The chill of an early spring wind cooled Lyon’s cheek, but nothing else, as his boots crunched the damp ground on the pathway that led to the pavement in front of the countess’s house. That the long-shrouded sun was trying to peek from behind gray clouds at the end of the day did nothing to change his mood.
Not that it mattered or that he cared, but he finally remembered why he and the countess hadn’t immediately recognized each other. He’d been late attending her debut Season, and she was already betrothed by the time he’d arrived in London that year. Lyon was sure they’d met, but he never pursued another man’s fiancé or wife. There were more than enough unattached ladies in the ton to woo without stepping in another man’s footprints.
From what Lyon remembered, the countess had never been to London with Lord Wake after they married. The earl must have been at least a decade older than Lyon, and Lyon hadn’t known him well. They had a different group of friends, but there had been a few times they sat down at the same table to play a hand of cards or a game of billiards when Wake was in Town. Lyon remembered Lord Wake saying on more than one occasion that his wife was too delicate to make the long and bumpy journey from his country manor to London.
Delicate?
Lyon rubbed his thumb across his cheek. Not the lady he’d just met, Lyon groused to himself. She had not spared her strength when she struck him. He had no idea what disorder may have caused her fragility when she was married, but he could safely say she was over it.
Another flicker of admiration struck him for how she’d handled herself considering what he’d done, and right on the heels of it was a streak of remorse as he opened the tall, creaky gate hanging on the iron fence that surrounded his home. He should have been kinder to her once he found out who she was, he thought as he let the gate clank shut behind him. She was a widow after all, whether or not she had been dressed like one.
Lyon remembered when the ship Salty Dove sank in a sudden and fierce storm off the coast of Portugal. No doubt everyone in the ton still remembered, as did the rest of London. It was a stunning blow to all of England, as most everyone either knew or had heard of someone who perished that day. Little more than a handful of the one hundred and fifty people on board had survived to tell what had happened.
Lyon strode into his house, ripping his hat off his head and tossing it and his cloak and gloves onto a side chair without breaking stride. He brusquely waved his tall, portly butler, Brewster, aside as he came hurrying from the back of the house to take Lyon’s wrap.
“What did you find out?” his aunt called out to him before he made it halfway down the corridor.
“It’s a boarding school for girls, Aunt Delia,” Lyon replied, entering his drawing room with determined steps. He walked past his mother’s sister, straight to where the brandy decanter was placed on a round table beside his favorite chair. “There’s no cause for the state of worry you and Mrs. Feversham allowed and no reason for me to bring down the wrath of Hades on anyone in that house.”
“A girls’ school?” his aunt questioned from the end of the dark rose-colored velvet settee where she always sat when she came to visit him. “Next door to you?”
“It appears so.”
“How can that be?” she asked. “This is a neighborhood. Not a business district where such institutions should be located.”
“The school is the building behind the house,” he answered, having no reason to doubt the countess’ word. “Which, as you know, backs up to the business district. The boarding school is the reason Mrs. Feversham saw so many beds being carried to the back of the house. The women she saw coming and going through the gate during the day and in the middle of the night will be instructing the girls. For now, the tutors have other jobs they must go to.”
“That’s really quite odd. Mrs. Feversham didn’t mention seeing girls living there. Only women.”
Lyon lifted the topper off the decanter and covered the bottom of a glass with the amber liquor. “They will be soon. So you can tell your vexed friend across the street that she can stop watching what is going on at the house next door. All is well. And while you are at it, Aunt”—he stopped and gave her a rueful smile—“remind her I don’t want to hear that she’s been observing my comings and goings either.”
“Well, really now, Lyon.” Cordelia adjusted the pillow behind her back and smoothed down the folds in her blue sprigged skirt. “What else has the poor lady to do since she can no longer get out into Society?” His aunt paused. “I’ll have one of those since you’re pouring.”
“I was going to open a claret for you. I know you prefer it.”
“That not necessary,” she said, lifting her chin and giving him a genuine smile. “I won’t be here that long, dearest, and you know I won’t have more than a sip or two of it, anyway. You’d have to finish off the bottle or let it go to waste. Not much tastes worse than day-old claret.”
Maybe for her.
Lyon downed a generous swallow of the strong liquor and breathed in long and heavily, letting it settle in his stomach before adding a splash of the fortified wine to the dainty crystal he kept on the tray just for his aunt’s visits. He then added another ounce to his glass. After his meeting with Lady Wake, he needed it to help him put the entire incident out of his thoughts.
For good he hoped.
Having a late afternoon drink with his aunt was nothing new. Mrs. Cordelia Carbonall was his late mother’s only living sibling, probably the reason he was so patient with her. That, and the fact she had a bold streak he’d admired and sometimes appreciated. It had always seemed strange to him that his aunt had more the nature, wit, and strength of his father than of her sister, Lyon’s mother. As best he could remember her, anyway.
His mother had been gone close to twenty years, and time had started taking its toll on his once-vibrant memories of her. She had been a beautiful lady with a softly sweet voice. He could no longer hear her singing to him in the evenings before his governess took him off to bed, but he knew she had. Time had erased the feeling of the smooth touch of her hand when she cupped his chin in her palm so she could make sure he was listening to her, but he knew she’d done it.
Cordelia wasn’t a classic beauty as his mother had been, but she had sparkling, playful blue eyes and a smile that matched her quick drollness and even temperament. Cordelia’s husband had passed away only two years after Lyon’s mother. Over the years, she’d attracted the attention of several gentlemen. At least two of them had offered for her hand, and more than once. But she’d remained a childless widow, and from all Lyon could tell she was happy with her choices.
Much to his father’s liking, Cordelia had never tried to be a mother to Lyon. That had actually suited all three of them. It didn’t mean she hadn’t been a part of his life. For as long as Lyon could remember, his aunt hadn’t been shy about asking for whatever she wanted from him or his father, be it monetary or a social favor. The only difference was that the Marquis of Marksworth wasn’t nearly as accommodating to her as Lyon had always been. Mostly because Marksworth had bestowed a generous allowance on Cordelia after her husband passed. No doubt thinking that would be the end of his duty to her and she would quietly fade away from Society.
He’d been wrong.
Ever since Cordelia had moved to the neighborhood three years ago, she’d made it a point to visit her friend Mrs. Feversham once a week and fill her in on the latest gossip. And of course, Mrs. Feversham, who lived across the street from Lyon, always had plenty to tell his aunt about the neighbors she could see from her first-floor chambers. Cordelia considered it her duty to occasionally stop by for a visit with Lyon, when he was in Town, and share all she’d heard. Lyon listened patiently to every sentence. She was considerate of his privacy and never stayed very long.
Today, her troubled chatter of gossip had led to his barging in on the countess thinking he was going to be keeping the neighborhood safe from being invaded by a bevy of the lesser sort.
“It’s curious that a school is going to be next door,” his aunt said, taking the drink from him. Not giving him time to answer, she continued by saying, “In my day, a girl was taught in the home with a highly qualified and proper governess. Tutors for French and pianoforte lessons were sometimes brought into the house, but a good governess could handle it all. Dancing, too.” She sighed as she put her nose to the glass and sniffed its content indulgently. “I’ve always enjoyed the smell better than the taste.”
“As do most ladies, I’ve heard,” Lyon said, swinging the brown velvet wing chair away from the warmth of the fireplace so that he could face his aunt from the end of the settee.
“I suppose times are changing—though not too keenly by some of us, and certainly not for the better. A boarding school for girls is highly irregular.” She shook her head as if forgetting her train of thought for a moment and asked, “Why did you say the school is opening in our neighborhood?”
“I didn’t, Aunt,” he answered making himself comfortable in his chair. “I have no idea.”
He didn’t want to mention Lady Wake by name to his aunt. Cordelia could find out about the countess living there on her own.
Lyon had known when he left London last November that his elderly neighbor, Mr. Bottles, was in poor health and grumbling that his daughter never came to see him. Perhaps the man had passed and the new Earl of Wake had bought the house for the countess as part of her allowance. Not that it mattered to Lyon what the spirited lady did or who occupied the building at the back of her house, he reminded himself again. Right now, he wasn’t interested in getting better acquainted with her.
He sipped his brandy again. All he wanted to do was forget about her and their meeting, but he was finding that difficult to do.
“Why didn’t you ask more questions about the school? I would think you’d have great interest since it’s so close to you.”
“I arrived at an inconvenient time and, quite frankly, I’m not as inquisitive as you and Mrs. Feversham. I had no reason to ask many questions after it was made clear to me the neighborhood was not in jeopardy.”
“I can’t fault you for that. Men have never been as prying—” She stopped and smiled knowingly at him. “I mean as curious as ladies. I suppose there’s nothing wrong with teaching deserving, decorous young ladies how to be proper, as well as enhancing their skills with a needle and quill. It sounds quite admirable. Perhaps they’ll have a French tutor as well. Do you know?”
“I’ll leave it to you to find that out, Aunt,” he said patiently. At least Cordelia was now curious instead of upset. “I only returned from Lyonwood late in the evening yesterday. I spent the entire day meeting with my solicitor, who didn’t have all the account books in his possession that I’d requested to see. Most of the ones he put before me had pages that had somehow gotten damp and were unreadable. The man had all winter to get them in order and hadn’t. I arrived back home to find you here and in a fit of concern thinking something dastardly was happening next door. I erased that fear. It’s all I can do.”
“And you did it quite well. I do thank you for asking Brewster to let me know you were back in Town. I’m sure you didn’t expect me to come over on your first day back, but I couldn’t ignore Mrs. Feversham’s pleas this afternoon.”
“I’m always happy to see you, Aunt,” Lyon said, and meant it. “I never mind you stopping for a visit.” He couldn’t take out his frustration on his aunt for an unsuccessful visit with his solicitor or his disastrous meeting with Lady Wake.
“Still, I shouldn’t have burdened you with our concerns. Mrs. Feversham was really quite unsettled and I’m afraid I let that influence me. I mean what else were we to think after what she saw?”
Lyon smiled. “Perhaps that she shouldn’t spend all her days and nights looking out the window in hopes of seeing something her neighbors are doing.”
“Now, don’t be harsh. It’s really a shame she couldn’t walk after her fall last spring.”
“I’m not trying to be insensitive. Why don’t I walk you next door so you can explain to her there is nothing unsavory going on and ease her mind.”
Cordelia gave him a wry smile. “Are you not going to let me finish my drink?”
That would take three days at the rate she sipped a thimbleful of brandy. Lyon smiled indulgently. “Of course, finish it and tell me what’s kept you busy over the winter.”
“When the weather wasn’t too cold and dreary to leave my house, I did the usual—cards, parties, teas, and gossip. Goose feathers! What a boring life I lead. Now, do you want to tell me what kept you busy while at Lyonwood?”
“No.” He then took a sip of his brandy.
Cordelia laughed with vigor. “I thought not. Nor do I really want to know what a handsome young gentleman does.”
“Have you seen the marquis over the winter?” Lyon asked, though it was the irritating countess who kept sweeping through his thoughts, invading his peace.
“Yes, of course. Your father wouldn’t miss a social gathering of any kind, and you know I seldom do either. The dreadful man is his usual self. Handsome and arrogant as ever. My hair grows thinner and grayer by the hour and he never seems to age a day. It’s most unfair how life favors that man. But, of course it’s fine that you take after him with your dashing appeal.”
“You have always been too coldhearted with my father and not severe enough with me.”
“That is the way it suits me.” An innocent smirk quivered the corners of her mouth. “Marksworth was never good enough for my sister, but he was good enough to give us you. I do appreciate him for that, though I’d never say it to him. And I don’t expect you to say it to him either. It would be lovely if he were to begin to stoop a little. Maybe hobble when he takes a step or two. Perhaps lose one of his front teeth, or at least forget what he was going to say once in a while. The man is still so robust it’s simply maddening to watch him grow old but not get any older.”
Lyon shook his head over his aunt’s comments and watched her put the glass to her lips as if she was going to take a sip. He knew she never tasted the brandy. It amused him that she always wanted to have a glass with him but never took a drink.
“Did you see him today?” she asked.
“There was no time.”
“I heard he planned to return to Marksworth for a few days. Perhaps he has already left.”
“You know, life would be much more pleasant if you two would settle your differences and, if not become friends, at least speak when you see each other.”
“Oh, we speak if we must,” she said with a smile. “But why would we want to change anything between us after all these years? Everyone so enjoys gossiping about how we’re sometimes seated beside each other at the same dinner party and never say a word of greeting.”
Lyon often wandered if their dislike of each other was really just a game they played because they realized how much alike they really were.
“He has taken very good care of you, Aunt.”
“Yes, of course he has, but only because he knows my sister would rise from the dust of her grave to haunt him if he didn’t.” She inhaled the brandy again and smiled over the edge of the glass. “You do know he’s going to marry again, don’t you?”
Lyon leaned forward in his chair and cupped both hands around his glass. “No. I haven’t seen or heard from him since I left his estate shortly after Boxing Day.” Not that hearing about pending nuptials surprised Lyon. His father was as active today as the day Lyon was born. By a cruel twist of fate, the marquis had outlived Lyon’s mother and two other wives. Whenever Marksworth was a widower, matrimony was always on his mind even though he had mistresses all over London.
“Who is she?”
“Miss Helen Ballingbrand.”
That was a bit of a surprise considering his father was now nearing the age of fifty. “Another miss?”
“An older one this time, it seems. Still quite a few years younger than your father. Apparently her uncle, Viscount Chrisville, who is very wealthy as you know, decided to gift the spinster with a sizeable dowry of fertile land, and suddenly Marksworth couldn’t seem to resist her beauty or her charm.”
“Ah, yes,” Lyon murmured before sipping his drink and leaning back in his chair again.
What the bride brought into the marriage was always important to the marquis. From his own lips, since Lyon’s mother passed, his father hadn’t married for love. As mercenary as it sounded, Lyon knew that increasing Marksworth’s estate holdings was always at the forefront of his father’s marriages. And if it had been up to his father, Lyon would have married years ago and for the same reasons. But that’s not what Lyon wanted.
“I’m sure I must have met her when she made her debut a few years ago,” Cordelia said. “I don’t remember her and apparently you don’t either. I’m told she was extremely shy and hated the crush of people at the balls and dinner parties. She never returned after the second week of her first Season. I’m assuming she’ll attend the parties this year and we’ll all be reacquainted with her. I know your father will attend every event he’s invited to.” She sighed. “I don’t know where he gets the energy to do so night after night, month after month, and year after year. It seems to invigorate him.”
Aunt Delia kept talking, but at the mention of the Season Lyon’s thoughts turned from his father to Lady Wake as easily as waves washed upon the shore in the warm days of summer. If only the emotions she caused inside him were as peaceful. They were turbulent and seemingly as relentless as swells upon the deep blue sea during a storm.
That he could remember, he’d never experienced being truly angry at a woman. And certainly not one he desired. How could the two emotions even go together? It wasn’t the normal order of things, but it was both desire and anger he’d felt when she struck him.
Thoughts of her suddenly reminded him just how long it had been since he’d been with a woman. He’d returned to London with the aspirations of changing that drought, but right now it didn’t seem likely.
No matter what had transpired between him and Lady Wake, or with his unsettling feelings about it, the countess was the only woman on his mind.