The Bolingbroke Chit: A Regency Romance (7 page)

Smothering a sigh, Addleson glanced around the parlor, a comfortable room decorated in quiet shades of blue and gray, and spotted his cousin by the window in deep conversation with the Earl of Moray. Edward wore an expression of amazed wonder as he nodded agreeably to everything Moray said. No doubt they were discussing the vital importance of sun to
Flowericus randomonus.
A few feet to their left was Lord Bolingbroke, a tall, stout gentleman whose imposing stature was undermined by the look of rapt fascination on his face and a coquelicot waistcoat two sizes too small. Examining him, Addleson could not decide which of his host’s offenses was greater: his complete indifference to the suffering of one of his guests or his offensively bright, ill-fitting, red waistcoat.

No, thought Addleson with a small shake of his head, it was easily the waistcoat. Obliviousness could always be dismissed as the unanticipated effect of excessive excitement, but there was never an excuse for displaying poor sartorial judgment. If one could not be relied upon to show faultless taste at all times, then one was obligated to hire a valet who would. It was the single most important rule of being a titled gentleman, after cooling down your horses properly following exercise and giving your servants generous Boxing Day presents.

As understanding as Addleson was of his host’s distraction, he still could not help being irked by it. Yes, the waistcoat was the graver sin, but its unappealing color did not entirely overshadow Bolingbroke’s failure to attend to his duties as host. Even if he did not notice Petrie monopolizing the viscount, surely he should have noticed the
viscount
monopolizing
Petrie.
After all, the man was the guest of honor, the reason the large and elegant crowd had gathered in the blue-gray parlor, and yet nobody had tried to claim his attention for—Addleson looked at his watch—twenty-three minutes. Certainly by now a kindly onlooker or an impatient admirer should have saved the naturalist from the viscount’s clutches with a pointed interruption. Addleson was not possessive of his victimhood. He didn’t care who was thought to be the sufferer as long as it was acknowledged that
someone
in the conversation was suffering.

“It has not been confirmed yet,” Petrie said, continuing his monologue unabated, “for I have not had the chance to complete my research, a development that I attribute to this delightful visit, which I may have mentioned before—please forgive me if I repeat myself. At a certain point, one acquires so much knowledge one cannot keep all the facts and figures straight in one’s head without a chart or an assistant, such as the helpful Mr. Clemmons. I do wish he were here so he could give you the particulars you seek. However, as I was saying, it’s my belief that
Ammophila breviligulata
is less vigorous in stabilized sand. This theory is based on the curious fact that
Ammophila breviligulata
is harder to find inland than along the coastline. From my astute observation, I can naturally suppose that it thrives under a certain circumstance.”

Finding coastal plants no more interesting than root systems, Addleson looked at his watch again. Over the years, he had developed a method for surreptitiously checking the time so as not to give offense, but he did not bother to employ it now, for it was clear to him that Petrie would not notice. Nobody in the room would notice, he thought with a chagrined look at his cousin, who remained in thrall to Moray. Damn Edward! Bolingbroke was no better, nor was Lord Waldegrave, with his ingratiating smile at his host’s wife, or Mrs. Clydeon, who was bent over a modest pamphlet with a green cover, or—

Shifting his head, Addleson suddenly found himself the object of Lady Agatha’s frank appraisal, her black eyes steady as she watched him. He was startled to discover himself unknowingly observed—had she seen him consult the time? wince at her father’s waistcoat?—and assumed his surprise explained the odd little buzzing sound he heard in his head as his gaze locked with hers. It was the strangest thing he’d ever experienced—the way the world seemed to stop and hum as they stared at each other, as if immobilized by a swarm of bees circling above their heads.

Lady Agatha did not look away. She did not flinch or cringe or recoil or jump or show any reaction at all at being caught in so blatant a study of him. She did not pretend to suddenly be fascinated by the seam of her glove or a spot on the floor. She kept her head straight and her eyes fixed and her expression blank.

Addleson remained still, as well, his own gaze as constant as hers, as the seconds ticked by. He couldn’t say what he was doing exactly. Not staring. No, sir, for he would never engage in such deliberately boorish and rude behavior. Observing, perhaps. Lady Agatha, with her severe black eyes, resolute chin and implausibly pert nose, was certainly a curiosity as worthy of close examination as the root of the sunset hyssop. Categorizing the act as mere observation, however, was too feeble and failed to account for the compulsive nature of the moment because, yes, there was something about it that felt a little beyond his control. Maybe it was merely a contest, a battle to see whose will was stronger, and Addleson, a competitive sort, could not bring himself to abandon the field.

The problem with that simple explanation, which the viscount favored because it
was
so straightforward, was it did not account for the buzz that continued to sound in his ears. The hum was an odd development, to be sure, but with his well-established skepticism of superlatives, he doubted that it was truly the strangest thing that had ever happened to him, for how could such a momentous event happen there, in Lord Bolingbroke’s tasteful drawing room during his tedious soiree in the middle of a tiresome discussion of beach grass by an international bore?

No, nothing of import had occurred, except, perhaps, the viscount’s reluctant acquisition of the word
cultivar,
which he intended to forfeit as soon as he exited the building.

With this concise thought in his head, Addleson decided the bizarre—though, obviously, not
most
bizarre—moment had gone on long enough and resolved to look away. He had better things to do than to stare down an odd female. But before he could bring himself to look away, the appalling girl raised her left eyebrow. The movement was subtle yet calculated, and though she revealed no humor in the curve of her lips or in the depth of her eyes, the viscount could feel her amusement.

If they had indeed been engaged in a contest of stares, then Lord Bolingbroke’s daughter had handily prevailed. But just because she had taken the first round did not mean she had won the competition.

Although it felt to Addleson as if several minutes had passed, it had in fact been only a few seconds and Mr. Petrie was still discussing the concentration of
Ammophila breviligulata
along the American coastline.

“What I refer to in my articles as a sand dune, which, if you are not familiar with the term, means—”

Addleson tilted his head to the side. “I apologize for the interruption, Mr. Petrie, but did you just say sand dune?”

The American continued his explanation for another few seconds (“a hill of sand compiled by the…”) before he realized the viscount had spoken. “What? Yes. Ah, the sand dune. It’s a rather difficult concept to grasp if you’ve never seen one. You see, it’s a hill of sand compiled by the—”

Addleson stopped him with a firmly raised hand. “No need to explain. I know exactly what a sand dune is because just this afternoon Lady Agatha was kind enough to introduce me to them,” he explained with a pointed look at the woman in question. “She has a veritable passion for sand dunes, and I couldn’t live with myself if I deprived her of the opportunity of discussing them with another devotee.”

At once, Mr. Petrie’s face lit up and he looked eagerly at his host’s daughter, who was, as per her habit, standing by herself at the edge of the room. Her customary pose, which typically included an intimidating frown, had caused the Earl of Halsey to observe that the Bolingbroke chit wasn’t so much a wallflower as a wallweed.

Mr. Petrie, either knowing nothing of her reputation or too overcome with enthusiasm to consider it, strode to her side in four quick steps. “What a pleasure to discover an enthusiast,” he announced, his smile wide and bright. “You must tell me where you’ve attained your knowledge. I know it was not from my very insightful article in
Scientifica
because that esteemed journal is not published here, which is part of my purpose in coming to London: I hope to find an English publisher for my collected works. I have several meetings arranged with a variety of respected firms, including Thomas Egerton, whose Military Library series is quite well admired. I’m sure you await details of my meetings with eagerness, as do all of my admirers, and I promise to report back as soon as I hear good news.”

If Lady Agatha was taken aback to hear herself described as an admirer of the obscure American naturalist, she did not reveal it. Her expression, which had darkened immediately upon Mr. Petrie’s sudden approach, had remained surly throughout the whole of his speech.

“Sand dunes,” Addleson explained, and the black eyes darted to him, displaying none of the steady calm of only a few moments before. “I’ve informed Mr. Petrie of your love of sand dunes and he rushed over here to share his fondness with you.”

This communication did nothing to improve Lady Agatha’s temper. If anything, her expression grew stormier as she pulled her eyebrows together, and Addleson, recognizing the expression from their exchange at the theater three days before, knew she was trying to think of something deflating to say. On that occasion, she had failed to issue a cutting reply, a development that had surprised the viscount, who, like many of the
ton,
knew Lady Agony only by reputation.

Addleson had not visited the Duchess of Trent’s box with the intention of teasing the notorious misanthrope. He had simply wanted to compliment Miss Harlow on attaining membership to his cousin’s gardening club. Although it seemed like a dubious accomplishment to him—wasn’t she now
obligated
to attend meetings?—he recognized its significance, for she was the first woman ever to achieve the honor. He’d assumed the call would be brief, but the presence in the box of Moray and Sir Charles ensured that the visit was long and generously sprinkled with facts about drainpipes, as irrigation was, according to his cousin, Miss Harlow’s specialty.

Amid the lively chatter of the box—Lady Bolingbroke’s liberal use of gardening terms, the duchess’s pointed attempts to change the subject, Moray’s effusive admiration for Miss Harlow’s hose invention—Lady Agatha stood quietly with her eyes unfocused, a look of intense concentration on her face as if solving a great puzzle. Thoughtfulness was not what one expected from the famous Lady Agony, whose features were said to be permanently arranged in a scowl, and his playful sense of humor, always ready to tease at the slightest provocation, could not resist a lighthearted quip. And that was all he had done: made gentle fun of the way she had closed her eyes as if trying to shut out the world, an impulse he understood only too well. In a flash, her eyes had flown open and she had stared at him with a mixture of horror and confusion and, watching, he could almost see the wheels in her head spinning as she tried to figure out who he was and why he was speaking to her. Spurred on by the mischievous imp that incited most of his absurdity, he prattled inconsequentially about his tailor for several minutes and had the pleasure of seeing a series of fascinating expressions cross her face.

No, Lady Agony was not what he had been expecting at all.

Addleson, who found most people to be disappointingly predictable, was pleasantly surprised by the development. His father, a dull-witted gentleman who treated his clever son with suspicion, had been the first disappointment in the viscount’s life, consistently responding with anger to anything he didn’t understand. When, six years old and eager for his first pony, Addleson had asked his father how high a particular hurdle was in relation to the height of the horse, he had simply been trying to establish a ratio for optimum jumping, not imply his esteemed sire did not know how to take a fence. But his father, vaguely aware of his own intellectual limitations, interpreted every comment by his son, however innocuous, as ridicule—a circumstance the staff couldn’t help but note and discuss, thereby exposing the late viscount to the ridicule he had sought to avoid.

To ensure a peaceful existence for himself, Addleson adopted a nonthreatening air of frivolity, and although he was never quite sure his mother understood the extent to which he lowered his intelligence to dodge his father’s harsh hand, he knew for certain she never rose to his defense. Her abandonment bothered him more than his father’s belligerence, and in the eight years since his death, he had rarely seen her, preferring to spend his time in London or at one of his other estates. The viscountess was welcome to Hamilton Hall.

Whatever personal reasons he had for cultivating a penchant for triviality, Addleson had quickly discovered that the ability to play the fool served him well among the
ton,
for it was always better to be underestimated than overvalued. It was always better to keep people off their balance, never quite sure if your latest idiocy was sincere or irreverent banter. Most people did not know where they stood with the viscount, which suited him perfectly because he always knew where he stood with most people—and that made life dreadfully dull. Spouting inconsequential prattle about clothes or politics kept matters interesting, as evidenced by his conversation with Lady Agatha.