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AFTER LYVIA’S EIGHTEENTH birthday dinner and cake the following evening, Mrs. Wycliffe and the two young ladies left Will and his father in the dining room to enjoy a glass of port. As Marisa retrieved her sewing from the basket by the fireplace in the front drawing room, Mrs. Wycliffe spoke of an evening party she’d arranged for the very next night.
“Just a small affair, girls, nothing to be anxious about,” she continued. “Lyvia, you know most everyone who is coming—Lord Rockwell has just sent his acceptance, and your father has invited Lord and Lady Taviston, as well.”
“That odious man?” Lyvia settled on the sofa, wrinkling her nose in disgust.
“Who is, I might remind you, a partner in several business ventures with your father. I’m sure you know you must be polite to him.”
“Of course, I shall be the essence of propriety to Lord Taviston, Mama, but I still cannot help thinking him terrible. Why, the way he married Lady Taviston was shameful, when I’m sure she cared no more for him than I do!”
“That’s quite enough,” Mrs. Wycliffe said. “Marisa, pay no attention to her, my dear. Both of you girls need to run upstairs and see if the maids have finished unpacking. I will be up in a few moments, and I wish to see the gowns you intend to wear tomorrow night.”
“Of course.” Marisa put the stitchery away without even threading a needle. “I hoped you would offer to advise me, Mrs. Wycliffe, and I cannot thank you enough for inviting me to stay with—”
“La, think nothing of it, my dear.” She dismissed Marisa’s gratitude with a wave of her hand. “You must know that I’ve always been so very fond of you, and chaperoning two debutantes suits my disposition precisely.”
“That man is odious, no matter what my mother may say,” Lyvia confided after they’d left the drawing room and reached the first floor landing. “He is at least forty years of age, perhaps even older, while Lady Taviston is no more than six or seven years our senior. There is nothing wrong with that, of course, if there is true affection, but that was not the case. He was near to bankruptcy when they married four years ago, gambling and the like, and all he wanted was her rather large dowry. Her father had just died, and Taviston cajoled and flattered her mother into giving him her daughter’s hand.”
“Was there no one to speak for her, then?” It was sad that in these modern days such arrangements could still be carried through, even though one of the parties did not want the union. Her stepfather’s hopes regarding Viscount Allersdale were uppermost in her mind.
“No one of importance, it seems. She had an uncle—her mother’s brother, I think—who was the trustee of her fortune, but Will said he was a coward and would do whatever his sister ordered him to do.”
“Surely the lady told her mother that she didn’t wish to marry him?” Marisa asked. By now, the two girls had reached Lyvia’s bedchamber and had begun sorting through the gowns now hanging neatly in the wardrobe. “Perhaps she even had another younger man that she preferred.”
“I’m sure she did try to convince her mother how unhappy such an alliance would make her, but it was precisely because she did have another suitor that she was forced to marry Lord Taviston.”
Marisa turned to Lyvia, astonished. “Did the mother hate the young man so much?”
“Yes, and for nothing he’d done, either. Will’s good friend, James Abernathy, now Lord Rockwell, was her true amour, and her mother despised him only because she’d once set her own cap for his father and had been completely ignored by him. When she found out that her daughter and Lord Rockwell—well, he was still just plain Abernathy at that time—were meeting during their daily rides along Rotten Row, she persuaded her brother to accept Lord Taviston’s suit, and she kept her daughter a virtual prisoner till the wedding could take place.”
“Then inviting Lord Rockwell and Lord and Lady Taviston to dinner tomorrow night—well, that seems a most uncomfortable situation, to say the least.”
“It probably will be,” Lyvia agreed. “We can only hope that our other guests will make it such a lively evening that no one will have time to dwell on the past.”
“How can Lord Rockwell even stand to be civil to the man? Is he so cold-hearted?”
“Oh, no, not at all,” Lyvia hastened to assure her. “I know I said that he was as sombre as a judge, but really, he’s the best sort of man and he will do what is polite. He left London the day of the wedding and took a long tour of his uncle’s properties, which I understand are quite extensive. It was less than a year later, I believe, that he inherited. Then that dreadful war began, and he returned to his regiment. I don’t believe he and Lady Taviston have even met socially since that time, but I cannot say for certain. I imagine we shall find out—”
“Find out what, my dear?” Mrs. Wycliffe swept into the room.
Caught gossiping, Lyvia held up the first piece of cloth she could lay hands on, which turned out to be a ball gown of quite expensive material. “Whether this gown I have chosen for tomorrow night is best, Mama? What do you think?”
“Lord, child, that is entirely too elegant for a quiet evening party at home. Here, this one—no, this one, I believe—is much more suitable. What can you have been thinking of, my girl?”
* * * *
THE NEXT EVENING, MARISA watched from the window as Lord Rockwell’s elegant carriage rolled to a stop in front of the Wycliffe residence and deposited its lone occupant, a tall young man resplendent in dark, smartly-tailored evening dress, at the front steps. He was admitted to the house, announced and shown into the drawing room where the entire family, save Will, awaited their guests. Marisa crossed to sit next to Lyvia on the sofa.
“Rockwell!” Mr. Wycliffe clasped his hand warmly. “So good of you to come! You are certainly looking well. How long has it been since we last saw you?”
“Charles, do not monopolize Lord Rockwell.” Mrs. Wycliffe came forward. “My, my, it seems so strange to refer to you so. Your uncle’s passing was a shock to us all and a great loss.”
“Mrs. Wycliffe, you’re as lovely and charming as ever.” He bowed, his voice deep and pleasant as he took her hand and pressed it lightly. He started to say something more but was interrupted when Will strode into the drawing room.
“Jamie! I meant to come round as soon as we got to town but haven’t had a free moment. How are you?”
They shook hands enthusiastically, renewing their friendship and smiling broadly.
“I believe you remember my daughter, Lyvia, my lord,” Mrs. Wycliffe said. “But you have not met Miss Landon. Marisa is the daughter of Sir Gerald and Lady Craethorne, our closest neighbours at Havenhill.”
Lord Rockwell assumed a serious look. “I entreat you, Mrs. Wycliffe, to call me Jamie, as before. So many things have changed in the past several years, and I had hoped that at least would remain constant.”
Charlotte Wycliffe took his arm and walked with him nearer the fire, where Lyvia and Marisa had risen and watched the proceedings with interest. “Jamie then, it shall be, at least until our other guests arrive. Please, everyone, be seated.”
He bowed again, and both Lyvia and Marisa sank into curtsies in response. Rockwell sat on the sofa a very proper two feet away from Lyvia, who wore a simple gown of light rose pink, the one her mother had chosen the night before. The hue showed her dark hair and cream-colored complexion to good advantage.
“Miss Wycliffe, you’re as lovely as I remembered. You shall take London by storm. And Miss Landon, I’m charmed to meet you at last, for Will has spoken of you often. It seems Dorset has more than its fair share of pretty young ladies.”
“You must not flatter them overmuch, Jamie, for they’ll become impossible to live with, and I’ll be the one to suffer.” Will chuckled as he leaned against the mantle of the fireplace, every bit as striking a figure in dark evening dress as his friend. “But tell me, did you ever buy that stallion? The one you had your eye on at Newmarket last year?”
“Please, William,” Mrs. Wycliffe interrupted. “I doubt very much that horse trading can be of much interest to your sister and Marisa, and I know nothing of it myself. Pray let us talk of more general things so that we, too, may participate.”
“Of course,” Will said. “Are you for the club later, Jamie? We can catch up there.”
“I cannot refuse, my friend. I hear that Wellington is to be at White’s tonight.” He turned to Lyvia. “Tell me, Miss Wycliffe, how do you find London? I hope it meets with all expectations?”
“Oh, quite, my lord. Of course, I’ve been here in years past. Marisa is the better one to ask, for this is her first visit.”
“Then, Miss Landon, pray tell us what you think of town?”
“I’ve seen very little so far, my lord,” Marisa said, flattered that a gentleman of his standing would want her opinion regarding anything, much less a city he must know as well as anyone. “From my view when we arrived, it seems most fine. Of course, it is a bit crowded, but after living in the country all my life, I suppose any large city would appear so to me.”
“No, you’re quite right. It is crowded indeed and growing more so daily. It is a question often debated in Parliament, but as of yet, no answers have been found to slow the increase in the population without also inhibiting the growth of commerce.”
“Do you sit, my lord?” Marisa asked. “I wish you would tell me more about it, for I’m interested in politics, and I’ve had only the opinions of the few magazines and newspapers that find their way to Dorset to inform me.”
“I’d be delighted, Miss Landon, though my experience is limited. But perhaps I can relate one or two facts you might not know. And may I say, it’s rare, indeed, to find a young lady who possesses both a lovely face and an interest in matters of a more intellectual nature?”
Marisa blushed at the compliment but soon forgot her self-consciousness as the conversation continued to flow easily, ranging in topic from the recent hunting in Dorset to on dits of the royal family.
“I must admit, Jamie,” Mr. Wycliffe said at last, “that we were concerned that coming into a title and wealth might change you, but it’s clear we didn’t need to worry on that score.”
The next guests to arrive were Mr. and Mrs. Wilkison, followed closely by Lord and Lady Shadwell. The company was now ten in number and probably would have gone on most amiably for the entire evening, had the last two guests—Lord Taviston and his young wife—chosen to decline their invitation. But they did not do so, and they arrived ten minutes past what could even be called fashionably late.
Marisa had her first look at the tragic Lady Taviston. That she’d once been a beauty, just as Lyvia said, could not be denied, but the events of the past few years had taken their toll. Her blond hair was pinned tightly back from her face with only a few strands escaping to lessen the severity of the style. She was just a bit too thin, with a hint of dark circles under her eyes. She was well dressed, though plainly, and her gown behind the current fashion. When a lady of quality appeared in such a manner, it usually meant that she was under great financial, and possibly personal, stress as well.
“Do you see what I was saying, Mary?” Lyvia whispered with a nod toward Taviston, who stood on the other side of the room, speaking to Lord Shadwell. “He might be mistaken for Beau Brummell himself, if one were able to forget that that he is closer to forty-five than the twenty-five he is attempting to imitate.”
Marisa, indeed, had never seen a man his age dressed so, with shirt points up near his ears, an intricately tied cravat, an evening coat of deep velvet blue, and trousers far too tight for his ample girth. He also appeared to have indulged a bit before arriving, for he was flushed and spoke louder than was necessary to be heard.
Dislike was written on the faces of the assembled guests as they greeted him, but then their expressions changed to instant affection when speaking to his wife. When presented to Marisa, Taviston exclaimed at her loveliness, but in a much coarser manner than Lord Rockwell had done earlier in the evening, and then he swayed close to her, his breath leaving no doubt he’d been drinking that evening. Mr. Wycliffe rescued her, steering the man away to present him to Mr. Wilkison, an American visiting on a business venture that both Mr. Wycliffe and Lord Taviston were involved in.
When Marisa finally met Lady Taviston, she greeted her in such a friendly manner that they were soon chatting easily. Dinner was announced, and each gentleman claimed the lady he was to escort.
Lady Taviston whispered, “Then you will come to see me, my dear, as soon as you have the time? I go out very little, you see, and would enjoy your visit so much.”
“Thank you, my lady. I’ll be most happy to do so,” Marisa replied.
“Do call me Alyse, as soon as you feel comfortable doing so. My lady seems very formal, and I feel we have too much in common to be stilted with each other.” She turned to Taviston, who’d come up and taken her arm without speaking. He led her away at once, and Marisa doubted he would’ve stayed a second longer even if his wife had been in the middle of a sentence.
Marisa turned to find Will, who stood next to her, ready to escort her to the dining room. Lyvia and Lord Rockwell walked out, and now she and Will were quite alone in the large room.
Marisa took his arm, a rush of that now familiar warmth whenever they touched washing through her. “Will, do you know Lady Taviston?”
“Not well, no. We met a number of years ago, before she was married,” he replied with a frown.
Marisa said no more, determined to call on the lady as promised at the earliest opportunity. She found her place at table between Will and Lord Rockwell, across from Lyvia, and decided that she could not have asked for a more congenial arrangement.
After the meal, Mrs. Wycliffe suggested that the ladies retire to the drawing room and leave the gentlemen to their talk of business. Mrs. Wilkison had barely time, however, to speak of the long voyage from America before the men joined them again in a very constrained mood. Exactly what was wrong, no one said, but the tension among the gentlemen pervaded the room. Even Mrs. Wycliffe, with her very able efforts as hostess, was unable to restore the good humour they’d enjoyed before dinner.
Lord Rockwell stayed aloof from what conversation did exist. He stood across the room from Lady Taviston, casting frequent glances in that lady’s direction. She met his gaze several times but then turned away.
Only once did Rockwell join the company and then only to say he would thoroughly enjoy being entertained by a duet from the young ladies of Dorset.
“Oh, no, I beg you not to ask,” Marisa said with a pang of fear. “I had excellent teachers, truly, but I was the least apt of all their pupils. Lyvia is so much more accomplished than I and—”
“Oh, do come on, Mary,” Lyvia whispered, pulling her friend to her feet and toward the pianoforte. “You choose the tune and play pianissimo, and I will sing forte without vibrato. In that way, no one shall hear if you miss a note.”
Thus persuaded and resigned that there was no way around it, Marisa suggested a popular country ballad that she’d practised well and could at least muddle through. She envied Lyvia’s confidence as her friend’s clear soprano carried well above Marisa’s more tentative melody.
When they finished, there was general applause, and then Mrs. Wilkison took the stage and performed a song from America that Marisa had ever heard before, a story of young love, war, and tragedy. When Mrs. Wilkison finished, Marisa was surprised to hear Lord Rockwell’s voice behind her.
“You are a better musician than you believe, Miss Landon.” He stepped around to sit next to her. “Tell me, do you ride, as well?”
“I do, my lord.” She was mystified at his behaviour but exceedingly glad, nonetheless, that he’d changed the subject. “Though I do not have my favourite mount with me at present.”
“Perhaps you and Miss Wycliffe would enjoy a drive through the park, then? May I call for you tomorrow afternoon? We could discuss politics, if you like.”
“I’ll be most pleased to ask Lyvia if she cares for such an excursion.”
“We’ll talk again then, ’ere I take my leave.” Lord Rockwell rose and bowed to her before stepping away to speak to Mr. Wycliffe.
Mrs. Wycliffe and Lyvia agreed at once to the plan, and the time settled on was four o’clock, so they could be sure to be well into the park before the crush of people at the fashionable hour of five. A few moments later, Will and Lord Rockwell set out for White’s, and gradually the rest of the guests departed so that, just before midnight, Lyvia’s mother ushered the girls out of the drawing room and sent them to bed.
“Now, Mr. Wycliffe,” Marisa heard her say, just before she pushed shut the drawing room door. “Pray tell me how you ever came to conduct business with such a disagreeable man as Lord Taviston.”