bit of his
attention, rendering him speechless.

“Are you quite all right, Sir Randall?”

Randall sighed. She was all he needed in a wife—considerate and
beautiful, and she had an uncanny ability to make him forget all about Larissa.

“I beg your pardon, Sir Randall,” Laurie interrupted.

Randall looked up from his book. “Yes, Laurie, what is it?”

The butler had a regal air about him. “His lordship wishes me to
remind you of the opera performance you will be attending this evening.”

“I’d be hard pressed to forget it.” Randall cracked a smile.
“Uncle Cyrus has been talking of nothing but the opera.”

“I hadn’t realized my lord was overly fond of the theater, sir.”

Randall rested the book on his chest. “I believe it is a lady who
has caught his interest.”

Laurie’s left eyebrow lifted, while keeping his austere facial
expression intact.

“Well, I think enough said, really.” Randall glanced at the page
to find where he had left off. “Thank you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Still seated, Randall noted Laurie had not left. “Is there
something else?”

“I believe it was the earl’s intention, sir, to have you ready
yourself for this evening’s festivities,” Laurie continued in a disapproving
tone.

“You can’t be serious.” Randall once again lowered the book.

Laurie said nothing, but his expression told Randall he had meant
every word.

“It’s much too early,” Randall commented. “I’ve only just had tea.”

“That was more than two hours ago, sir,” Laurie corrected.

“Was it?” Randall regarded the butler in quizzical contemplation.

“I believe so, sir.”

“Well, Laurie, regardless of when I took tea, I contend it is not
time to ready myself for the opera. I shan’t bow to his lordship’s whim this
time. Is that understood?”

“As you say, sir,” the butler replied in elevated tones.

“I do say. Now off with you,” Randall stated with unquestionable
firmness. He waved his book, dismissing the messenger.

Not two minutes later, Rushton strode into the library. “Odd’s
fish!” he exclaimed, not at all pleased to see Randall still in his day
clothes. “Why haven’t you dressed? Didn’t Laurie tell you we’d soon be off?”
Randall opened his mouth to answer. His uncle didn’t give him a chance to
speak. “It’s not like him to take what I say into disregard.”

“He did tell me, Uncle,” Randall finally managed to get it in. “I
just didn’t think he was serious.”

“Of course I am serious.”

Apparently he was serious. The earl was dressed to the nines.

“Come along, boy, come along, you need to change. We’ll be late
for sure.” Rushton took the book out of Randall’s hand, pulled him to his feet,
and gave him a sturdy push toward the door.

“Late?” Randall consulted his watch. “Why, Uncle, we have hours
until we need leave.”

“Hours?” Rushton gawked at his nephew as if he had sprouted a
second head. He dropped the book onto the small table. “No, no. We need to be
there when the curtain goes up.”

“You want to see the opera?”

“I plan on seeing the entire performance, from start to finish.”

“What?” Randall was now clearly confused. “Which opera is it?”

“It’s.” Rushton stopped. “It doesn’t matter. You’ll be sleeping
straight through it regardless.”

“You’re right,” he agreed without contest and set out for his
room to change.

The Earl of Rushton led the way to his theater box and sat in the
front. Upon entering, Randall eased into a chair behind his uncle. A quick
glance at the other boxes told him they were the only occupants on their level.
Within minutes, the overture started, the curtain rose and Randall could not
prevent his eyelids from lowering.

“Wake up, lad.” Rushton seized Randall by the arm, waking him
after what felt like only moments of sleep. “Come on, now,” his uncle urged,
impatient.

“Is it time to leave?” Randall mumbled, rising to his feet still
half asleep.

“Don’t be an ass. We’re going to see my beloved angel.”

“Oh, only intermission.” Randall stood, gave a sigh and smoothed
his recently assaulted sleeve. Trudging behind his uncle, he wondered about
this paragon of womanhood his uncle had gone on about for the last two days. On
the other hand, he was quite willing to put off the inevitable meeting of the
dowdy ward.

Randall came to a sudden stop behind Rushton, who gave no advance
notice of his abrupt halt. The earl pointed at the heavy brocade drape. “She’s
in here. In here, my boy,” he said anxiously, taking a moment to primp. “Do I
look all right?”

“You look fine, Uncle.” Randall gave him a brush to the back of
his coat and removed a mote of lint. Rushton parted the curtains and stepped
into the box with his nephew close behind.

Once he stepped inside, Randall stood stock-still. “It’s her,” he
gasped, shocked—no stunned by the woman inside.

“Of course it’s her.” Rushton’s face reflected his delight at the
nearness of his amour.

Randall clamped onto his uncle’s arm, preventing him from
advancing. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why ever do you think we came all the way over here,
nodcock
? She is the Dowager
Viscountess
—”

“No, no, Uncle,
the her
I am referring
to is Miss Quinn.” Randall’s eyes widened.

“Didn’t think I needed to. I thought you made your feelings about
her quite clear the other night,” Rushton recalled. “Wanted her for yourself,
if I’m not mistaken.”

“Mistaken?” How could his uncle have come up with that
misapprehension? “You couldn’t be further from the truth.”

“Well, my boy, there are truths and there are truths, aren’t
there?” Rushton pried himself from Randall’s grip. “Ah, well then, we’ll have
to make the best of the situation, won’t we?” The earl advanced toward the
dowager
viscountess
.

“The best?” Randall echoed to himself. “I can hardly stand to be
in the same room with her, let alone in the same theater box.”

With the
viscountess
’ dainty gloved
hand in his, Rushton pointed in Randall’s direction. “
Viscountess
Claiborne, may I present my nephew, Sir Randall Trent.”

“How do you do?” the very handsome, matronly woman replied. The
plumes on her turban swayed with every movement of her head.

Randall accepted her proffered hand and kissed the air some two
inches above. “I have heard so much about you, my lady.” He straightened enough
to meet her eyes. “All favorable, I assure you,” he added with a savory smile.

“I see charm runs in your family, Rushton,” she murmured to the
earl and pulled her hand free. The dowager extended her arm, indicating Larissa
next to her. “Sir Randall, may I present my niece, Miss Larissa Quinn.”

Randall gave an easy smile. “Charmed, Miss Quinn.”

“How nice to see you, Sir Randall.” She dropped into the
shallowest of curtsies.

However, it was evident to Randall she had not meant her kind
words.

“I thought I would not again have the pleasure.”

A fleeting look at his uncle and the dowager told Randall they
were in a world of their own. Randall drew Larissa aside, allowing the couple
their privacy. “No need to flatter yourself. I am here strictly on my uncle’s
behalf.”

“And I only tolerate you because of my aunt’s happiness.”

“You never told me your aunt is a
viscountess
.”

“You never told me your uncle is an earl.” Larissa glanced at her
blissful aunt and turned back to Randall. “There is no need to treat me like
some unwelcome distant relative.”

“If my uncle has his way that is exactly what you will become.”

Randall eyed his uncle, lost to the current of love that was
pulling him farther and farther into its persuasive grasp. The
viscountess
, it seemed, was equally lost.

“He means to marry her.” Randall sighed.

A whimsical smile brightened Larissa’s face. “Does he?”

“And to that end, I have promised to escort you to the ball
following the opera.”

“You need not concern yourself in that quarter. I have a
qualified companion.”

No doubt she referred to that
overpuffed
pigeon, Fenton. “Who chooses to, or not to, pay you court is none of my concern.”

“You speak those words with such ease. However,” she smiled, “the
green pallor of your face is clashing horribly with the blue of your jacket.”

“Me? Jealous? Don’t flatter yourself.”

“It is you who flatters yourself.” Larissa sat in her chair,
demonstrating, she was at ease. “You must think highly of yourself if you think
I’m concerned whether you care for me.” She folded her arms in front of her and
turned away from him, presenting her profile.

“No higher than you think of yourself, I’m certain.” Randall
crossed his arms and pivoted in the opposite direction, displaying his profile
in hostility.

He need not accept this type of behavior from her. Randall was
doing her a favor by assuming the responsibility of an escort. He could be just
as obstinate as she. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed she did not move
one iota. Therefore, he held his pose. He schooled his features into placid
granite, refusing to soften.

“Oh look, Rushton,” the
viscountess
pointed at Larissa and Randall. “The children are playing. Persephone and Hades
at odds, are they not?”

Rushton shrugged and followed her as she moved to the posing pair
for a closer study.

Hades, indeed, Randall mused. “We should be going, Uncle.”
Randall broke form. “The second act should be starting any moment.”

Rushton took the dowager’s hand in his and brought it to his
lips. “Adieu, my lady, until we meet at the ball.”

“Of course, my lord,” she replied. To Randall she seemed somewhat
distracted. “I have it!” The
viscountess
whirled to
face the exiting guests. “Deucalion and
Pyrrha
,
surveying Parnassus.”

Randall eased back into his chair. Uncle Cyrus took a seat in the
front row of the box. Struggling to fend off the hold of Morpheus, Randall
glanced around. Most of the upper boxes still stood empty, and would remain so
until nearly the end of the evening.

He observed
Viscountess
Claiborne in
her box. On stage was the poignant scene where the hero, of whom the heroine’s
father disapproved, expressed his love. Opera glasses poised in front of the
dowager’s eyes. She leaned forward to catch every note, to see every
expression, to feel every emotion from the performers. Tears spilled onto her
cheeks as the hero professed his forbidden love to the heroine.

Randall noted his uncle’s attention was directed not toward the
stage, but off to the left. Raising his own glass, Randall took a second,
closer look to the left the dowager
viscountess
. Just
to her right, struggling to sit upright was Larissa.

The dim theater light glinted off her golden hair. Her bright
eyes glimmered in the dark. She covered her yawn with the back of her right
hand. The opera obviously held the same interest for her as it did for him.

After a random search of the lower level, Larissa’s wandering
gaze drifted to the upper tier. She stopped when she met Randall’s conspicuous
stare. Randall lowered his glasses. What Larissa’s first theater experience
lacked in musical entertainment, it compensated for in personal pleasure.

Larissa did not look away. Her inquiring eyes were hidden in the
semidarkness. Had Randall nodded off, she could have easily studied him without
him noticing as she had during the first half of the evening.

His eyes were blacker than the night. His hair was almost blue in
the darkness. The lines of his face, sculpted by the shadows, that face she
knew so well was as handsome as she remembered.

Why did he need to behave so rudely toward her? Was it because of
their first meeting? Perhaps if they had a proper introduction, things between
them
would be different. There was no use in wishing for
something she could not have. But if he had not cared for her, why did he stare
at her so?