‘AT LEAST you’re none the worse for your journey home. But you must not lose any more weight, it’s not good for a man of your height and width,” Lady Reanay continued, hardly drawing breath to give Sir Antony a chance of reply to her first question, which was just as well because he did not know what to tell her about Diana. “Perhaps it is the trick of your tailor. That blue suits, not quite the color of your eyes, but near enough. Why is Diana talking about St. Petersburg? You never mentioned she had paid you a visit. I was with you a good six months and departed just before the Russian winter set in. For her to have traveled—Oh dear! There I go rattling on like a runaway carriage! Caroline will scold me. Give your dearest aunt a kiss,” she said, her four feet eleven inches on tiptoe, rouged cheek presented. “It is good to have you safe home and looking so well, my boy. We are all pleased to see you.”
Sir Antony lightly brushed her cheek, careful to avoid the dyed ostrich plumes sprouting from her red silk turban, and before she could continue, turned and bowed to Kitty Aldershot.
“I have not had the pleasure of an introduction, but I am very sure you are Miss Aldershot?”
Kitty nodded, curtsied prettily, and bit her lower lip. She blushed with delight that Sir Antony had chosen to introduce himself. He was even more handsome at close quarters than she had anticipated, but what tied her tongue was the soft timbre of his deep voice. It gave her goose bumps. She went to speak, and was rudely cut off before uttering a syllable.
Lady Reanay, thinking Kitty’s hesitancy due to shyness, said, “Dear me! Yes! This is Kitty Aldershot, Poor Stephen’s sister and Salt’s ward. You may recall the Aldershots better than me. Their small estate was some five miles west of Hendon. Poor Stephen’s father rode the hunt with Salt’s papa. I remember him but not Poor Stephen’s mamma. Diana would know. Which brings me back to her visit to St. Petersburg…”
“Tea? I’m sure we would all welcome a cup,” Sir Antony said as his aunt paused for breath. He forced himself to look at Caroline, his well-practiced diplomatic smile fixed in place. “How thoughtless of Boyle not to see you had a glass of champagne. Would you like one fetched? Lady Aldershot? Miss Aldershot?”
“Thank you, Sir Antony, I will have champagne,” Kitty Aldershot stated clearly, finding her voice and her bright smile.
“We will all have tea, thank you,” Caroline enunciated, a quick warning glance at Kitty before turning to look at Sir Antony.
Yet, she could not bring herself to lift her gaze above his chin. She fixed on the pearl-headed gold pin nestled in the folds of soft lace at his throat. Such delicate lace, so white and finely wrought, and in such marked contrast to the ruggedness of his square heavy chin which, despite having been shaved earlier that day, was already showing a blue cast. There was something enticingly appealing in the juxtaposition of the feminine lace against the masculinity of that chin… She was very sure that if he rubbed his skin against hers it would be very rough indeed, the stubble chafe and redden her flesh. He would certainly leave his mark…
She sat heavily on the settee in a ripple of mauve silk and silver gauze petticoats, mortified. With mortification came the realization she had been deceiving herself for four years. She was not cured of her desire. She wanted Sir Antony Templestowe every bit as much as she had wanted him before his exile. It made her blurt out nervously, the public setting forgotten,
“It’s Lady Caroline Aldershot. I’m still Caroline. I haven’t altered in the slightest!”
“Yes, of course you are,” Sir Antony replied placidly. “And no, you haven’t.” He made her a short bow. “Excuse me while I see to the tea.”
He turned his shoulder, smile spreading into a grin, catching the following exchange,
“He has such a lovely voice. Caroline? Your face is quite red. Are you al—”
“Hush, Kitty!”
“You’re as giddy as a one-winged beetle, Caroline! And there’s no hushing the truth,” Lady Reanay stated. “Be a good girl, Kitty, and wave air onto Caroline. Your face is an alarming shade of apple, my dear. A nice cup of tea will take the shock away.”
“I’m not—I’m not in shock! I am—I was—surprised.”
“Shock. Surprise. ’Tis the same. I remember the shock I received when in Constantinople I was confronted with a splendid Turk, naked from the waist up. My knees were all atremble and gave out, and I…”
Sir Antony did not hear the rest of his aunt’s startling monologue. A hand clamped his arm in welcome and a thin gentleman in a silk suit the color of stained grape pounced on him, much like an overeager puppy jumps at its master when he steps in the door after being away. Not only was the gentleman’s entire ensemble a faded hue of purple, so too were his stockings, the enormous ribbon at his nape, and the bag into which his long queue was placed. The only article about the gentleman’s person that was less startling and less colorful, and this in itself was a surprise, was his wig. It was plain, neat and powdered white. Such a wig on the head of the eccentric poet Hilary Wraxton Esquire was unusual indeed. Yet, upon closer inspection, as he shook hands with the poet, Sir Antony revised this opinion because the poet’s wig was in fact made from the feathers of a white mallard, or were they goose feathers?
“Antony! What luck to see you here! Well, not here, not seeing you here, in your own home, seeing you here, back in England.”
“What a pleasure to see you, dear fellow! I thought you fixed on the Continent for some time?”
The poet lost his smile.
“Was. Was fixed there. Having a jolly good time of it, too. Paris. Berne. Rome. Florence.”
He followed Sir Antony to the tea trolley and watched him fiddle with the silver samovar and tea things, standing so close at his shoulder that more than once he was politely requested to stand aside while Sir Antony went through the precise steps of his tea-making ritual.
The ritual helped distract Sir Antony from temptation and kept the demon from his shoulder, for within arm’s reach there were enough bottles of champagne and decanters of wine to feed his addiction and send him into blissful oblivion. The habitual drunkard in him held to the persuasive, but thoroughly deluded, line of argument that he had the willpower to drink one small glass of champagne without any ill effects. However, his tea-drinking self knew this for a lie. Cured of his addiction was in the realms of believing in fairy folk and pigs flying through the sky. Prince Mikhail had counseled him: Each step closer to the perfect cup of tea was another step away from the compulsive need for alcohol to get him through his day.
“Tea, Hilary?”
The poet waved a ruffle-covered hand in dismissal.
“Liked living in Florence; good for the creative juices. Then it all went sour!”
“What went sour?”
“Ha! Knew you’d understand. Always said you had more sentiment than wit.”
“I’m not entirely sure that was complimentary. But, please, tell me before I rudely cut you off to take tea to three parched ladies.”
“Well, there I was enjoying a lovely glass of vino in the sun on the Palazzo Saint Marco with Mann—that’s Sir Horace Mann, our Resident in Florence, but I’m sure you know that—”
“I do.”
“Yes, well, there was Mann and I having a tipple when Pascoe pounces on me with the most appalling news. Just like that! No warning. Nothing. Absolutely floored me. Pascoe said five months was time enough to get used to Lizzie’s interesting condition. Couldn’t imagine anything more hideous than Pascoe Church cooing over a brat. Took leave of the place, subito. No screaming brats for Hilary Wraxton!”
“Are you telling me the good news that Lady Church was delivered of an infant and that Pascoe is now the proud father of a son and heir?”
“Something like that. No! Not something like. Precisely like. Come to think on it, that’s not what I wanted to tell you! That was the thought in my mind, to tell you about Pascoe’s brat, but not what I wanted to tell you, if you get my drift.”
Sir Antony removed the hot teapot off the samovar and poured a precise amount of the rich black tea into four lemon yellow porcelain cups, leaving room for the weaker tea from the second silver teapot. He replaced the teapot on its stand, saying casually,
“Sorry, Hilary, but you are drifting rather wide of the mark for me to get anything.”
The poet looked up at Sir Antony, head tilted to one side. “I can confide in you, can’t I, Antony?”
Sir Antony pressed his lips together to stifle a smile. With his absurd wig of white feathers and small black eyes blinking up at him, Hilary Wraxton was reminiscent of an enquiring pigeon. He half expected the poet to take a peck or two at the lumps of sugar in the silver sugar bowl he placed on the black lacquered chinoiserie tray.
“What is it you wish to confide in me, Hilary…?”
“Stopped in Hendon at the White Horse for a change of horses. Wish I hadn’t. Wish I’d pushed on to the next town. But I dare say church bells were pealing there, too. Your cousin Salt owns most of Wiltshire, so stands to reason all the bells in the county were clanging loud and clear in congratulations of the Countess’s safe delivery of a second son. But the clanging was enough to give me an infernal headache!”
“The church bells were ringing because the Countess of Salt Hendon was delivered of a healthy son?” When the poet nodded, Sir Antony was unable to hide his grin. “Well done Jane,” he murmured to himself.
“Saw Lady St. John at Hendon—”
Sir Antony gave a start. “At Hendon? At the White Horse?”
“The very same. Waiting to be taken up by the Hendon-to-London stagecoach with her companion and a thin mop of a girl.” He shuddered his distaste. “That companion… Shoulders wider than mine. Unpleasant. Frightening.”
“Mrs. Smith?”
“Is she? Is she Mrs. Smith? I’m not convinced. Not convinced at all. Could very well be a man in petticoats. Turned me off m’steak and ale. Her ladyship said she’d just been visiting with Salt—”
“Diana was at the estate?” Sir Antony was so incredulous the poet took a step back. “Forgive me, Hilary. Do go on,” he added in a soothing voice, which brought the poet back beside him.
“I offered her a seat in my carriage. It was the decent thing to do. Couldn’t have her ladyship traveling with the mob on the common stage.” His brow furrowed. “Don’t know why Salt didn’t offer her one of his carriages. Still, glad to be of service. There wasn’t room for the Smith person or the girl inside the carriage. Sat them up with Parsons, m’driver. With her wrists, thought Smith could offer to take the reins and give Parsons a rest along the way. Strange…”
“Strange?” Sir Antony repeated, only half listening to the poet’s prattle.
He arranged the tea things on the tray to his satisfaction waving away one of the footmen, who had come to do what he saw as his job, topped up the teacups from the weaker tea from the second teapot and handed the poet a teacup on its saucer. “There is sugar on the trolley.”
Hilary Wraxton did his pigeon face again, and this time Sir Antony did smile. He jerked his feathered wig in the direction of a footman. “Lackeys not up to making a decent brew?”
“I prefer to make it myself.”
“Do you? Do you indeed?” the poet muttered, sipping at the hot milky tea without comprehension.
He put the porcelain cup on its delicate saucer and followed Sir Antony the short distance to the settee. His conversation was unflagging, and for once, welcome by the three ladies on the settee who, despite a room full of laughter and chatter, were all silent, but for very different reasons.
Lady Reanay was trying to fathom how her daughter-in-law Diana St. John had managed a visit to St. Petersburg, and why Sir Antony had failed to mention this to her.
Kitty Aldershot was wondering how to get her hands on a glass of champagne, and hoping Sir Antony would at least look at her long enough to notice how pretty she was in her brocade gown à l'anglaise with matching shoes and ribbons in her hair. After all, her effort was on his behalf.
Lady Caroline remained discomforted that within the blink of an eye in his company she was lusting after Sir Antony Templestowe like a frustrated widow from a Hogarth etching. And no longer being the naïve eighteen-year-old who had every expectation of marrying him, she was well aware where that lust could take her. Although, she was certain that when he knew the extent of her depravity while he was absent from England, he would be greatly relieved he had not married her.
Aware they were preoccupied with their own thoughts and wondering why they were suddenly sullen-faced, Sir Antony calmly distributed the tea with only one ear to Hilary Wraxton’s prattle.
“I had to tell someone—tell you,” the poet explained, following Sir Antony up and down the row as he offered tea, cream and sugar. “What happened to the mop girl?”
Sir Antony turned and handed off the empty tray to a po-faced footman, who was as startled as several of the guests at his master playing servant for the three ladies on the settee. The poet finally had his full attention again, though he had heard only one word in three.
“What mop, Hilary? You conveyed a mop to London?”
“No! No! Not a mop. A mop of a girl. Stick-thin and wearing one of those frilly white mobcaps that flap in the face. Noticed she had an overabundance of frizzy hair springing out in all directions. Looked like something you upend and mop the floor with.”
“Hence the mop of a girl,” confirmed Sir Antony, who was surprised the poet had any idea what such an aid to domestic tidiness looked like, but he did not dispute him. Perhaps he had taken notice of such mundane cleaning equipment as part of his keen poet’s eye? He was known, after all, for poems on all manner of utilitarian subjects, from carriages to clocks to street sweepers, so why not an ode to mops? “What about this girl, Hilary?”
The poet sighed deeply.
“That’s what I want to confide. Knew you were of keen mind, Antony. The girl who was with her ladyship and the Smith person at the White Horse Inn has vanished! She was no longer with us when we reached London.”
“What happened to her?”
“That’s what I want to know. It’s not that I take an inordinate interest in servants but when one is strapped to the roof of one’s carriage, it behooves one to want to know what happened if it disappears. Thought she must have fallen off the roof when we made a particularly bad lurch on our approach into the environs of Westminster. But no! My panic was all for naught.” He leaned into Sir Antony’s silken shoulder, eyes narrowed. “That man in a woman’s skirt, that Mrs. Smith tried to tell me there was no such girl!” He tapped his thin, long nose, “But Hilary Wraxton Esquire has the eyes of a hawk and the brain to match! I saw her in their company and I offered her a seat up with my driver. So she does exist!”
“I’m sure she must, if you say so, Hilary.”
“Good! Because I want you to find out what happened to her! I’ve dedicated a poem to her. And so I must have her name, or what’s the point of the dedication, eh? The poem is called Ode to a Lost Mop Girl.”
Sir Antony bit back a retort about not resembling a Bow Street Runner in the least, and was about to suggest the poet seek out such individuals to find the mysterious mop girl when Hilary Wraxton gave the lace at his wrist a shake-down and began a recitation,
In white muslin mob cap, hidden away,
Flap, flap, flap, the frilly fringe would not obey!
A servant wench, abundant hair in disarray,
Her plight unfortunate, and gray…
Several of the guests gravitated from the four corners of the saloon to hear Hilary Wraxton recite his ode, while a handful were more interested in settling a wager as to the materials used to make the poet’s wig. Under cover of Hilary’s impromptu recital, Sir Antony drew up a ribbon-back chair beside his aunt, and with the delicate cup and saucer steady on a silken knee, leaned in to talk at her ear.
“Are you at home tomorrow? Shall I call on you?”
“In the morning. We will have time to talk. The Salt Hendons are due in the afternoon, which will see the house in a state of pandemonium. I do so love to see the children running about. I would say come then, too, but Salt—”
“—hasn’t forgiven me? Or if he has, he isn’t ready to receive me, yet.”
“Antony…”
He smiled ruefully and held the mittened hand she put out to him in a comforting grasp. “It is perfectly all right, Aunt Alice. I understand. He’ll come round in his own good time.”
“Well, I don’t!” Lady Reanay grumbled. “Enough time has passed for Salt to forgive and forget. Obstinate man! Just as I don’t understand why he won’t allow Diana to see her children. I admit I never warmed to Diana, but she was married to my son, and she is the mother of my grandchildren. No! Close your mouth and listen. I know what it is to be banished from one’s family. St. John was taken from me when I ran off with Tobias, and even after we married, St. John was not permitted to visit his wicked mother for fear of being corrupted. Good God! Corrupted.
“If it hadn’t been for dearest Jane, Salt would not have invited me to return to England. That I now have rooms in the house and regularly see my grandchildren is beyond my wildest expectations. Merry and Ron are such dear children. And because they are dear children, I believe they should see their mother, now she has returned from her exile. Do you know, my boy, she has not been permitted any contact with the twins since their ninth birthday? They are twelve and a half years old, Antony. And to see Salt with his own children… He is such a good papa that I simply do not understand his cruel actions toward his godchildren. They have no father and their only parent is refused permission to see them! It breaks my heart.”
“Aunt Alice, I understand perfectly how you, as their grandmother, must feel for Ron and Merry’s situation. On the surface, anyone would. I am very sure Diana pleaded her case with eloquence and passion, but there is far more to my sister’s circumstance than you can possibly imagine.” He gently squeezed his aunt’s hand so she returned her attention to him from the sudden distraction of Hilary Wraxton’s impromptu poetry recital. When she met his gaze he said, “I wish I could tell you more, but until I have spoken with Salt, I simply cannot. What I can tell you is that Diana is not in London under Salt’s auspices. In fact, I am very sure he is unaware she is here.”
Lady Reanay blinked at him. Raucous applause and movement within the semi-circle of persons listening to the poet allowed her to turn and stare across the room at Diana St. John entertaining a knot of gentlemen with what must be an amusing anecdote, given their laughter and animation. She was so beautiful in her brocade petticoats à la française that Lady Reanay gave a heavy sigh of sympathy. To Sir Antony’s frustration, his aunt completely misread his intention, saying as she sat up tall, her voice full of indignation,
“Bravo for Diana, for having the courage to defy Salt for the sake of her children. I did not and I have regretted my cowardice every day of my life. Four years separated from her children is long enough, whatever her misconduct of the past. Which, I might add, Antony, no one has been willing or able to shine a candle’s worth of light upon, not even Jane, who politely refers me to Salt if I dare mention the twins’ mamma! Not even Caroline knows the reason for Diana’s banishment. It is most irregular.” It was Lady Reanay’s turn to squeeze her nephew’s hand. “I am very pleased you are taking up Diana’s cause with Salt. Someone has to, and who better than her dearest brother and Ron and Merry’s beloved uncle. Diana confided you are keeping a very close eye on her—”
“Did she?” he interrupted with a wry smile. “I am.”
“Such a good and understanding brother.”
“As to that…”
“She also told me she is the reason for your return from St. Petersburg.”
“She was ever the cleverer of the two of us. That, too, is true.”
Lady Reanay pouted and startled her nephew with an about-face.
“Making sacrifices for your sister is very admirable in a devoted brother, Antony, but not if it means the ruin of your career! I had hoped Diana was not the only reason for your return…”
She stopped, a swift glance over her left shoulder to see if Caroline was still seated beside her. She was not. Lady Caroline was by the French windows, where she was languidly fanning herself, a bare shoulder to the room, as if wanting the solitude that the open French window afforded. Lady Reanay realized at once that Caroline had strategically positioned herself close to where Kitty was in conversation with the darkly handsome Mr. Dacre Wraxton, a notorious flirt whose jaundiced eye lingered on girls enjoying their first Season. Kitty was showing the lothario her fan and he was showing her an inordinate amount of attention. When Caroline soon interrupted the pair, Lady Reanay breathed easy and returned her attention to Sir Antony, who had finished his tea and handed off the cup and saucer to a footman.
What she told him next could not have shocked him more had she slapped him hard across the face with a wet haddock, had such a fish been at her ladyship’s disposal. Shock gave way to disbelief, which had him up off the chair. Disbelief gave way to possibility. A feeling he would later describe as a burst of sunshine consumed him, and he forgot his surroundings in the urgency of securing his future there and then. What was the point of procrastinating when he knew exactly what he wanted and it was within his grasp, just waiting for him to act? And so possibility was overrun by impetuousness.
In a move he later realized was reminiscent of his drunken behavior at the recital that caused his banishment, but which did not have the excuse of alcohol to blame, history, in an odd sort of way, repeated itself.
“Call me a romantic old fool, but I had hoped it was Caroline who had brought you home.”
“Caroline?” Sir Antony frowned, a glance at Lady Caroline Aldershot framed in the window embrasure and now in close conversation with Mr. Dacre Wraxton. His throat went dry. “Why? Why would you think Caroline the catalyst for my homecoming?”
“You have no idea, have you?”
“I beg your pardon, Aunt. I must not.”
“I will not take the blame for your ignorance because it happened after I had left you in St. Petersburg to travel on to Helsinki. And I did not discover it for myself until Paris, where a letter was waiting me, and by then, I assumed you would have discovered it for yourself through the English newssheets. Salt did not write you with the news?”
Sir Antony shook his head.
“Salt write to me with news? About Caroline? His occasional letters never mentioned Caroline. In fact, he seems to have been at pains to omit her from all correspondence. If there was anything in the English newssheets, it must have been in such fine print or tucked away in a back column that I missed it altogether.”
Lady Reanay put up her penciled brows. “Not given to reading the births, deaths and marriages columns? Not even when supremely bored?”
Sir Antony gave a huff of laughter.
“No. Advertisements for James’s Powders hold more fascination than those notices. Not since I read with horror Caroline married Aldershot. You’ve made me nervous.”
He leaned in so only she could hear, although it was an unnecessary gesture because most of the guests had moved across the room to surround the clavichord and harp for an impromptu recital.
“You’re not about to tell me she’s going to give Aldershot a brat, are you? I have yet to come to terms with her marriage, so any further news in that quarter would surely shatter me. By the by, where is Aldershot? Shouldn’t he be here at his wife’s side? If she were my wife… God! There are some famous last words! Well, if she were, I certainly wouldn’t want to be anywhere but at her side. What is it?” he asked, alarmed when his aunt’s hand convulsed in his and tears filled her eyes. “Dear God, Aunt Alice, what did I say to bring this on?”
He made to rise, to fetch her a fresh cup of tea, water, anything to stop her tears, but she stayed him and he settled again and waited.
Lady Reanay thought it time to put her nephew out of his ignorant bewilderment.
“Twelve months and a little over two weeks ago, Poor Stephen—Aldershot—was tragically killed when he was thrown from his horse. He died almost instantly. Well, he certainly never opened his eyes again. He expired before a sawbones could attend. He was only three-and-twenty. A tragedy.”
Sir Antony swallowed hard.
“Yes, a tragedy,” Sir Antony replied soberly. “Poor fellow. And so young… What happened?”
“No one knows for certain. It is thought he tried to jump a particularly high dry stone wall and his mount shied at the last moment. He was thrown across the wall. The horse was found on one side of the field, Aldershot in a ditch on the other, the wall between them.”
“Where did this happen?”
“At Salt Hendon.”
Sir Antony nodded.
“Good. Not good he died. Good that Caroline was at home, with Salt and Jane, with family around at such a time.” He wiped a hand over his mouth and shook his head. “Dear me, what an awful business, and she married not quite two years… Tragic.” He glanced over at Kitty Aldershot who was talking with Diana and Lady Porter. “Is Miss Aldershot his only family?”
“Yes. She was orphaned at Poor Stephen’s death. Salt took it upon himself to be her guardian. She is a sweet child, but penniless. I dare say Salt will be called upon to provide her with an adequate dowry should she receive an offer of marriage.”
Sir Antony thought of Tom Allenby’s letters and how he had once compared Miss Katherine “Kitty” Aldershot’s blonde beauty to the Goddess Aphrodite walking amongst mere mortals. He smiled crookedly.
“Oh, Miss Aldershot will receive at least one excellent proposal of marriage before the season’s end, I am sure of it…”
“Let us hope so. Should he prove worthy and she accept, that will be one less burden for Salt, and for Caroline. Since her mourning ended, she has chaperoned Kitty to functions where this old lady would feel exceedingly out of place.”
Again Sir Antony nodded, and there was a faraway look in his eye.
“Since her mourning ended… Yes, of course. She should accompany Miss Aldershot to balls, and fetes and wherever there is dancing… She’s too young to be a widow. Can’t imagine her in widow’s weeds, m’self. Miserable attire; miserable time of it I suspect. Caroline loves to dance…”
“My boy, I don’t know what you’ve been told,” she confided. “Indeed, I fear you’ve not been told much at all if you think Caroline has returned to her former self before she married Aldershot. She’s not one for balls and fetes and dancing—”
“Caroline? Not dance? Not want to attend a ball?” Sir Antony blinked at his aunt with incomprehension.
Lady Reanay wondered if her nephew was suffering shock. He was distracted, and mumbling, almost to himself. His reaction to the news that his beloved Caroline was now a widow was not at all what she had expected. With the requisite period of mourning completed, Lady Caroline Aldershot was free to marry again—free to marry Sir Antony, and he was free to ask her to be his wife. Did he not see that? Did he not understand what this meant for him and for Caroline’s future?
“You do understand what this means?” she added, peering at him closely. “Caroline is a widow… Antony?”
Suddenly he did understand. The dark clouds enveloping his private life parted to allow a bright sunlit moment, just as Lady Reanay asked the question of him. He was up off the seat, pulling at the points of his waistcoat, and hastily brushing the sleeves of his frock coat to be rid of imaginary creases. He straightened the sit of the pearl-headed pin in his cravat, leaned his head left then right while he cleared his throat. With a bow to his aunt, he politely excused himself, white in the face as if suddenly ill. He strode across to the French windows where Lady Caroline was admiring the view.
So intent was he, so full of purpose, that he was blind to everyone around him and deaf to his name.
The guests gathered about the clavichord appealed to him—everyone knew Sir Antony to be quite the musician. Their shouts of cajolery went unheeded. Lady St. John said she would rouse him. She would not play the harp unless her dear brother accompanied her on the clavichord. Taking up a handful of her embroidered petticoats, Diana St. John bustled across the room, determined to have her brother’s attention. She appealed to Mr. Dacre Wraxton, who had just broken conversation with Lady Caroline, to add his entreaties to hers, and he willingly complied. She put out a hand to him, and he offered her the crook of his velvet sleeve.
Everyone watched and waited.
Sir Antony continued to ignore his sister and her champion.
SIR ANTONY was at Caroline’s back before she sensed a presence at her shoulder. She heard the calls and pleas from across the room but had no idea what the commotion was about. All she wanted was to leave this gathering as soon as possible. Close conversation with Dacre Wraxton had drawn unwanted attention, and their association merely underscored her unworthiness. How could she hold up her head under the piercing blue eyes of Sir Antony Templestowe, who knew nothing of her sordid past, and Cousin Diana’s supercilious smile? According to Dacre Wraxton, her cousin Diana knew all there was to know about their affair. She did not doubt her cousin would use the information to her advantage. It was only a matter of time before Diana confided such shocking news in Salt, and worse, Sir Antony…
Two hours spent at an afternoon tea clearly designed as a self-congratulatory celebration of Diana St. John’s return to London Society was time enough, and Caroline hoped Lady Reanay thought so, too. She craved the solitude of her rooms in her brother’s Grosvenor Square mansion and the companionship of her menagerie. Her assortment of animals and birds loved her unconditionally. They never judged and they never failed to put her in a cheerful mood.
A clearing of the throat at her back intruded into these mental musings. Presuming it to be Dacre Wraxton intent on pressing his suit, she turned on a heel, snapping shut the sticks of her fan, which she then held across the lace gloved palm of her left hand, as one does a cudgel, and said with a sigh of exasperation,
“Wraxton, enough of your silly games. I will never share your bed again, married or unmarried, so it is pointless to—Oh! An—Antony!?”
He made her a formal bow and cleared his throat a second time.
He was so ashen-faced, the muscles in his face so tense that she instantly presumed Lady Reanay was unwell, and she put out a gloved hand, a glance past his silken shoulder to see if their aunt was perfectly well.
“What—What ever is the matter?”
He took her hand and instantly went down on silken bended knee.
“Lady Caroline… My lady, will you do me the supreme honor of becoming my wife?”