Chapter Two

Several Weeks Later

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The ton could not have ordered up better weather for their afternoon outing in Hyde Park. A brilliant blue sky, the sun just warm enough, and a slight breeze wafting through, pausing to ruffle the leaves on the trees and the hems of the ladies’ skirts.

Vickers stood beneath the shade of a large oak and watched Society’s glittering promenade pass. He felt the need to re-acclimate to light and gaiety again. The task he had set himself had led him lately into darker territories.

Following the string of his father’s mistresses had not been a happy duty. None of them had gained the better of that particular bargain. He understood their plight. Who knew better, in fact, how much his father demanded of a person. How it felt at times as if he drained your very life away. How one was left bitter, dry and as empty as a husk after he’d done with you.

Anger and determination had grown apace as he searched them out. Most of the early ones he’d found in brothels and gaming halls. Many of them had been left tired and disillusioned, many too broken or unwilling to enter the demimondaine again. But the later ones? Some of them he’d found not at all. They grew more skittish and reticent, less willing to talk to him. A couple he’d found were unable to converse at all, lying insensate in gin halls or hovels.

He’d talked with all that he could, documented everything he could find, and let his father know exactly what he was doing. Then he’d done what he could for the poor souls, with his meager funds and with Hestia’s help, but his anger grew as their predicaments worsened. Invariably, these women had been left in bad straits after dealings with his father.

Except for one.

Rosamond, widowed Countess of Mitford. She’d been his father’s last mistress, as far as he could tell. She’d stayed with him for only a short time, at the beginning of the year—and it appeared she was the only mistress so far to emerge intact and unscathed.

At first Vickers had thought the brevity of their affair accounted for it. But the further he moved along the list of mistresses, the more incensed his father grew. He’d sputtered and fussed at first, but then he’d begun to appear almost . . . panicked. Last night he’d threatened dire retribution should his son not leave off.

Which of course only heightened his ambition to see this through to the end.

Lady Mitford appeared to be the end.

And Vickers wondered if there was a reason she’d passed through the viscount’s fire un-burnt—and if perhaps that reason might be what had catapulted the old man into leaving scolds and lectures behind and into making actual threats instead.

Vickers’ old hatreds entwined with new excitement and flared high. He must find out what had his father so agitated. He had to talk to her.

But the notoriously accessible Lady Mitford had turned unaccountably shy. In the past she’d been eager to flirt a bit, and quick to hint at more. But now she passed him in Bond Street with barely a nod. She’d been ‘out’ during her at home hours yesterday and just happened to leave a ball immediately after his arrival last evening.

So today he lay in wait in the park, watching for her while a pack of his young contemporaries gathered around him to debate the merits of the passing ladies.

“Straighten up, chaps!” young Lord Beeton called. “Here’s Mrs. Hervely!”

The group of young bloods grinned and bowed as the popular hostess, widely known for her fondness for initiating young men into the pleasures to be found in Society, passed in an open barouche.

“Who shall you dance with tonight, Beeton?” The conversation resumed as Mr. Nowell turned back to the group. “Now that Miss Jane Tillney is to be married, you’ll have to find someone else to appease your mother.”

“I don’t know how I’ll find someone else so perfectly available and yet unattainable,” Beeton mourned. “Miss Tillney was the perfect foil.”

“Well, you cannot claim Miss Stockton,” Nowell avowed. “I’ve chosen her as my perfect shield. She has connections and an adequate dowry. She behaves beautifully, which should make my mother happy, but there’s that bit with her parents that makes Mother nervous. While I’m dangling about Miss Stockton, she’s afraid to push me too far. She’s leaving me be, and for that I’ll thank the girl a thousand times over.” He shrugged. “In any case, it’s no hardship to befriend her. She’s stunning, although it is an odd sort of beauty is it not?”

“She has a quick wit,” another young buck piped in. “You never quite know what she’s going to say, but it’s always spot on target.”

“I like that about her,” Nowell insisted. “But not as much as I like the fact that she gives off that same air of not truly looking for a leg shackle. Not that my mother needs to know that.”

“Maybe she only gives off that air around you, Nowell.” Beeton lounged against a tree. “She is a beauty, although of a different sort. All big eyes and dramatic brows and fresh innocence. Except for that plump bottom lip of hers. That pouty mouth is the only bit that doesn’t look like it belongs on one of heaven’s cherubs.” Vickers noted the glitter in his eye. “On the contrary, that mouth looks very devilish indeed.”

Nowell objected, but since he didn’t know the woman of whom they spoke, Vickers turned away and let the talk drift over him. He watched the beau monde parade slowly along, nodding to acquaintances and keeping his eyes peeled for Lady Mitford—when suddenly he realized the pups were speaking of her.

“What was that? About the Countess? Lady Mitford?”

Nowell huffed. “Never say you mean to edge in here too, Vickers. I just told Beeton that Lady Mitford will never let him near Miss Stockton. She’s a high stickler.”

“Lady Mitford is a high stickler?” Vickers repeated with disbelief.

“The girl is. Hadn’t you heard what they call her? The Celestial, because she’s as beautiful as an angel and as pure and well behaved. She never sets a foot wrong, that one, and Lady Mitford encourages it. The countess has quite reformed her own behavior as well. So, if Beeton is too wicked to warrant an introduction to the angel, that likely goes double for you. You’d both do best just to leave the lady to me.”

“I say Nowell is naught but a bag of hot air. You cannot claim a lady unless you betroth yourself to her, you nitwit. And the hell you say, in any case. I can charm the countess into doing whatever I wish.” Beeton pushed himself away from the tree. “See for yourself. The lady approaches now.”

Vickers looked up. Indeed, the countess did approach, in the midst of a group of ladies and gentlemen. He made a sharp gesture at Beeton. “Leave this to me.”

Both gentlemen objected, but Vickers quelled them with a glare.

“Damn it all, now none of us will have a chance,” Nowell complained.

“Speak for yourself,” Beeton bit out.

“I’m not stealing a march on either of you, for God’s sake,” Vickers snapped. “I don’t know which virgin you are going about and I don’t much care, either. You can have the cherub—I just wish to talk to the widow.”

“Good luck to you, there,” Beeton grumbled, slightly mollified. “Weren’t you listening? The wicked widow has been treading the straight and narrow this Season.”

“Then it is a good thing that I only wish to have words with her and hadn’t planned on tupping her up against a tree.” Shaking his head, Vickers left the group behind. Lady Mitford was almost upon them. Her attention was diverted as she laughed at something one of her companions said. He merged into the crowd milling in the opposite direction and let his gaze roam nonchalantly over the oncoming faces. When he lit upon the countess, he stopped.

“Lady Mitford. Well met,” he called.

Hats and bonnets turned. Let her avoid him now.

“Mr. Vickers. Good afternoon.” She did not look pleased.

“I vow, it’s been an age.” He gave her his most charming smile—a rare enough occurrence. Enough so that it set off a wave of whispers and giggles through her entourage. “How is it that we keep missing each other?”

“Just luck, I would guess.”

This time only one of her companions tittered.

“The worst sort of luck,” Vickers pressed on. “Let me remedy that now.” He bowed. “Lord Worthe’s engagement ball approaches. May I be first to solicit a dance?”

Looking seriously displeased now, she glanced somewhere behind her.

Vickers kept a polite smile fixed in place.

“You tempt me,” the lady responded at last. “But alas, I’ve an injury that keeps me from dancing for a few days.”

Gallantly, he refrained from pointing out that her injury allowed her to stroll easily enough in the park. Relentless, he continued. “Well, then, I shall look forward to sitting out a set in your fair company.”

He’d trapped her. She couldn’t escape now unless she failed to attend the ball altogether.

“Yes, of course.” Her face was set. “But we must move on now.” She glanced about her for support.

He faced the chorus of agreement with bland acceptance. “Until the ball, then.” He bowed again.

She nodded and pressed forward. The group accompanying her followed, parting and flowing around him like a river around a rock, while he stood, staring and musing, after her.

“She’ll avoid you if she can, you know.”

He barely glanced at the young lady who had detached herself from the tail of the group long enough to address him.

“Will she?” he asked thoughtfully.

“She must, I’m afraid. She cannot afford to fraternize with someone innocent maidens have been warned of.”

“Have they? Been warned off me?” He took a grim pleasure in the idea. “All of them, as a general rule?” Oh, how that would set his father aflame.

He looked to her for the answer, only to find the thought arrested by a cold, little frisson of shock.

A pretty girl, she was, the young lady who had stopped to speak to him. A very pretty girl, indeed.

The pause lingered. His mind needed a moment to absorb it all, to fight off the notion that he’d imagined her, that it must be a mistake—the idea that nature had fashioned such a creature.

Ice blue eyes smiled back at him from a lovely face—eyes of that pale color that seemed destined to be always accompanied by or edged in silver. Yet they looked just fine in a rim of thick, dark lashes too. Very fine. More warm and alive than Vickers would have predicted.

And yes, they smiled at him, those startling eyes, though the rest of her countenance displayed only that which was correct, calm and polite.

“Well, I’ve been warned off you, at any rate.” She grinned then, and bit her lip—her full lower lip that didn’t quite seem to match the sweet bow shaped upper one—and yet together they made an irresistible sight—a perfectly kissable mouth, just begging to be put to use.

Wait. Beeton had said something about a girl with an angel’s countenance and a devil’s mouth—one connected to Lady Mitford. Was this her? He looked her over again. She didn’t look angelic to him, with those wide set, slightly slanted eyes and those dramatic, gently pointed brows.

He racked his brain, but couldn’t come up with the name. He raised a brow instead. “And you are?”

Her color rose, just enough to tint her fair skin with a rose flush. “Oh, I am sorry. I’m being terribly forward, aren’t I? I hope you’ll forgive me—only, this might be my last chance, you see.” She dipped her head and bobbed a quick curtsy. “I am Miss Adelaide Stockton. Lady Mitford is my cousin. She is very kindly sponsoring me this Season.”

Ah, so here was the reason for the countess’s sudden proper streak—and a distasteful burden it must be for her, too. No. Rosamond would not enjoy being held up for constant comparison to this girl.

He flicked a glance at her scrap of a bonnet, which did nothing to hide her thick, blonde hair or the length of her elegant neck. The girl stood taller than most, perhaps half a head below his own height. Slim, but with curves in all the most interesting spots. And her manner . . .

Vickers shifted, feeling himself on uncertain ground for the first time in ages—and somewhat annoyed about it. He had a reputation—hard won and well deserved. Damned useful, too. The beau monde saw him as a gambler, a spendthrift, and a rake of the highest order. Society’s older women loved him for it—or they stayed away. Innocents who wandered into his path usually sidled quickly away again, as if the stain of his wickedness might rub off on them.

They did not usually stare at him with frank assessment and open appreciation. They did not often run a searching gaze over him, from his short hair to his shining Hessians—and every spot in between.

And he did not usually react like a restless and jumpy, untried boy.

“Last chance?” he asked at last. “At what?”

He stopped, suddenly aware that this was the third—no, fourth, time he’d responded to her with a short, sharp question. So much for his vaunted charm.

“To make your acquaintance.”

Her gaze still roamed, scanning his shoulders and arms, following the lines of his waistcoat and moving on to widen again, as if measuring the width of his thighs.

“Is that what you are doing?” he asked wryly. “Making my acquaintance?”

She stilled and looked him in the eye again at last. “Yes, I hope so. But I admit, I am quite admiring you as well.”

He clamped his mouth shut. Safer to say nothing at all to something like that.

She shrugged. “One does hear so many things about you, Mr. Vickers. I am glad to find that at least one of the reports is true. You truly do inspire chill bumps, up close.”

Surprise vanquished any remaining annoyance. He laughed. “I’ve heard about you too—heard that you are Perfection Itself. Though if I were to judge by this conversation alone, I might be skeptical.”

“Perfection? No. Careful? Yes.” She shuddered. “Who would want to be perfect? It sounds ghastly boring.” She glanced up. “Though it’s a relief to know there’s at least one person in Town who knows I’m not.”

Again, she kept her voice low and her expression polite. For all the people milling about and past them knew, they could be discussing the weather.

He had to admit, he was enjoying the farce. He lowered his tone, too. “And you? What do you inspire, up close?”

Some of the light left her face. “It would depend on just who you ask, sir. I’ve learned that Society looks at me and I am instantly dubbed either a saint or a sinner. Either way, the only thing I seem to inspire is caution.”

“You continually surprise me, Miss Stockton. I felt sure the answer would be befuddlement.”

“It’s been known to happen,” she said affably.

He narrowed his gaze and glanced at the group still moving off without her. “What else do they say about me?

“Oh, many things. That you are quite wonderfully witty, but wicked with it. That you drink too much, gamble too much, and spend time with the wrong sorts of women.”

He shot her a tight glance. “Let’s add exasperation to the list of reactions. Do you always answer a question so directly?”

She shrugged. “Not lately.”

He snorted. “Then I don’t know whether to feel honored or annoyed. I’ll wager that on further acquaintance you inspire even more volatile responses . . . murderous tendencies, perhaps?”

She stilled and he thought perhaps he’d taken it too far. But no. She didn’t look upset . . . but interested. Everything about this encounter had been novel—but that look of speculation? He was more than passing familiar with it.

The trees behind them shifted in the breeze just then and a stray shaft of sunshine lit her from behind. And in that moment he understood the reverence with which Nowell had spoken of her. Fair skin and fine form, wide blue eyes and the fresh look of a dew-kissed nymph—celestial indeed. Yet paired with that saucy humor and the hint of pain she’d revealed?

It all made an image that might have been specifically crafted to set his nerves on edge and his heart to kicking like an irritable stallion. To stimulate his senses and tug at his dusty, neglected heart strings.

He spoke quickly to shut off that line of thought. “Why did you say that Lady Rosamond cannot afford to interact with me? It’s an odd choice of words.”

She blinked. Suddenly she looked around, peering past him to gauge how far her party had gone without her. “Odd, perhaps, but accurate.” She lifted a shoulder. “It’s not really my place to speak of it.” She glanced askance at him. “What was it that you wished with her, sir?”

“Just a few words. I won’t go into it now, it’s quite a long story.”

She glanced at him with a curious look of yearning. “And one that contains pain, pathos and a bit of adventure, I’d wager, too.”

“What makes you say that?”

“All the best stories do. All you need now is a happy ending.” Her distracted gaze wandered south again. “What color would you call that waistcoat?”

Surprised, he glanced down. “I don’t know.” He lifted a shoulder. “The color of eggplant?”

“Eggplant . . . Yes, that is a good word.” She shaped it with her mouth. Or perhaps, plum?” Shaking her head, she looked up and continued. “Perhaps you and my cousin can exchange stories then, when you see her at the ball.”

“When?” he asked with irony. “After that reception, I’d say the more likely choice of words would be if I see her at the ball.”

She bit her lip. “You might be correct, at that.” She raised a delicate brow at him. “But something tells me that would not be the end of it. I feel sure that you are more stubborn than Cousin Rosamond.”

She looked ahead again and took a step away.

“Yes, hurry on.” He waved a hand. “You are right. I am stubborn. Don’t worry,” he added ironically. “We will meet and talk again.”

She stopped and looked over her shoulder at him. “Don’t you see? I very likely should worry about that. But I don’t.”

With that cryptic statement, she turned and hurried away. Vickers watched until he saw her rejoin the trailing end of Lady Rosamond’s party—without the countess ever knowing she’d been gone.

Thoughtful, he turned away—only to break out a real smile at the sight of Hestia Wright drawing close in her small, open carriage.

“Hestia! You’re back!”

“Indeed.” She returned his smile, but there was something . . . reserved . . . worried, perhaps . . . there too. “Would you care for a ride home?”

“I would, thank you.” He climbed up and settled in the opposite seat. “And your expertise, too. Tell me everything you know about the Countess of Mitford.” He settled in, throwing an arm across the back of the seat and making himself comfortable. “And her cousin.”

Her first slip.

Addy listened to Rosamond fuss and fume and thanked Providence that Great-Aunt Delia had not accompanied them to the park. She’d done her best to follow the older woman’s advice. She’d spent these last weeks acting as refined as any properly well bred girl of the ton. She’d been everything quiet, prim and proper.

Until today.

A few minutes in Mr. Vickers’ company and she’d reverted back to her old ways. Oh, she’d managed to hide all the excited flutterings he stirred up, and to quell the dozens of questions she was dying to ask. Where had he been these last weeks? Why did he look so solemn? How had he come by that tiny scar above the arch of his brow? She’d managed to swallow them all—but she’d acted too forthright, too outspoken, nonetheless.

“I vow, what is the good of being a widow if I still must act as if I were restrained by a leg shackle,” Rosamond fretted. The group of her friends had dispersed and the two of them were now strolling home to Cavendish Square. “I know I promised strict propriety, but it’s growing tiresome.”

Addy’s mouth quirked. “It hasn’t done you any harm. The ton has applauded the mending of your ways for the sake of your family—and you still generate interest from men like Vickers.”

“True.” Rosamond preened, just a bit. Then she glared. “And yet it hasn’t done you much good at all.”

Also true. Parts of Society just couldn’t get past the scandal of her parents’ marriage—to them she’d always be tainted. The rest seemed willing to forgive and forget—especially after someone came up with that nickname. Then suddenly everyone wanted an introduction. The men clamored for dances, the ladies wished to be seen with her. But it was all so stilted and superficial. Everyone, be they friend or foe, seemed universally unwilling to look past her reputation to see the girl inside.

“It’s not like I haven’t tried,” she protested. “Perhaps we’ve overdone it with the strictly proper behavior. They’ve dubbed me with that ridiculous name, and everyone who deigns to look past my family’s past treats me as if I’m made of ice. Like that nice Mr. Nowell. He comes around and seems happy to spend a little time in my orbit, but . . . nothing goes beyond the pleasantries. Neither he—nor any of them—will ever take a peek beyond my outer surface.”

Rosamond groaned. “Not you, too, with the astronomical talk. I realize Lord Worthe’s lectures are popular, but his enthusiasm is slowly turning us all into scientists.”

“He does make it all sound more interesting than I might have imagined.”

“Never mind that. What am I to do at his engagement ball, when Vickers comes looking for his dance?”

“Dance with him?” Addy suggested.

Heaven knew she’d like to. And not just because he was beautiful and quick with a quip and made her feel quite out of her depth and a little reckless with it. There had been that moment when he’d accused her of inspiring murderous impulses—it sounded just like something her father would say and made her feel as if he, at least, had sneaked a peek and seen a bit of her true self.

“And risk my mother hearing of it? Vickers is still a rogue and a rake—and enough of an excuse for her to cut off our funds like that!” She snapped her fingers. Her tone turned aggrieved. “If you’d just hurry up and catch a husband!”

“I am trying.”

But though enough of society wanted to know her, it seemed no one wished to marry her. The only gentleman to come up to scratch with an actual proposal had been Lord Nolan—and everyone in the ton knew that he was only looking for mother for his unruly brood. It was a measure of her desperate state that she’d actually considered him—until she’d mentioned adding her infant sister to his litter of six and he’d flatly refused.

Then, so had she.

“Try harder,” Rosamond insisted. “As long as you have no prospects, I must behave like a spinster too. It’s hardly fair, especially with a man like Vickers hanging about. I can only put him off for so long.”

Addy nodded, but in her heart she acknowledged that her experience of the Season had nearly put her off the idea of marriage. Was this all there was? Dispassionate maneuverings for the highest title? Unacknowledged competition for the largest dowry? Social niceties but no real interaction? It was all so discouraging and disheartening. No wonder her mother had dug her heels in and created a scandal until she won permission to marry the man she loved.

Addy didn’t even have that option. No man she’d met had even come close to inspiring that sort of palpable reaction.

She brushed away a quick vision of Vickers. No use pinning any hopes there. In fact, more and more she’d been harboring rebellious thoughts about arranging a life on her own. She held back a sigh. The finances wouldn’t be a problem. She could move back home, or even into the village house in the Cotswolds that had been part of her mother’s marriage parcel. Her allowance would cover her and little Muriel very well. She could raise her sister as she’d been raised, with the real education and the wider outlook that her mother had wished her daughters to possess. She could have a garden, and her books, a few friends. Perhaps they could occasionally travel in to Town to visit the museums and the theater.

It sounded lovely and peaceful, and yet—it just wasn’t done. Girls like her were set on one path—and it led straight to the altar.

Her family would object. Society would object. She’d be pitied . . . and possibly scorned.

And it still felt like her best alternative.

As difficult as finding a mate was proving to be, forging a life without one would be infinitely more so. For it to materialize into the slightest possibility, she’d have to manage the thing respectably.

She would need help. Such a departure would require a special situation, a great deal of persuasion—and if she was to have any chance at social acceptance—a veritable sparkling diamond of a pristine reputation.

She and Rosamond heaved simultaneous sighs.

Suddenly her cousin brightened. “Unless,” she said with excitement. “What if Vickers has reformed as well? He hasn’t been seen about much this Season. He hasn’t been frolicking with the demi-monde or frequenting his usual gaming hells or the races. Perhaps his father finally won that battle and convinced him to give over his rakish ways.”

“Then your dance will not be nearly as much fun,” Addy remarked.

“Oh, think larger, girl! What an interesting couple we should make. Only imagine the splash we cause in Society! How everyone would talk. We’d be on every guest list, for Seasons to come.” The idea kept Rosamond happy and occupied for several blocks. Until the intersection with Oxford Street, where she let out a horrified gasp and clutched Addy’s arm.

“Nooo,” she moaned. “Damn it all!”

Addy gasped. “Rosamond!”

“Oh, why?” her cousin groaned. “Why could it not have worked out the way I’d only just imagined it? It would have been perfect. But no—the willful man! Look!”

Addy searched until she spotted the problem. Vickers again. Her heart leaped, but he never noticed them. He was seated in a small, fast moving carriage, listening intently as an astoundingly beautiful woman spoke, half a smile on her face.

Confident. Competent.

Like bubbles the two words bounced their way up and out of her, popping onto the surface of her mind.

Virile.

Another one. She shivered, so startled and grateful she was. This was how it used to be, back when her stories lived just below the surface. When words and scenes and people jostled for space in her brain, kept her company and amused both her and her friends and family.

Suddenly she realized just what she was seeing. Vickers. With a beautiful, blonde woman.

“Wait!” Addy stared. “Is that . . .”

“Hestia Wright,” sighed Rosamond bitterly. “And if he’s still hanging about her skirts then he’s not changing his ways, after all.”

Hestia Wright.

“Do you not understand, Adelaide?” Rosamond had grown petulant again. “This means that I cannot keep company with him, after all.”

“But his reformation was just an idea you struck upon,” Addy reminded her absently. “Your own invention.”

“Well, he should strike upon it!” her cousin exclaimed. “Truly, it would be the best of all worlds. I could keep the notice and acclaim I’ve had this Season, and still have a man like that at my side?” She sighed and continued, but Addy didn’t hear any more complaints.

Hanging about her skirts. Hestia Wright’s skirts.

Abruptly all the cosmos around Addy adjusted. Puzzle pieces clicked into place, almost audibly. Answers to questions slid home like the parts of a well-oiled lock. Perhaps, just perhaps, all of her hopes might come true. The dark, difficult horizon suddenly looked brighter, colored with a multitude of possibilities.

Suddenly, Addy couldn’t wait for Lord Worthe’s engagement ball.