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LYVIA WAS IN MARISA’S bedchamber the following morning, helping her supervise the packing of her gowns, when they heard the wheels of a carriage halt before the Wycliffe’s front gate. Hurrying to the window, Marisa recognized her family’s travelling coach and their driver, Dick Perkins, as he reined in a pair of spirited matching greys.
“It is my mother and father, arrived at last!”
Lyvia joined her and held back the opposite curtain as they peered below. “Sir Gerald looks very dapper this morning,” Lyvia said. “With that morning coat of forest green and the silver in his hair, he shall easily become the most distinguished gentleman in town. Well, after my own father, of course!”
Marisa smiled as Sir Gerald helped his wife from the carriage, picked her up in his arms, and then set her down gently on the sidewalk.
Gertie’s bonneted head appeared next. She clambered unaided to the street, then handed her mistress a finely-carved walking cane, which Lady Craethorne leaned on as she took her husband’s gloved hand and stepped with him toward the Wycliffe’s front door.
“Come with me, Lyvia, for I must see them both at once. I’ve missed them terribly.”
Lyvia agreed and they arrived at the top of the grand staircase just as Lyvia’s mother came into the main hall, where Rivers held open the front door. “Now, come in, dear friends, come in,” Mrs. Wycliffe welcomed them, dropping a quick curtsey to Sir Gerald. “Rebecca, you seem better, though still somewhat pale, I fear.”
“Thank you, dear Charlotte. It is most probably the long journey,” she replied. “I believe many people find travel vexing to their constitutions but soon mend when settled again in a home of their own.”
Marisa reached the bottom step and hurried to her mother’s side, embracing her warmly. “Mama, how good to see you! And Papa,” she reached across and took Sir Gerald’s hand. “I’m so glad you’ve come.”
Mrs. Wycliffe and ushered everyone into the front drawing room and ordered tea. “I’m sorry Charles and William are both away from home at present, for I’m certain they would wish to see you again. Do you find the house you have obtained for the Season to your liking?” she asked, settling on a sofa.
“Oh, yes, it is quite suitable. I hope you received the note I sent just after we arrived?” Lady Craethorne had taken a seat near the fire and now spoke over Sir Gerald’s head, for he had waved Rivers away and was personally arranging a stool on which she could rest her injured foot.
The care with which he went about it and the grateful look her mother bestowed upon him seemed to surprise both Lyvia and Mrs. Wycliffe. Marisa found the chair next to her mother and took her hand.
If I did not know better, I would imagine Papa to be Mama’s suitor instead of her husband of now fifteen years. The very idea made Marisa blush, yet she couldn’t help smiling.
“Yes, indeed, although we all took supper at Lady Gantley’s last night before her daughter Jane’s ball, and thus we did not see your note until after we returned home well after midnight. You’ve come earlier than we expected. How is your poor ankle, Rebecca?”
“Much improved. I shan’t be dancing for a while yet, but walking, at least with this cane, is not the hazard it was even a fortnight ago. But, do tell me how Marisa has gone on? Has she been any trouble to you?”
“La, anything but trouble,” Charlotte assured her. “In fact, I hate to see her leave us. She and Lyvia have had such fun together, shopping and getting ready for balls and parties and the like. And I must say I quite enjoyed being the envy of all the other mamas the night of their presentation at Court. For there was no question that I sponsored the two loveliest young ladies in the room.”
Sir Gerald chuckled. “Well, Marisa does seem to thrive, madam. We cannot thank you enough for acting as chaperone.”
“She’s been a delight. She’s met so many young people, I fear you’ll be in for a flurry of callers once the news is out that you’re arrived and settled in town.”
“Pray tell, did you have an opportunity to introduce her to the Marquess of Dulverton’s son, Viscount Allersdale?” Sir Gerald asked.
He would have to pose that question sooner rather than later, and Marisa was now certain he still harboured the hope of arranging a match from that quarter.
“Yes.” Charlotte glanced at Marisa, frowned, and then continued. “I did, indeed, since you so particularly asked me to, though I must admit that it was no easy task. The young man perversely insisted at first in being more interested in the potted plants than in Marisa. I believe they did share a pleasant chat, however, once I managed to get him away from the greenery. Marisa, dear, have you spoken with the viscount since that night?”
“No, ma’am, I have not, although I assured him that he was very welcome to call,” she answered, watching for her stepfather’s reaction.
Sir Gerald lapsed into silence, apparently contemplating this news. In the moment of quiet that ensued, Lyvia joined in, relating that they had been to Almack’s and Vauxhall Gardens and on any number of other most pleasurable excursions. She continued, almost without drawing breath until, finally, Sir Gerald reminded his wife and stepdaughter that their purpose was to remove Marisa and her belongings to their new home.
“I’ve been packing since breakfast.” Marisa stood. “With Lyvia’s help, I can be ready in only a few moments more. Come on, Liv, help me, do.”
The two of them whirled out of the room, promising to return at once.
* * * *
THREE DAYS LATER, THE Craethornes were comfortably established in their own town house in Berkeley Square. Marisa had consumed a hearty breakfast, her appetite sharpened by the activities of unpacking and settling in, but her mother had hardly touched a bite.
“Don’t worry about me, dearest,” her mother insisted, pushing away her breakfast plate. “I haven’t felt much like eating since we left Dorset. I imagine that preparations for the journey simply fatigued me more than I’d realized.”
“You’re positive, Mama, that you’re not ill? I don’t recall ever seeing you so pale.” Her mother seemed quite different from when she’d left her nearly a month before. She’d lost weight, she appeared in the mornings later than ever before, and when she did come downstairs, she looked more tired than when she went to bed.
By luncheon, however, she acted more herself, and after a lengthy afternoon rest, she appeared at dinner positively radiant, her colour high and eyes sparkling. What could account for such an unusual state of affairs, including the totally different way in which Sir Gerald and her mother were acting toward each other? Marisa couldn’t even hazard a guess, so she finally accepted her mother’s reassurances about her health.
Lord Rockwell’s invitation to the theatre was accepted for that Friday evening. When he arrived to collect them, Lady Craethorne, who’d met the young earl only briefly when he paid a morning call shortly after their arrival, confided to Marisa that she found him to be a delightful young man.
“And handsome beyond measure,” she added. “He is very amiable and seems most fond of you. Might my husband and I hope that his attentions will become more...directed?”
Marisa saw no reason to mention that Rockwell had already proposed and she had refused him. “No, Mama, I’m afraid not. He suffered a tragic romance and his heart still truly lies with another.”
When they arrived at Drury Lane Theatre at seven, the place was already filled with the most fashionable of the ton. Ladies in their elegant gowns, jewels sparkling at their throats and in their hair, paused under the domed Corinthian rotunda to talk or lean far over the centre railing to call greetings to friends below.
Marisa looked at the building in wonder, taking in the delicate scrollwork and the fine chandeliers. They proceeded to Lord Rockwell’s private box only when Lady Craethorne declared she was fatigued, and it was imperative that she sit down to rest.
They settled in their chairs and Marisa’s mother pointed out how different the theatre looked now than she remembered it during her own Season, after all the changes that had been made during its restoration from the fire that damaged it in 1809. Marisa saw a large private box some distance from theirs in which sat the Wycliffe family and their guests from America, the Wilkisons.
Lyvia spotted Marisa at almost the same time and gaily waved. Marisa waved back but her eyes and her heart really took in only one thing: Will engrossed in conversation with a lovely young woman whom Marisa had never seen before.
The fifteen minutes until the play began seemed an eternity. Marisa tried to turn her attention toward the young dandies who strolled in the pit in front of the stage, competing for compliments and attention from the ladies, but she was unable to do so for long. Her gaze returned again and again to where the Wycliffes sat.
Who is that girl? And why is Will being so particular in his attentions to her?
The lamps were lowered at last and the play began. Edmund Kean strode the stage as Richard the Third, but even his passionate portrayal of the deformed and angry king could not divert Marisa’s mind for long. At the intermission, Marisa looked back to the Wycliffe box again. The young woman pointed her fan toward some other part of the theatre, and Will followed her direction. Then they whispered behind gloved hands.
“Miss Landon?” Lord Rockwell interrupted her thoughts. “Aren’t you enjoying the play?”
“Oh, indeed I am, my lord.” She turned back to her host. “Kean is nothing short of remarkable.”
“I quite agree, though I noticed that you seemed not much interested in his performance. Your attention, perhaps, is fixed elsewhere?” Rockwell glanced toward the Wycliffe box, and Marisa blushed.
“You’re too observant, my lord,” was all she could manage, then she lowered her gaze and pretended a sudden fascination in her copy of the theatre program. She stared at it a full minute before realizing that she held the paper upside down. Finally, curiosity overcame her. “Do you know that young lady sitting with Will?”
“I do, Miss Landon. She is Miss Emma Brady.”
“Brady?” Marisa repeated, the name familiar. “Could her father be General Brady, Will’s commanding officer in the army?”
“He is. And I can assure you, in case you’re the least concerned, that she is no rival of yours.”
Marisa started to protest, but decided that pretence was futile. “Are you certain? For I vow that she could not look any more ‘on the hunt’ unless she were carrying a Brown Bess musket!”
Lord Rockwell laughed out loud, drawing a surprised look from Sir Gerald who’d just returned to their box with a cup of punch for his wife. Rockwell coughed and cleared his throat, and then continued to Marisa in a lower tone. “Miss Brady has made no secret of her desire to marry into the aristocracy, and has vowed that she’ll consider no man who is untitled, but every man who is.”
“Then why on earth is she with Will? He doesn’t have a title.”
“No, but he knows a great many young gentlemen from university and the service who do or are in line for one. You may rest easy, for I’m certain that General Brady is the one who prevailed upon Will to escort his daughter here this evening and provide introductions whenever possible.”
“How foolish she is.” Marisa shook her head. “However, I do recall telling you only a few weeks ago that I knew what I wanted from this Season. I can hardly fault that lady for pursuing her ambitions, as well.”
“Yes, her tenacity knows no equal.”
“My lord?”
“I met Miss Brady just last week at a card party. Within five minutes, she had managed to corner me alone in the library. I made my escape as quickly as I could so as not to tarnish her reputation, and—” he tugged at his cravat, “—so that we wouldn’t be found in a situation that would lead to an alliance for which I had no impulse. I must admit that I hadn’t felt such a level of fear since I first saw the enemy sabres at Waterloo!”
Marisa leaned back in her chair, reassured. Many patrons, like Sir Gerald, had left their boxes to procure refreshments or to visit with acquaintances.
“My lord, have you been able...?” She hesitated, not sure how to broach the subject. “That is to say, have you had the opportunity to speak to Will? To...explain?”
“I’m afraid not. I haven’t seen him since that day at any of his usual haunts.”
“He has, no doubt, been too occupied with Miss Brady.”
“Perhaps,” Rockwell allowed. “Or possibly, he’s just been successful in avoiding my company. Don’t worry, my dear, for I can be as determined as Miss Brady on some matters. I’m bound to run into Will eventually, and I’ll insist he hear me out.”
Marisa nodded. Lord Rockwell would make sure Will understood. But, finally, she could resist no longer and took another look at the Wycliffe box. It was now less crowded; the only occupants were Lyvia, Mrs. Wycliffe and a young man in uniform whom Marisa recognized as Lieutenant Farrington.
Lyvia’s mother did not seem overly impressed by the attachment her daughter had formed with the lieutenant. Mrs. Wycliffe sat several seats over from them, studying him with a critical eye.
Moments later, Marisa looked again just as Will re-entered the box with Miss Brady on his arm. He returned her to her seat and then, to Marisa’s dismay, he straightened and turned to look directly across the theatre, meeting her gaze. There was no mistaking that he knew she’d been watching him.
* * * *
THE FOLLOWING DAY IT rained, or it might be more accurate to say it poured. Huge black clouds rolled across the sky, producing brilliant streaks of lightning and great rumbles of thunder that rattled the windowpanes. Marisa stared at the leaping flames of the drawing room fire, occasionally tapping the end of a poker into the glowing logs. She watched with an almost hypnotic fascination as they crumbled and then collapsed. Her mother sat nearby sewing, giving her daughter frequent worried glances.
Will mistakenly believed there was some special affection between her and Lord Rockwell. What must he think of me?
Were all of her hopes of his ever offering for her now just worthless dreams? She sighed, laid down the poker, and went to stare at the sheets of rain falling on the lawns and street outside.
“For pity’s sake, child, do something with yourself,” Lady Craethorne exclaimed, startling Marisa out of her reverie. “You’ve drifted about this house almost from the moment we settled in. I’ve never seen you in such a daze. Perhaps I should be concerned that you’re the one who’s ill, instead of you being anxious about me.”
Marisa hurried to her mother’s side. She would not have her worry for the world, especially now that her morning spells seemed to have gotten worse the past few days. “I am quite well, Mama. I’m restless, I suppose, having so little to do aside from being entertained. You know I like to keep busy.”
“Perhaps when the weather clears, you should ride again. Fresh air is what you need, and a quantity of it, I should guess. Why, you don’t seem to care for society any more than my husband does.”
“Perhaps not. But I am enjoying my Season, truly. It’s just different than what I’d expected, that’s all.”
“Aren’t you excited that your own ball is only two days away?”
“Of course. You’ve worked so hard to make everything perfect, when I know you’re still not feeling well at all.”
“Nonsense.” Her mother smiled and shaped an errant curl at Marisa’s temple with affection. “I am quite well, or at any rate, soon shall be. You’ll see. Now, have you tried on your gown since it arrived from the modiste this afternoon? No, I thought not. Go and call Gertie at once. I shall be up directly to determine if any more alterations need to be made. Now, run along.”
Marisa complied, glad of some task to occupy her mind. After her fitting, she resolved to make a start in the new novel she’d obtained from the lending library. Perhaps the two activities combined would keep the vision of a certain handsome young man with piercing blue eyes from being always in her thoughts.