Pierson sat down for his supper later that day, his gaze straying to the French doors—out into the garden. After Louisa had left, he’d finished planting the strawberry starts she’d brought, with Bob’s help.
And the lad—smart whip that he was—hadn’t said a word about what had transpired.
Or rather, what hadn’t.
Bitty had come out as well and the pair of them had raced about the yard in merry abandonment, their laughter tugging at his regrets.
More than once, he’d caught himself smiling at them, that and glancing at the gate hoping to catch sight of Miss Tempest returning.
Whatever was coming over him?
Worst of all, he felt a complete churl for not agreeing to go to Almack’s as she’d asked. But couldn’t she see how such a request was impossible?
“Most impossible,” he muttered to himself.
“My lord,” Tiploft intoned from the doorway.
Pierson glanced over his shoulder and immediately recalled Miss Tempest’s admonishment about his butler.
He should have been retired years ago.
Retire Tiploft? Pierson couldn’t fathom such a notion. He’d be lost without Tiploft. The man had been the anchor of the household since . . . since . . . Well, since Pierson had been in short pants.
And with that realization came a pang of guilt.
The man probably should have been pensioned off a decade ago.
“My lord?” Tiploft prodded.
“Yes, what is it?” Pierson asked.
“Mr. Rowland is here.”
And before Pierson could order his butler to bar the door and send the vagrant packing, Tuck came strolling into his dining room with all the air of an invited guest.
“Get the hell out of my house,” the viscount told him, pointing toward the door.
His old friend laughed and waved him off as if Pierson was joking. “Cuz! You, of all people, know I am never one to stand on ceremony,” he drawled before he settled into a place at the table. He leaned forward and examined Pierson’s half-filled plate and the chargers on the table—then lapsed into a wide grin. Apparently the offerings met with his approval. “Yes, well, it appears I’m late. No need for concern—I can catch up.”
If it were possible, Tuck settled deeper into his chair.
Pierson knew from experience there would be no removing Tuck now.
At least not until he’d eaten his fill and drank up a good portion of Pierson’s best Madeira.
“Bring him a plate, Tiploft,” Pierson managed, hoping there wasn’t a hint of hospitality in his words.
Not that such a lack of manners would bother Tuck, or even rise to his notice, for he was too busy examining the contents of every platter and dish, exclaiming with delight at the large beefsteak and inhaling deeply over the onion soup. “Indecent of you, Piers, to keep Mrs. Petchell all to yourself. Ah, Tiploft! Thank you, my good man!”
Latching on to the plate Tiploft had brought, Tuck wasted no time filling it and then diving into his supper with great gusto, waxing on about Mrs. Petchell’s culinary skills.
Which might have made a true host happy, but Pierson knew it would only encourage Tuck to drop by any time he needed a good supper.
Which, it being Tuck, would mean nearly every night.
“What are you doing here?” Pierson asked, returning to his own meal before it grew chilled. He’d eaten enough cold suppers in Spain to last him a lifetime.
Tuck grinned as he carved himself a substantial portion from the beefsteak.
The one that had been meant for Pierson.
“Uncle’s forcing me to go to Almack’s tonight,” he explained. “Dancing attendance on his country wards. An evening smiling at a pair of—what did you call them? Ah, yes, plain harridans. A man can’t be asked to do that without some fortification, don’t you agree? Speaking of which”—he turned to Tiploft—“is there any of that remarkable Madeira about?”
Pierson was about to shake his head and order his butler to deny its existence, but a sudden spike of panic ran through his veins.
Tuck was escorting Miss Tempest to Almack’s?
His thoughts raced back to earlier. That moment when he’d refused Louisa’s request. What the devil had he done?
He looked up and found Tuck studying him and hastily returned to his own supper. While he tried to look calm and disinterested, his insides were a tangled coil.
The notion of a rake like Tuck anywhere near Miss Tempest had him at sixes and sevens.
More to the point, what was their uncle thinking?
“He’s forcing me, you know,” Tuck said, looking up from his meal. “Wants me there so someone dances with them.” He shuddered with the very notion of it.
Dancing. Once again, Pierson’s thoughts went to how it had felt to have her up against him, in his arms, warm and willing.
Would she dance like that? Fluid and seductive?
Well, he’d never know, would he? But Tuck would. He’d be there, all charm and gracious manners, ready to take advantage of the lady’s country innocence.
Much as you did, his conscience pricked at him.
Yes, well . . . that wasn’t entirely the same, he’d argue.
Which was as much a lie as his nonchalance over the subject.
Meanwhile, Tuck was prattling on. “—then I suppose he’ll be expecting me to marry one of them—”
“Ma-ma-r-r-ry?” Pierson choked out.
“Oh, aye,” Tuck told him mournfully. “Not that I have any objections to a fetching miss with a large dowry. Easier to be lured into the parson’s trap by a pretty face, don’t you think?”
“Wouldn’t know. I have no intention of ever marrying.”
“Lucky you,” Tuck said, tipping his glass in a salute.
“Refuse to go,” Pierson advised, returning to his supper and finding that his once grand beefsteak now tasted like an old boot.
“Can’t,” Tuck told him between gulps of wine. “He’s gone and threatened my allowance.”
“Ah—” Pierson hoped he sounded sympathetic, when in fact the notion of a broke Tuck was worse than a Tuck in full possession of his quarterly allowance. Charleton’s heir would do whatever it took to keep his income flowing.
And in that vein, Tuck continued on with his speculations. “Do you recall what sort of dowry these chits might bring? I seem to recall Charleton mentioning something about an estate—”
“No, I don’t. I don’t think they have any sort of money,” Pierson rushed to remind him. “I do believe respectability is what Charleton wanted to impress upon you. Loads of it.” He went back to his meal and didn’t look up.
For fear his old friend would see the lie that had just fallen from his lips revealed in his wary gaze.
Tuck was just the sort who could spot a bouncer from across the park.
“Ah, yes. He did go on and on about that,” Tuck nodded, waving his fork and, having emptied his first plate, surveyed the chargers once more. “Still, I can’t help thinking that plain chits—they are plain, aren’t they?”
Pierson nodded. He didn’t know why he continued to keep up this farce, but he had to.
Not that Tuck wouldn’t know the truth soon enough.
His friend shuddered. “Yes, well, plain it is. Still, it is my experience that plain ones always do seem to come with a decent dowry. There’s an irony in that, don’t you agree?”
“Yes, indeed,” Pierson said, even as he was trying to figure out a way to keep Tuck from going to Almack’s. Locking him in the cellar might work, but then, knowing Tuck, he’d spend the night happily drinking down the best vintages.
Nor could he suggest they head out for one of their former haunts. For then Pierson would have to go out.
Meanwhile, Tuck was still calculating the possible advantages of a plain miss. “—certainly makes them more palatable. A large dowry, that is. And if these chits are as unpleasant as you insist—”
And it struck him that no matter the dowry Miss Tempest came with, whoever gained her hand was getting a priceless treasure.
“Is money all you think about?” Pierson asked, setting down his knife and fork.
Tuck paused as well, his eyes narrowing, dangerously so. “I know what you think of me. And I could explain matters, but I doubt you would understand. Or care.”
That last bit stung a bit. For once they had been close. As close as brothers. With Lady Charleton’s encouragement, he and Tuck had grown up together.
Along with Poldie, that is, whose father’s house was just across the square.
But all that had changed—the day Pierson and Poldie had bought their commissions, while Tuck had foolishly and recklessly gambled his money away in some Seven Dials hell.
At least so he had said the day he turned up at the docks to watch them sail away to their fates.
It had been an image—Tuck standing rigid and alone alongside the Thames—that had haunted Pierson for some time. Left him furious and unforgiving to this day.
Especially when that vision had been replaced by a memory far more haunting.
Yet even now he suspected there was more behind his friend’s story than just a tale of a bad hand of loo.
He should ask. He should demand an explanation. But that would mean letting Tuck back into his life.
Forgiving him. Not that there was anything to forgive—but maybe if Tuck had kept his word, come to Spain with them, Pierson would have been able to keep the vow he’d made to bring Poldie home alive.
“I don’t see why you came here,” Pierson began, pausing for a second before adding, “other than for the beefsteak.”
“Which is excellent,” Tuck told him, waving the large piece stuck on the end of his fork before he popped it in his mouth and chewed it with all the gusto of a contented lion. Once he swallowed it and washed it further down with a large gulp of wine, he grinned at Pierson. “If you must know, I came to see if you would come as well. To Almack’s, that is.”
Pierson choked, for certainly he hadn’t heard Tuck correctly.
Go to Almack’s?
“Have you gone mad?” he blustered.
“I suppose I have,” Tuck agreed, grinning at the bite of steak he was about to devour. “It is just that misery loves company and I couldn’t think of anyone in London more miserable than you.”
“It is just as I imagined,” Lavinia said in breathless wonder as the sisters entered the hallowed ground of Almack’s.
Indeed, it was well beyond the usual staid affair in Kempton. Not even the Midsummer’s Eve Ball at Foxgrove could compare to the splendor before them. As waiters rushed by proffering trays laden with cakes and drinks, Louisa drew in a steadying breath to calm the flutters in her stomach.
Butterflies that had started the moment Mr. Rowland had joined their party as they assembled on the front steps of Lord Charleton’s town house for the carriage ride to King Street. Rowland’s brows had risen at the sight of them, and not, Louisa noted, with censure.
It was clear, from the wicked smile that had lit up the handsome features of Lord Charleton’s heir, that Mr. Alaster Rowland found the Tempest sisters a delightful surprise, and had even gone so far as to say as much after their initial introduction.
“My dear ladies, however has my uncle kept you hidden this long? I am delighted I will have you all to myself before we reach Almack’s, for once there, I suspect I will be swept aside by a rush of likely partners.” Then he’d bowed rather unsteadily over both their hands, and Louisa had seen the censorious look Lady Aveley had shot Lord Charleton.
This is a bad idea, the matron’s dark glance said all too clearly.
And as Mr. Rowland had made his way, swaying back and forth to the waiting carriage, Lavinia had sniffed her disapproval. “He’s bosky,” she’d whispered to Louisa.
But all thoughts of Mr. Rowland’s disgraceful state were forgotten the moment they got to their intended destination.
Almack’s.
They’d come in the doors, presented their vouchers and even now were crossing the threshold into a new world far from Kempton’s country ways.
After nearly colliding with a footman, Louisa was ready to beat a hasty retreat, but Lavinia, having anticipated her twin’s reluctance, slipped her gloved hand into the crook of Louisa’s elbow and moved her forward without missing a step.
This time.
Lady Aveley, well versed in the ways of Almack’s, walked in proudly and confidently on Lord Charleton’s arm, and when she glanced over her shoulder at her protégées, she nodded at them and Louisa could almost hear the lady’s silent assurance.
Smile, girls. Smile.
Louisa did her best to prop up her lips, while beside her, Lavinia all but glowed with radiant happiness at having finally made it here. To Almack’s.
“Aren’t you glad I talked you into having that gown made up?” Lavinia whispered.
“Yes, I suppose you were right,” Louisa admitted. For her sister had been downright bullheaded over the matter and wouldn’t leave the modiste shop until Louisa had agreed to something more elegant than the plain silk she’d picked out for a ball gown.
Back in the shop, the short-sleeved, delicate creation Lavinia had declared “perfect,” along with a length of white crepe she insisted was “the only choice,” had seemed far too extravagant, even for London, but now looking around at the colorful array of gowns, Louisa could see she’d been wise to listen to her fashion-mad sister.
Even if she felt nearly naked.
Nor was she alone. Most of the gowns being worn sported the same short sleeves that left one’s arms bare down to where one’s long gloves stopped at the elbows.
But it was the back of Louisa’s gown that made it stand out—for it fell in a deep V, leaving her exposed nearly to the middle of her back, where a pink ribbon adorned the display, its long ties ending in a cascade of silk fringe that swayed as she walked. The white crepe gown ended just above her ankles, where the hem was decorated all the way around with silk roses in a variety of pinks, joined by a twined green ribbon that wound between them like the wild tangle of rose canes in Lord Wakefield’s gardens.
And in a breathless moment, she was there again. In the garden. The smell of grass and earth and Lord Wakefield surrounding her. And she was lost.
No, entwined. Entangled. Caught.
Louisa stopped herself right there and drew in another deep breath.
She mustn’t continue to let that man invade her every thought. He was going to ruin everything.
Including her.
For there in the grass, she would have let him . . . let him . . . well, she wasn’t precisely certain what would have come next, but surely it would have been ruinous.
And glorious, a wry part of her conscience whispered.
Yes, that as well. But that wasn’t why she had come to London. She had braved this folly to see her sister well matched and herself bundled back to Kempton where she could quietly live out the rest of her days.
But quiet would be a difficult notion now.
How would she ever find peace with this restless curiosity, these awakened desires that Lord Wakefield had coaxed and teased from her?
Wasn’t it bad enough that since their encounter in the linen closet, she’d woken up every night, tangled in her sheets, breathless and anxious from half-finished kisses, the memory of his touch leaving her quaking, longing.
Botheration, that man! How she wished she’d never met him.
“I suppose you two cannot wait to dance,” Lord Charleton was saying as they waded deeper into the crowd.
“Dance?” Louisa sputtered, glancing over at her sister.
Lavinia looked just as horrified. “Oh, no, not tonight,” she said, shaking her head.
The two sisters, without even thinking, curled their pinky fingers together and stole a glance at each other.
Promise?
Promise.
“I’m certain Mr. Rowland will insist,” he said, glancing away. “And if a gentleman asks a lady to dance, it is rude to refuse.”
“Not when he is bosky,” Louisa muttered under her breath. She didn’t like to naysay her host, and Lord Charleton was a dear man, but he had a terrible blind spot when it came to his nephew and heir.
“Well, I have been practicing,” Lavinia said quietly, her gaze straying longingly toward the dance floor as Lord Charleton went over to greet an old friend.
“Practicing?” Louisa tipped her head and looked over at her sister, whose confession shocked her. “When?”
Even with all their appointments with the modiste, trips to the milliner and all the shops and rounds of visits that they’d managed in the last fortnight, Louisa was certain she would have noticed another dancing master coming to call.
She certainly would have heard him just as hastily departing in a whirl of French expletives.
“While you’ve been disappearing into the garden next door,” she whispered back, her brows arching into two question marks.
But before they could continue—which was really the last thing Louisa wanted to do—Lady Aveley drew close and said, “Time for introductions, my dears. A successful Season is like a war. We need allies and high ground, and tonight we shall gain both. Come along, now. We shall storm the gates, as it were.” She glanced over at Louisa. “And please, Louisa, try to smile.”
Doing as she was bid, Louisa forced her lips up.
“Ah, there is the Countess of Heatley and her son, Lord Ardmore,” Lady Aveley whispered, delicately tipping her fan toward a knot of guests not far from where they stood. “A perfect place to begin. Ardmore stands to inherit a fortune from both his father and an uncle. He’s a paragon,” she told them, letting the importance of this introduction weigh down upon them before she led them toward the matron and the tall, handsome gentleman at her side.
“He’s elegant-looking,” Lavinia whispered as they hung back just a bit.
“Indeed,” Louisa agreed reluctantly. For suddenly she saw the enormity of what they were doing—Lavinia would meet someone and they would marry, and Louisa would return to Kempton. Their lives would be forever changed and no more would they be each other’s constant companion.
Suddenly her future, the one she’d been so utterly certain of, seemed quite bleak. And very lonely.
She’d never minded the notion of keeping house for her father for the remainder of his days, but what then? What would she do when their aged father died, and Maplethorpe went to Lavinia’s eldest son? What if he didn’t want an old maiden aunt doddering about?
Louisa suspected she wouldn’t be feeling this way if she hadn’t met Lord Wakefield.
If he hadn’t kissed her.
Given her a tempting taste of what she’d be missing.
And it was as if Lavinia knew of the turmoil inside her, for her sister nudged her and said, “See, you might be enticed to give up your ridiculous desire to die a spinster. Can you imagine being kissed by such a handsome man?”
Louisa was starting to think Lavinia was as bosky as Mr. Rowland. First dancing and now kissing!
Then again, Lavinia had spent most of the afternoon reading the newest Miss Darby novel, an endeavor that always made her a romantic wreck for a good fortnight.
So as Lady Aveley made the necessary introductions, and others—namely young gentlemen—joined their circle, Lavinia glowed with dreamy delight, but all the while Louisa’s thoughts kept straying back to her sister’s question.
Can you imagine being kissed by such a handsome man?
Kissed? When Louisa looked at Lord Ardmore, she only saw what was lacking. His expression was too soft. His hair tamed and oiled into place. His jacket perfectly cut and not a single thread out of place.
But his kiss? She tried to keep her nose from wrinkling. Not when the memory of Lord Wakefield’s restless kiss still left her tingling, quivering . . . and in other, far more unmentionable places, aching.
And even while she’d sworn, as she’d rushed from his garden, that she would never stray into his path again, she found herself wishing she could look up and find him standing in the doorway. His gaze fixed on her and her alone.
Yes, if anything then she’d insist he apologize for leaving her in such a state.
But a small voice inside her mocked that sentiment.
Apologize for giving you a taste of every naughty, wicked fantasy you’ve ever desired?
Yes, well, there was that. How could one expect an apology for being given a glimpse of heaven?
Viscount Wakefield did what he always did after his supper—that is, after he’d sent Mr. Rowland packing—he retired to his study with his books and papers.
Yet when Tiploft arrived with the brandy bottle and glass His Lordship had ordered up, the butler saw his employer’s papers abandoned on the desk, a book opened and forgotten. And, more surprising, His Lordship pacing about the room.
Actually pacing. Back and forth as if his leg was of no matter.
“He’ll take advantage of her, you know,” the viscount said, even before Tiploft had fully entered the room.
“He, my lord?” As if Tiploft had to ask.
But his nonchalance was answered with an emotional outburst. “Tuck! He’s off with Charleton tonight. To Almack’s. And with her, no less.”
“Ah,” Tiploft acknowledged. He no more had to ask who this “her” might be than he had with regard to Mr. Rowland. This was the first stirring of interest the viscount had shown in the world beyond the four walls of this house since he’d returned from the war.
He knew the viscount spent most of his waking hours reading and rereading military theories and histories, but it was hardly a butler’s place to point out that no amount of reading would reverse the past.
Nor would it bring back the lives lost on the retreat to Corunna.
So Tiploft said nothing more, only poured a measure of whisky for the viscount and handed him the glass.
The viscount frowned at the swirling amber liquid. “What does Charleton know of these matters?”
“Matters, my lord?”
The viscount set his cane aside and waved his hand in the air. “Bringing out gels into society. Why, ’tis madness. Evidenced by the very fact that he asked Tuck to assist him. Tuck!” He finished his emphatic pronouncement with a large swig from his glass.
“Indeed, my lord,” Tiploft muttered. And then he did it. Dared to tread over the line that separated noble from servant.
He did the one thing a man of his station was never supposed to do: he prodded his employer.
Because Tiploft had known the Honorable Pierson Stratton since the day he’d arrived in this world, all red-faced and squalling, and had proudly watched the young master grow up—the son Tiploft had never had.
And when the viscount had returned from Spain, wounded, broken and despairing of life, Tiploft had believed that the viscount’s heart would heal right along with his injuries, even when his betrothed had abandoned him in such a shoddy and ill-mannered fashion. (And good riddance to Lady Melliscent, Tiploft would have added.)
Yet the viscount hadn’t rallied, as the butler had hoped.
Instead, Pierson had drawn the walls of the Stratton town house around him like a castle of old, scorned his friends, and refused to go out in society, blotting out any hopes Tiploft had of seeing yet another generation of Strattons arrive into this world.
Until now . . .
So in desperation born of watching the man slip away into the darkness he’d brought back from Spain, Tiploft prodded as he hadn’t done since the viscount had taken his very first toddling steps across the front foyer.
“It does seem a situation fraught with disaster, my lord,” Tiploft murmured as he straightened the glasses on the tray and tucked the cork back into the bottle. “And Miss Tempest is—”
He let his words trail off and the image of that beguiling lady sink into the viscount’s imagination.
“Miss Tempest is a handful—” Wakefield told him after a few moments of contemplation. “And in need of a good chaperone.”
Especially after the other afternoon, Tiploft mused. He knew exactly what had happened in that linen closet. He hardly approved of such things, but then again, if the lady could touch the viscount’s heart, then Tiploft wished he’d locked them inside, instead of backing away and quietly making himself scarce.
“But then again, Almack’s is not the sort of place where a lady can be easily compromised,” the viscount mused, glancing at the decanter of whisky and then toward his scattered papers.
Tiploft hardly liked that direction and fired his best shot. “Though you’ve said on more than one occasion that one must never underestimate Mr. Rowland’s ingenuity. Especially when it comes to the delicate sex. Nor will Mr. Rowland be alone in his efforts—think of how many others who share his inclinations will be in attendance. And an innocent country lady like Miss Tempest . . .”
The butler sighed. Heavily. As if the ruin and misfortunes about to befall Louisa were a foregone conclusion.
That implication brought the viscount’s gaze off his papers and notes and back to the conversation at hand. “Good God, you’re right,” he said, setting aside his glass. “I need to get to Almack’s.”
“Almack’s, my lord?” Tiploft hoped he sounded surprised.
“Bloody hell, yes,” the viscount said, heading toward the door. “What time is it?”
“Won’t you need vouchers, my lord?” That stopped his employer, for Tiploft didn’t want any of this to be too easy for Wakefield. And after a pregnant pause, he offered, “Though I do believe Miss Stratton is in possession of vouchers.”
“Roselie?” The viscount blanched a bit at the mention of his sister—because with Roselie came their mother, and Tiploft feared the entire plan was about to unravel.
“I’m most certain Her Ladyship is out this evening, leaving your sister unescorted,” he supplied. “Perhaps you could—”
“Yes, yes. Excellent suggestion, Tiploft.” He glanced at his butler. “And you say Mother is out?”
“Her Ladyship is at the theater this evening.”
“Good news, that,” the viscount muttered. “It will hardly be of note if I escort my sister—especially with Mother otherwise engaged.” This he said more to himself, again glancing at the clock. “Dear God! Is that the time? Send the boy over with a note for Roselie, will you? I need to get changed.”
“Indeed, my lord,” Tiploft said. And for a moment he let his hopes for the future flicker anew, glinting like the forgotten whisky bottle in the fading firelight.
“Louisa! There you are! At long last. I thought I would never find you in this crush.” Lady Aveley appeared suddenly through a slight opening in the crowd. “Good heavens, no wonder I couldn’t see you—whatever are you doing, hiding amongst the wall hangings?”
“I’m not fond of dancing,” Louisa demurred, not daring to look the lady in the eye.
Beside her, Lady Aveley stood fanning herself, her gaze searching the room. “I suppose I wouldn’t want to dance again if my first foray had been with Lord Ilford.” She finished this with a shudder and gave Louisa a searching glance. “My dear, I am so sorry—if I had known he was going to make himself known to you, I wouldn’t have turned my back. He can be rather . . .”
“Dreadful?” Louisa prompted.
Lady Aveley bit her lips together to keep from laughing. “Exactly,” she agreed. Then she stilled, her fan hanging in the air. “He didn’t . . . That is, he wasn’t . . .”
Louisa shuddered a little. After all, she’d promised Lavinia she wouldn’t dance, but there had been the Marquess of Ilford, having come up to their party, a puffed example of importance, and he’d all but insisted Louisa join him in a dance.
With his hand outstretched, she had been in a rush to find some way to refuse him.
But she couldn’t come up with a single reason—other than that he made her skin crawl a bit.
Not that he’d improved once he’d gotten her out on the dance floor.
“You are the daughter of Sir Ambrose Tempest, are you not?” he’d asked, a tip to his smile that looked more predatory than kind.
And was it her imagination, or had the man’s grasp upon her tightened ever so slightly?
“Yes, my lord,” she told him, glancing around and hoping to fix her gaze on Lady Aveley. But Her Ladyship and Lavinia were nowhere to be seen. Lord Ilford had managed to move them well across the room.
“Have I mentioned that my father knew your mother?” he said, with a nonchalance that left her off-balance.
Knew her mother? Her heart hammered. He didn’t mean . . .
Yet he did.
In the blink of an eye, there was no mistaking the matter, for Lord Ilford pulled her closer and said, “I have high hopes you’ve come to London to follow in her footsteps.” His once salacious smile turned licentious, and his hand began to stray.
That was the first time Louisa trod on his foot. With the heel of her slipper.
When the dance ended, and Ilford had limped away in a pet, Louisa had fled as far as she could, to the far wall where the ladies who never danced quietly retreated, and tried to still her pounding heart.
Lady Aveley drew closer and said behind her fan so no one else could hear, “That horrid man didn’t say anything untoward, anything to upset you, did he?”
“I—that is—” she began, looking around for something innocuous to say. Whatever could she say? He wanted to know if I was a lightskirt like my mother.
“Nothing of import,” Louisa told her. After his first slight, he’d been too distracted trying to keep his glossy boots out of her way.
The lady sighed and nodded. “Heir to a dukedom he may be, but I’ve always found the man to be rather presumptuous. We’ll just make sure you and your sister are not subjected to his company again.”
Louisa decided it might not be best if she told Lady Aveley she’d already taken care of that.
But the other matter . . . Certainly Lord Ilford wouldn’t repeat such malicious tidings? Her head spun. This was precisely what she had warned Papa about, and what had he said?
No one in London will care of such old news.
The matron fluttered her fan as if that was enough to dismiss the matter, and smiled. “Now let us find someone more worthy of your beauty.”
“Oh, I don’t want to—” All Louisa wanted to do was go home. To Kempton. Far from London.
Lady Aveley laughed at her discomposure. “Yes, you do. You just haven’t met the right man yet. And when you do, you’ll know.”
The right man. Why was it when the lady said those words, Louisa was transported right back into Lord Wakefield’s arms? Back in the linen closet where she hadn’t felt ungainly and cowhanded, but quite desirable.
Then came an insensible, panicked thought. What if he heard of her mother’s disgrace? Learned the truth about her? And Lady Aveley and Lord Charleton as well? They had been so nice to her and Louisa, and now would they be tainted by association?
And worst of all, Lavinia. Her sister had no idea of their mother’s sins—and to find out in such a setting . . . Louisa looked for her and considered how she was going to tell her twin the truth she’d hidden for so many years.
A truth she’d only accidentally discovered.
“Miss Tempest, are you well? You look flushed,” Lady Aveley said. “Or have I discovered your secret—you do have a beau!”
Louisa’s mouth fell open and then snapped shut. “No! Not at all.”
The lady laughed, and mischievously tapped Louisa’s arm with her fan. “I was young once as well. And I know all the signs. There is someone, isn’t there?” And before Louisa could add an insistent No!, the lady continued on, “Don’t worry, my dear. Whoever he is he’ll most likely move heaven and earth to be here tonight. That is if he hasn’t got windmills in his head.”
“Oh, he’s not—” she began before she could stop herself.
The baroness held up her fan. “Aha! The truth. There is someone.” She grinned with delight.
“It isn’t like that—” Louisa began. It isn’t anything was what she should have been saying. Oh, heavens, she didn’t know what it was. But not that. It couldn’t be that.
Lady Aveley continued blithely on. “Men! They can leave us all a tangle, can’t they? I was in much the same straits when I was your age. I can see it in your eyes.”
Hopefully Her Ladyship couldn’t see what else Louisa was trying to conceal. The raw desire Lord Wakefield plucked from her so easily. With him, she felt wanton.
Certainly if Bob hadn’t come into the garden when he had, there was no telling what she would have done next under Lord Wakefield’s evocative caress.
Good heavens, she was no different than her mother—which would only spell disaster.
The lady moved closer and tucked Louisa’s hand into the crook of her sleeve and led her away from the long row of wallflowers. “Tell me this, does he know you exist?”
Well, yes, she wanted to say. He quite likes to bellow at me every opportunity he’s afforded. Instead, she once again began to stammer. “I—I—I—”
“Ah,” Lady Aveley said, leaping upon that one word as if it confessed all. “Don’t tell me he’s in love with your sister?” When this elicited no reply, she continued. “A dear friend? Oh, I can’t recommend that scenario. There’s nothing more horrible than having to smile as you watch your love carry off another.” The baroness glanced away, still with a smile on her lips, but there was a sad light to her eyes that prodded at Louisa’s heart.
“But my lady, you married him after all, didn’t you?”
She shook her head just ever so slightly. “No. I didn’t.”
Louisa’s head swiveled toward the woman. For there was an important lesson here, a wisdom in her words.
Don’t make the same mistake I did.
Yet how did one stop her heart once it was engaged? That mercurial, magical moment when it pauses and makes that decision.
Him.
For Louisa’s distraction wasn’t so much the kiss—yes, well, that had a lot to do with it—but more to the point was the man behind those lips, that touch, that solid embrace.
She suddenly realized the truth of what had happened over the last fortnight.
Lord Wakefield had done more than kiss her. He’d marked her.
But how? And when?
Bother, she’d just met the man and all he’d done was scold her.
And kiss her.
And show kindness toward Mrs. Petchell’s foundlings. Then there had been that moment in the garden, when his usually wary gaze had been unguarded and she’d seen a depth of pain and suffering that pulled at her.
For she suspected whatever had towed the viscount into its dark clutches wasn’t something that could be easily fixed or mended—like an untidy linen closet.
But botheration, she couldn’t shake the desire to help him put his life back in order. Then she would run back to Kempton, where she had her own demons to hide away.