Chapter 5

 

 

Mrs. Horne hunched over the table, dripping gravy on her stained white ruffles and dribbling wine down her immense chest. On her right sat Aphrodite, the guest of honour; to Mrs. Horne’s left was Warwick; her son faced her at the other end of the table. On Aphrodite’s left was Fothergill, a quiet young man who ate silently.

On each side sat ten other guests. At the far end, close to Frederick, sat Asklepios. Next to him sat the squire’s younger daughter, Elsie, a vivacious dark-haired miss not even out of the schoolroom. Aski flirted with her outrageously. Did anyone in her family ever flirt in any other way? Aphrodite asked herself. He’d changed his headband to a floral creation with golden baubles. When he flung his head back, the ribbons danced and the spangles bounced and glittered.

Four chairs down the table from her sat Terpsi, another problem. Aphrodite’s unconventional sister stared at Warwick with a smoldering gaze. The viscount, however, pretended he didn’t see her, chatting with his dinner partner or attending to his meal or drawing Mrs. Horne’s attention from Aphrodite with a question.

Terpsi changed her tactic, flirting with the gentleman to her right, a Mr. Hugh Ridley, a friend of Mr. Horne’s since childhood. A pleasant young man, a little plump but amiable and with a lovely estate in Sussex, Aphrodite had heard.

Her sister’s neckline dipped to such an immodest depth that Aphrodite feared her sister’s vast bosom would tumble out. Although most of the men at the table watched the delicate balancing act with rapt attention, Warwick kept his eyes firmly fixed on the head of the table and disregarded the signals Terpsi hurled toward him.

When she realized Aphrodite watched her, Terpsi rolled her eyes toward Aski and smiled. Aphrodite knew her sister considered the Italian disguise a marvelous lark and would never say a word.

At least Athena was behaving herself. She was five seats to the right of Warwick and recognized the futility of attracting him at such a disadvantage. Nor had she noticed Aski. Since Athena’s recent and unfortunate experience with the son of an impoverished French noble, she had little romantic interest in foreigners.

After she ascertained that her family would not cause too much embarrassment, Aphrodite turned to her hostess. She discovered that conversation with Mrs. Horne was impossible. The older woman slurped and belched, tore her meat from the bone and chomped on it. When she saw a morsel she coveted on Aphrodite’s plate, she impaled it on her fork and shoved it in her mouth, chewing in openmouthed satisfaction.

“Who’s that demmed foreigner down there making such a cake of himself with Newton’s daughter?” Mrs. Horne demanded of Warwick.

“I don’t know him well. A friend of Susannah’s son Geoffrey,” he answered. “However, I believe Lady Aphrodite is acquainted with him.”

“Who is he, gel?”

“He’s from Italy.”

“Aah, an Italian. No wonder.” With that, Mrs. Horne returned to her food.

When Aphrodite turned to Fothergill, her dinner partner on the left, Mrs. Horne pounded on the table with her fist and said, “Gel, tell me about your family again.” And Aphrodite did, beginning to think of it as a nursery rhyme or a bedtime story. Indeed, the third time the crone demanded it, Mrs. Horne fell asleep with a spoonful of pudding halfway to her mouth before Aphrodite had even mentioned her brother Ares.

Aphrodite blinked and looked across the table, where Warwick smiled and nodded, then pretended to fall asleep with his head dangerously close to his pudding. She bit her lips to keep from bursting out in thoroughly unsophisticated and impolite laughter, but she could feel her lips quivering.

This is awkward, Aphrodite thought, attempting to be mature and kind. Poor woman, she’ll be mortified when she realizes she was snoring in front of her guests.

Aphrodite reached out a hand to awaken her when the viscount whispered, “No, don’t. She always does this.”

To the roar of Mrs. Horne’s snores, Aphrodite finished her gooseberry cream.

“Doesn’t she have a wonderful hearty appetite?” Frederick came around the table. “Mother, the ladies are ready to adjourn to the parlour.”

Mrs. Horne hoisted herself from the chair and, between two footmen, led the ladies to the parlour while the gentlemen finished their port. As Aphrodite left the room, she saw that Athena had not departed with the ladies but, with a smug grin, had settled in the chair next to Warwick. With a sigh, Aphrodite returned to the dining room, took her sister by the hand, and dragged her toward the parlour.

“Why would you dare stay with the gentlemen? The only female there! Athena, you behave like a wanton,” Aphrodite whispered.

“What’s wrong with being a wanton?” Athena demanded and pulled back on Aphrodite’s hand like a spoiled donkey. “I like men.”

Aphrodite stopped. If Athena didn’t know what was wrong with being a wanton, she hadn’t the least notion of how to explain to the child. Instead, she grabbed Athena’s arm even more tightly and towed her down the hall.

As they entered the parlour, Aphrodite pushed Athena toward the two girls her age and looked around for Terpsi. When she spied her sister alone in a dim corner, Aphrodite sat down next to Terpsi. “Have you talked to Athena yet?” she demanded.

“Dear sister, I haven’t had time. I didn’t realize when we spoke that you would rush into this engagement and drag us off to this terrible woman’s house. I promise that I will talk to our sister.”

“Soon?”

“Yes, Ditie, soon. Now, did you wonder why I have settled myself in this secluded corner? It was not to talk to you. I’m waiting for Warwick and wish you would leave so he and I can have a private tête-à-tête.” She leaned back in the chair and arranged her robe.

“But I have something to tell you, about Asklepios,” Aphrodite persevered.

“Not now.” Terpsi shooed Aphrodite away. “Warwick has just come in.”

Aphrodite stood to move toward Susannah, but Warwick ignored Terpsi’s frantic waves and winks and took Aphrodite’s hand. “Lady Aphrodite, could we continue our unfinished conversation of this afternoon?” He led her toward two chairs as far from the fire and Mrs. Horne as could be found.

Aphrodite looked over her shoulder to where Athena and Terpsi glared at her. She shrugged and returned her attention to Warwick. “Of course, my lord. I wasn’t aware that we had not completed it.”

He allowed her to sit, then moved the other chair closer. “You were so deep in thought when we returned to the house that I didn’t get to ask you. You seemed to be delighted and a little surprised to see the conti. Is he an old acquaintance?”

“Yes, he is.” She paused for a long time. Good heavens, what should she say? “I’ve known him for many years.”

“How many years?” he queried.

“Oh, since he was a child. I even know his parents. They are like family to me.”

“Aah. Did you meet him in Italy?”

“No, no. He’s often been to our estate.”

“And how did your family become acquainted with him?”

“I really don’t know. My parents met him when I was but a child.” So far she hadn’t lied, but she could not divulge that the conti was her brother. How would she ever explain that to Frederick and his mother? How could she explain it to Warwick, the head of their family? Blast the Mad Herringtons. She was always the one left to clean up after their escapades.

“He’s a handsome young man, don’t you agree?” The viscount leaned forward as he spoke. His eyes held a glitter she didn’t understand but some part of her body did. She tingled.

“Yes, very handsome.”

“But, certainly his colouring is unusual for an Italian. Most are quite dark, and yet the conti has light hair and fair skin.”

“Yes, that’s not unusual. In his region of Italy.” Oh, dear, the prevarication had begun.

He leaned closer to her, his lips so near her ear she could smell the scent he used. Spicy, a little sharp, but very pleasant. More than pleasant. She had trouble concentrating on his question.

“He dresses eccentrically. I didn’t realize Italians dressed like that.”

She saw that sparkle in his eye, again. Certainly he wasn’t laughing, was he?

“I believe they do,” Aphrodite said. “He always wore bright colours when he visited us.” She looked down at her lap where, to her surprise, her fingers fidgeted, pleating the embroidered cambric of her dress. She folded her hands in her lap.

“And the ribbons around his head?”

“Oh, yes.”

His lips twitched. He knew she was lying, but she had to carry on with the charade by explaining, “I believe the ribbons are part of the . . . umm, traditional national costume, from his region of Italy.”

“I have visited Italy and never saw that style before. What part of Italy is he from?”

“It’s a very small region. In the mountains. No one goes there. It’s through a very narrow and dangerous pass. The . . . Vertotsi Pass. His people lead very isolated lives and are suspicious of outsiders.” She was breathless from the effort of so many lies. She wasn’t good at this. Would the interrogation never end?

“And yet, suspicious as the family was, they allowed him to leave this isolated valley, to visit your family in England?”

Her brain was becoming tangled. What had she said? “Oh, yes. My grandfather was a friend of his . . . of his great-uncle, whom he rescued from . . . from an avalanche. For that reason, they’ve always trusted our family.”

“Yes, yes, I can see why saving the great-uncle’s life would do that.” Warwick leaned back in the chair, and Aphrodite relaxed in relief until the dratted man continued. “But I thought he said he was Conti di Versanti, and yet you said the Vertotsi Pass. Was it not named for the family?”

She had thought the interrogation over and relaxed too soon. “Oh, you must forgive me. My Italian is atrocious. My tongue always gets tangled with all those vowels, and I never use his title. I always call him . . .” She stopped and searched her memory for an Italian name. “I call him Luigi.”

“Then if you are being informal with your friends, may I ask you to call me Thomas?”

“Oh, I’m informal only with Luigi. We’ve know him so long. My parents met him years ago so he’s . . . he’s like a brother to me.”

“How fortunate that your parents were able to make his acquaintance, when he lives in such an isolated part of Italy.”

“Yes, fortunate.” Aphrodite looked over her shoulder. Where were her sisters when she needed them?

“How, exactly, did they meet?”

Had she answered the question earlier? She couldn’t remember. She glanced at Warwick and surprised a smile, which he hastily stifled. “How, exactly, did they meet?” she repeated.

“Yes,” he repeated. “How exactly did they meet?”

Oh, she knew she’d answered this before, but the fabrications were running together in a brain overwhelmed by his presence and the unaccustomed strain of lying. She did it terribly, and she could tell by the look of irreverent amusement Warwick wore that he didn’t believe a word she said. “Oh, yes, my grandfather . . .”

Aphrodite never thought she’d be glad to see Terpsi but, when her sister swooped down on them, Aphrodite leaped to her feet.

“I was wondering—” Warwick stood as Aphrodite attempted to excuse herself. “My Italian is not good, but thought the word for ‘count’ is conte, not conti.”

“I believe in his region of Italy . . .”

“Ahh, yes, that isolated region again.”

Terpsi took Warwick’s arm and smiled up at him with a shake of her head. “Certainly the conti knows his own title.”

Aphrodite hurried away from him, delighted to leave him with Terpsi, who could handle fabrication so much more easily than she.

Drat the man! He knew something was havey-cavey. Well, so would anyone with any brain, but the others had politely accepted the fiction. She looked back over her shoulder and Warwick winked at her. The man had no manners.

She started toward Athena, but her younger sister’s eyes flashed as she stared at Warwick and Terpsi. Her mouth was a straight line. Well aware that this signaled an anger Aphrodite wasn’t willing to provoke, she looked for another chair.

Mrs. Horne beckoned to her, thumping the floor with her stick and shouting, “Gel!”

Oh, please, no, she said to herself. In answer to her supplication, a hand grasped hers and pulled her down on a bench against the wall.

“Please, won’t you sit with me?” Susannah asked. “Now that you’re about to join the family, I’d love to get to know you. Tell me all about yourself.”

After a comfortable coze, Aphrodite felt at ease enough to say, “I wonder if I might ask you a question? There is something that confuses me.”

“Of course. Whatever could it be?”

“I had thought that Frederick was an only child because his mother was unable to have more. From what I’ve heard, she wanted a large family.” She paused because, under normal circumstances, she did not possess the ill manners to ask the question she now very much wanted to pose. However improper it would be for a virgin and proper young woman to inquire, she had to know, for her own future. “Perhaps she lost some children at birth?”

“Oh, no. It is my understanding that, after Frederick was conceived, Uncle Bernard was pleased to have an heir and Aunt Matilda felt she had done her duty, well, they decided not to . . . oh, how do I say this? They decided to have no more children.”

“Oh.” Aphrodite considered this. “Is that possible?”

“Yes, although I can see how with your family that might surprise you,” Susannah said in a gentle voice.

“How did they do that?” Aphrodite wondered aloud.

“Oh, dear. This is difficult to explain to an unmarried woman. They decided not to . . . not to . . . be in the same bed together.”

“People do that?” Aphrodite’s voice went up an octave.

With a laugh, Susannah answered, “Not in all families, but, yes, within a marriage of convenience it is not uncommon.”

“Gel, come here.”

Aphrodite could no longer ignore the summons, especially with Frederick standing next to her and holding out his arm.

“Please excuse me,” she said to Susannah and turned toward the white toad. Could she live with her? She banished the question for the moment in the hope she could find something to like in Frederick’s mother.

“Your family’s loose,” Mrs. Horne said. “Look at that oddly dressed chit over there, flaunting her breasts at Warwick.”

Aphrodite couldn’t refute the statement. “I believe she finds him very attractive. Now, Mrs. Horne, why don’t you tell me about Frederick when he was young? I would love to know more about him.”

“All women find Warwick attractive. Don’t the gel know he’s seen more breasts than my chef? Don’t impress him. I don’t know why the gels flock to him. Don’t know what he’s looking for, but breasts ain’t it.” Mrs. Horne emphasized each of the last words with a nod of her head and the thump of her cane.

“Mrs. Horne, I imagine Frederick was a darling child. Do tell me . . .”

“And that younger sister. What’s her foolish name?” She waved her cane toward the group of young women.

“Do you mean my dear sister Athena?”

“That’s the one. Yella-headed chit. Nothing inside, is there? More hair than wit.”

She fixed a cold stare on the woman. “I am very fond of my family, Mrs. Horne.”

“Glad to hear that. Family loyalty is important. Must be difficult for you. They’re wild to a fault. Frederick tells me you’re not like the rest of your family.”

When she heard the words she had often spoken come from the white toad’s mouth, Aphrodite felt deep shame. She looked up at her betrothed, who stood behind his mother’s chair and listened to the conversation but didn’t say a word. “We are different in some ways, Mrs. Horne, but I do love my family and do not like to hear anyone speak ill of them,” she said slowly.

“Come, Mother, let us think of another topic of conversation that is more to Lady Aphrodite’s liking.” Frederick leaned down between the women. “Perhaps you could tell her about your lovely gardens.”

“I want to go to bed,” Mrs. Horne said as she struggled to her feet. “Everyone, continue what you’re doing.” She waved as she shuffled toward the door on her son’s arm.

 

• • •

 

Aphrodite had sent Mignon away without having her help her out of her dress, then sat with a shawl wrapped around her on the window seat of her chambers and looked out at the dark garden below her.

Goodness, she was tired. And no wonder, after this day. First she had met Frederick’s esteemed mother, the woman she’d hoped to love. She’d discovered, instead, a crude harridan she was doomed to live with for the rest of her life.

Then, she had spent time with Warwick. He’d behaved properly but always seemed to be laughing at her. Why? And flirting with her as well. She knew better than to lose her head over him. Even Mrs. Horne had warned the Herringtons away from him. Certainly Aphrodite herself had had enough experience with his here-and-thereian ways to know better.

He’d been kind earlier today, after she’d met Mrs. Horne. Odd for him. Why? She knew he wasn’t interested in her, not as a woman. It was more of a game for him. He wasn’t the marrying sort. Was he getting to an age when he should think about setting up his nursery? Would he marry Terpsi? Aphrodite didn’t think so. Terpsi was too forward even for him. Athena? He had said she was lovely and young. Didn’t most men want a young bride they could shape to their wills and who would give them children? Certainly the Herrington fertility seemed to be greatly in demand.

Warwick was handsome. Aphrodite had never seen a man so handsome, an opinion she shared with both of her sisters and most of the females of the ton. His eyes twinkled at the most inappropriate times, even at moments when she didn’t realize there was anything amusing happening until he invited her to share the fun.

This evening he had shown a preference for her, but, after all, what were his choices at this house party? Terpsi, Athena, the two other young girls of Athena’s age, the wives of relatives and friends, and her, Aphrodite. And she was almost betrothed, almost a married lady. A light flirtation was out of the question for a woman in her position. Not that she’d carry on any kind of dalliance, as Warwick knew. Flirtation was a talent most other Herringtons had been born with, but not she.

She looked out the window again. The moon had risen and bathed the grounds in a faint light. She could tell that Aski had not yet appeared.

No, she wasn’t like the other Herrington women.

In her first season, Warwick had courted her. Well, perhaps that was too strong a word. For a fortnight, he showed great interest in her. He’d taken her for rides in the park, stood up with her at Almack’s, danced with her at every party, once three times. In fact, he’d carefully discovered which parties she and her family were attending so he could meet her there.

One evening, when the air was heavy with the scent of lavender, he’d led her to the garden. They had held hands and, without speaking, walked together through the curving paths. She felt a tension she hadn’t understood, a delightful yearning for something she knew lay ahead. Then he’d stopped and she’d looked up into his face as he lifted her chin. His eyes were soft and gentle but also glittering with an emotion she couldn’t define, not then and not now. Then he’d kissed her. A light, sweet kiss. The only kiss she’d ever received on the lips, a kiss that raised such a hunger within her that she understood the intensity of the attraction between her mother and father, and she craved it.

When the kiss was over, she’d stood on her toes, reaching up for another, but he’d said, “Not now, little one.” Then he had placed her hand on his arm and covered it with his other hand, leading her back through the garden with tenderness and care while longing thundered through her veins.

Tonight, as she looked out the window, she thought of the bench she and Warwick had shared only hours earlier, and longing filled her anew. She stood, rubbing her hands, desperate to forget the passion that had overwhelmed her with the long-ago kiss, a passion that was only on her side.

Poor, innocent child that I was, she thought. She’d believed the kiss meant he loved her, that they were betrothed. She dreamed of a wedding in St. James, her younger sisters as her bridesmaids and herself, glowing and beautiful, for once the center of attention as she came down the aisle toward her beloved.

But the next night, she’d been walking in the garden with, oh, someone. She couldn’t remember his name now. She’d seen Warwick in the rose garden, kissing Leticia Brightonby in exactly the same way. He’d put his hand under her chin and tilted it up, then moved his lips gently against hers. Leticia, the strumpet, had leaned against his body, and he’d wrapped his arms around her.

Aphrodite had stood completely still, watching, wishing she’d leaned against his hard strength. She only realized she was clutching her escort’s arm when he’d exclaimed in pain and attempted to pry her fingers away. She’d loosened her grasp but couldn’t let go, fearing she’d fall without his support. She couldn’t stop watching as Warwick lifted his lips and smiled down at Leticia. Aphrodite knew that smile. She’d thought it had been only for her, for her alone. It wasn’t. Just one of his many charms. Just part of the game. Lord, she felt like such a fool!

When she could finally move, she’d taken a step forward, then twirled around on her escort’s arm and headed back toward the party, actually pulling whoever it was along behind her. Once inside the party, she’d chattered and danced and smiled as she never had before. Never let it be said that a Herrington displayed her broken heart to the world. Aphrodite never would.

The betrayal and her own guileless stupidity had hurt so much that she never wanted to see him again. She nodded but turned away when he approached her at musical evenings or in the park. At balls, she danced with him, and had been pleasant to him at Terpsi’s literary gathering only because she refused to make a scene in society. Herringtons had done that far too often.

She wouldn’t think about it anymore. With great effort, she wrenched her thoughts to another subject.

What was she going to do with Athena? The chit was so forward she would be ruined. If she saw nothing wrong with being a wanton, Mama would just have to talk with her. Mama was certainly not a wanton.

Terpsi. There was nothing she could do with her either. Independent all her life, she would not listen to Aphrodite or anyone else.

And Aski—how was she going to solve that problem? She looked at the clock. It was almost midnight. She stood, walked to the door, and opened it. Looking both ways, she saw the hall was empty. Not that anyone in this house party would indulge in the immoral activities that she’d heard took place at many others. None that she’d attended, of course. She tiptoed out of her chambers, closed the door silently behind her, and trod quietly down the stairs and across the marble floor of the entry, where she waited and paced.

Twenty minutes passed before Aski joined her. Without speaking, she pulled him toward the door, unlocked and opened it. Then she dragged him around the house and to the bench where she had rested that afternoon.

“Aski, this is the most inane scrape you’ve ever been in.” She sat. “You look foolish.”

“I think I look handsome and dashing,” he said with the Herringtons’ customary lack of humility. Then he patted his hair and straightened the green jacket. “The squire’s daughter was impressed.”

“Everyone knows you’re not Italian. A foolish accent, curly hair and a ribbon are not a disguise. Now, why don’t you stop this ridiculous deception and just be a guest?”

“I told you. I can’t. If Papa finds out . . . well, you know what he’ll do. Or if it gets around the neighbourhood that I’m here, the magistrate might hear. We’re not that far from school.” He flipped the ribbons on his head again. “Don’t worry, Ditie. It’ll be all right. We’ll hide here for ten more days. When we get back to Cambridge, the magistrate will have forgotten all about it.”

“But Terpsi or Athena might give you away if I don’t.”

“Athena hasn’t even noticed I’m here. I’ll wager Terpsi thinks it’s a lark. She’s a game one. She’ll help me.”

“Right now she’s somewhat distracted.” She stood and tried one more time. “Aski, you still look like yourself. When you go to London next year for the season, everyone here is going to recognize you. What are you going to say?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I’ll decide that if someone asks. Right now, I’m having fun.” He looked down at her, then put his arm around her shoulder and held her. “You worry too much. Just relax and enjoy yourself.”

“By the way, your name is Luigi. At least, that’s what I told Warwick it was.”

“Luigi,” he repeated it. “Luigi.” He rolled the name over his tongue. “Luigi. Yes, I like it. I am Luigi.”

Then he kissed her on the cheek. “Go on and get some sleep. See you in the morning.”

Nothing made her feel less like a Herrington than a conversation like this.

 

• • •

 

Warwick couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, two Herringtons came toward him, smiling and fluttering eyelashes. One had pale blond hair and a vapid smile; the other wore a gown with a scandalously low neckline. In the background stood the quiet one, the one with flushed cheeks and a sweet smile. The one almost betrothed to his cousin. The one who most definitely should not be appearing in his dreams.

He pulled the sheet up to his neck and turned, pulling the pillow over his eyes because the moon was so bright. Minutes later, his eyes were still wide open and he was no closer to sleep. With an oath, he threw the pillow on the floor, tossed the covers back, stomped across the room to look out the window.

The full moon reflected off the lake and filled the entire landscape with light. As he watched the water, he became aware that someone was below him, in the clearing where the bench overlooked the lake. The trees impeded his view, but he could make out two figures engaged in a lively discussion. The man threw his arms in the air while the woman sat still on the bench. Then she stood and walked toward him, leaning forward as if she were shouting until the man put his arm around her and she snuggled next to him. Warwick knew he should turn away from the tryst but the encounter seemed oddly passionless. Finally, the woman turned away and came toward the house.

As she approached the house and passed beneath his window, the moonlight shone on her face. Aphrodite Herrington. My, my, he thought as she went toward the front door.

Who was the man? Would Frederick have met with his betrothed at midnight? Was his cousin more romantic than he’d thought? Dear Matilda wouldn’t approve. But when the masculine figure passed under the window, he recognized the curly locks of the man who called himself Luigi Versasi. Or Versani. He wasn’t really sure of the name either.

Warwick fell back on the bed. Who was this young man Aphrodite met alone at midnight and allowed to kiss her? He began to imagine many scenarios but none fit the Aphrodite Herrington he was acquainted with. Curious, he shrugged into his robe and stepped into the hallway. He knew which wing housed the Herringtons and sneaked along the shadowed corridor until he could look down its length. Aphrodite tiptoed across the carpet and into her room. At the other end of the hall, a figure entered a room and closed the door.

What was going on? Warwick grinned.

Midnight assignations, mysterious foreigners, the Mad Herringtons. Lord, this was going to be fun!