Duchess Quartet - A Wild Pursuit Part 20

Mrs. Cable gasped, but Lady Winifred chuckled. "Handsome, isn't he? I remember seeing Bonnington riding to the hounds, last year it was, before all the scandal broke. He looked as regal as a prince. A prince in a fairy story," she clarified, "not one of our own." Everyone accepted that. The royal dukes were more easily described as fat and friendly than regal.

With pressed lips, Mrs. Cable backed down. "Well, you won't accept Bonnington's proposal, of course," she instructed Esme. "But I do acknowledge Lady Withers's point about improving his soul. It is not ours to question why the Lord places a sinner at our doorstep. We must simply endure while we aid in the cultivation of a better life."

"I must try saying that to my husband," Lady Winifred murmured to Arabella. "I endure, and he never seems to cultivate. Perhaps I could bore him into virtue by reading the Bible aloud."

But Mrs. Cable heard her, and the Sewing Circle disbanded on an acrimonious note.

Chapter 23.

Various Forms of Advertis.e.m.e.nt.

Lady Rowlings's Rose Salon.

"I suppose your mother felt she couldn't attend you," Lady Bonnington said to Esme with her usual lack of finesse. "f.a.n.n.y does have strict notions of propriety."

"My dear sister is very preoccupied by the fate of the poor," Arabella said, with a little snap of her teeth. "She cannot be in as many places as she would wish."

"She wrote me as much," Esme put in. Though why on earth she always defended her mother, she didn't know.

The marchioness's expression showed exactly what she thought about Arabella's fib. "Yet during the confinement of her only daughter!" Lady Bonnington said. "Quite dismaying. You must find her absence painful," she said to Esme.

Esme smiled tightly. "Naturally I am proud of Mama's unfailing attention to those less fortunate than ourselves."

To her surprise, Lady Bonnington's eyes were not scornful; Esme could see a gleam of sympathy there. "As you undoubtedly know," she announced, "I am close friends with your mother. Perhaps the combination of my presence and your entirely acceptable engagement will be enough to change her mind. I fancy I do have some small authority in society, you know." She bent toward Esme with the fanged smile of a leopard about to spring. "If I champion your reentry into society upon your marriage to Mr. Fairfax-Lacy, I feel quite certain that the ton will quickly dismiss the foibles of your youth."

Esme gave her a weak smile. Obviously Lady Bonnington was offering her a pact. Marry Fairfax-Lacy instead of her son, and the marchioness would reinstate Esme in the good graces of her mother and society. She nodded, meeting Lady Bonnington's eyes. "That would be most kind."

At that moment the rest of the party entered the room. Sebastian strolled over to Esme. "How are you?" he said, leaning over her sofa and speaking in her ear with unmistakable intimacy.

"Stop that!" she scolded, trying to avoid Lady Bonnington's glare.

Sebastian followed her glance. "Ah, my dear mother is here. Now where's your inamorato? Mr. Fairfellow. What is his name? I loathe double-barreled names, don't you?"

"Hush, you monster!" she said, pinching his arm. Under his laughter she caught a spark of something-jealousy, perhaps? She decided that her plan wasn't a failure after all. So she held out a languid hand to Fairfax-Lacy. "Ah, there you are!" she cried. "It seemed ages since the men retired for port!"

A few moments later, Bea entered the salon to find that Stephen Fairfax-Lacy was dancing attendance on Esme in a manner that could only be called lavish. They were snugly tucked into a small couch together, and as Bea watched, Stephen tenderly rearranged the cushion behind Esme's back. She felt a p.r.i.c.k of jealousy. Apparently Esme and Stephen had discovered a shared affinity for bawdy jokes; Stephen kept murmuring things into Esme's ear that made them both roar with laughter.

They certainly looked like an affianced couple. But Bea couldn't work out what exactly had happened the previous evening. Why had Esme announced that she and Stephen were marrying? Presumably because they had agreed to marry, a sensible little voice in the back of her head insisted. But-and this seemed the crucial question to Bea-what was Marquess Bonnington doing in the house, and what was his relation to Esme? As Bea watched, the marquess strode over to join the lovebirds. Esme began sparkling like a tree decorated with candles, and laughing (Bea thought uncharitably) like a hyena.

Bea herself was dressed for attention, and she wasn't going to get that if she kept hugging the fireplace like a debutante wearing too many ruffles to dance. So she drifted over to the group and paused for a second until they looked up.

Esme's face lit with pleasure. "Bea, darling! Do join us. Mr. Fairfax-Lacy is telling me abominable jests about codpieces."

"Codpieces?" Bea inquired, walking toward her. She was wearing a gown of slate-gray silk. Slate-gray was the kind of color governesses wore, but this gown was cut with cunning precision to make it appear that she was a governess hiding the soul of a Jezebel. The bosom was as low as an evening gown's, but the addition of a trifling bit of lace gave the bodice a faint claim to respectability. "What is a codpiece?"

Naturally, the gentlemen stood at her arrival, so Bea nimbly slipped next to Esme, taking Stephen's seat.

Stephen himself answered her question, one dark eyebrow raised. "Have you not heard of codpieces, Lady Beatrix? Gentlemen wore them in the sixteenth century. Rounded pieces of leather sometimes decorated with ribbons."

"Wore them? Where did they-" Bea broke off, suddenly guessing where they wore them. Now she thought of it, she had seen portraits of men wearing codpieces over their tights. It was wicked of him to laugh at her in such a fashion, though.

"Life must have been so much easier for women in those days," Esme said, her voice spiced with mischief. "One could presumably choose a man by the number of ribbons he wore. Bea, we must sit together all evening. Our gowns suit each other extraordinarily."

Esme was dressed in a dark silvery crimson gown whose bosom was as low as Bea's but didn't include any disguising lace. Given the fact that Esme was approximately twice as endowed in the chest area, Bea figured that the contrast was personally unfortunate. But it was better than watching Stephen nestle up to Esme's curves.

"So, would you insist your husband match his daily ribbons to your gown?" Bonnington asked Esme. There was a sardonic twist to his lips. To Bea's mind, something smoldered in the marquess's eyes when he looked at Esme. And the same could be said for the way her lips curved up at his question. If she laughed a great deal while talking to Stephen, she got a husky undertone when she spoke to the marquess that was utterly suggestive.

"Ah, what a dilemma!" Esme said. "I doubt my fiance would agree to wear rosy ribbons, were I to wear a pink costume." She threw Stephen a languishing look.

Stephen sat down in a chair beside the settee. He was suffering from awareness of the fact that if he were indeed an Elizabethan gentleman, wearing little more on his legs than some thin stockings, he'd be grateful for a codpiece, because his body's reaction to Bea's outrageous gown would have been all too obvious. "For you, Lady Rawlings, I would wear the colors of the rainbow," he said, pitching his voice to a velvety earnestness.

"How fortunate that you, rather than I, are marrying Lady Rawlings," the marquess drawled, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. "Lady Beatrix, would you demand that a man make an a.s.s of himself?"

Bea could feel Stephen watching her. She gave the marquess a look of liquid promise. Bea had a distinct preference for dark hair, but the marquess's tawny golden-brown hair could well nigh change her mind. "I do believe I would insist on the removal of all ribbons."

"Oh?" he asked. He had lovely blue eyes. If only she weren't so fond of dark eyes. "You prefer a naked codpiece, Lady Beatrix?"

"I would prefer that my husband not advertise," she said. "Don't you agree, Esme? If a man wore too many ribbons, he might become the target of many women's attentions." Bea looked at Stephen, her face as innocent as she could manage. "And the next thing one knew, one's husband would have virtually turned into a peac.o.c.k, thinking that every woman within eyesight is longing for his attentions."

Vixen, Stephen thought. "Do you mean his eyesight or theirs?" he asked.

"I shall have to take the idea of naked codpieces into consideration," Esme put in. "Perhaps we should have a game of charades. There must be some Elizabethan clothing up in the attics."

She turned to Stephen and said, with a simper, "But, darling, wouldn't you mind dreadfully if I stripped you of ornamentation?"

Bea thought Esme was playing a dangerous game. There was something wild about the marquess, something ungentleman-like, that made Bea a trifle nervous. And yet Esme was toying with him as if he were a mouse and she a kitten. But it was closer to the truth to see him as a tiger, and Esme a mouse.

For his part, Stephen was fairly certain that his courtship of Esme was piquing Bea's jealousy. There was a stormy something in her eyes that he liked. So he picked up Esme's hand and told her, "I would strip myself naked, if you wished."

"Even in this state?" Esme said, gesturing toward her nonexistent middle.

"If carrying a child made every woman as beautiful as you, Lady Rawlings, England's population would be growing by leaps and bounds." Stephen kissed Esme's hand as he watched Bea out of the corner of his eye. Her hands were clenched into fists. Stephen felt a burst of cheer. As long as he wasn't knocked into a corner by Bonnington, his plan was a success.

"I do believe that most women would faint at the idea of gaining such a waistline," Esme was saying.

"The most beautiful things in nature are those about to burst into flower: a bud on the verge of becoming a rose, a tree dripping with ripe apples. And you are more beautiful than a rose, Lady Rawlings."

"Quite the dandy, aren't you?" Marquess Bonnington said to Stephen. There was a dangerous gleam in his eyes. "I wouldn't have thought a politician would have so much address. You could do much worse for a husband, Lady Rawlings."

"I merely speak the truth when I feel pressed," Stephen said promptly, hoping that Bonnington wouldn't lose control and floor him. Clearly the man had a prior claim. "Lady Rawlings is so beautiful that one can hardly stop oneself from singing her praises. It was the most surprising moment of my life when she agreed to marry me." He sighed, a languishing expulsion of breath. "The keen pleasure of that moment will never leave my memory."

Esme blushed faintly, and Bea realized that Esme had, indeed, decided to marry Stephen, no matter what her previous relationship with Marquess Bonnington might have been. Who could possibly choose to raise a child alone when she might have Stephen as a father? To Bea's annoyance, Stephen began kissing Esme's every fingertip. Now her stomach was churning with jealousy.

"Your eyes are the color of sapphires," Stephen said, his voice a low croon. "And your lips are finer than rubies."

Bea cleared her throat. Stephen looked around in a faintly irritated fashion and then said, "Forgive me. Lady Beatrix, Marquess Bonnington. You must forgive the flush of early love, the delight with which one greets his bride-to-be..."

"I've never met a woman whom I wanted to compare to sapphires," the Marquess Bonnington said with an easy shrug of his shoulders. "What appeals to me is a kind of willowy grace... an elegance of form."

Esme stiffened slightly.

"Isn't it the poet Petrarch who compares his lady to a slender willow, swaying in the breeze? That appeals to me much more than comparing my lady to flinty little gems."

"Petrarch loved a woman who was only twelve years old," Stephen said dismissively. "I leave the younger set to you, Lord Bonnington. I find young women tiresome. A woman who is a woman is the most appealing." He carefully didn't even glance at Bea. Unless he was much mistaken, a pale pink nipple was just visible through the lace of her bodice. One more look at her chest and he would pick her up and stride right out of the room, and it wouldn't be his decoration that was stripped.

Bea was having trouble biting back an unpleasant comment. Clearly she was a member of the younger set whom Stephen professed to find tiresome. And presumably Stephen expected her to compete with Esme, though how she was supposed to do that, short of stuffing her corset with all the cotton in Wiltshire, she had no idea. The least she could do was to help the cause of true love.

"Lord Bonnington," she said rather jerkily, "I brought the most exquisite book of poetry with me. And you had not yet joined the house party when we read some of it aloud. Would you like me to introduce you to the work?"

"I would be more than pleased," he said, rising and giving her an elegant bow.

Bea didn't look to see what Stephen thought. He was probably grateful. After all, if she took Bonnington off of Esme's hands, he had no compet.i.tion to worry about.

They walked into the corridor together. She took a deep breath and gave Lord Bonnington the full benefit of one of her smoldering looks. There must be something wrong with her. He looked no more impressed than had Sebastian. Bea blinked to hold back sudden tears. Was she... was she losing her attractiveness to men? That was inconceivable. It was all she had.

The library was just down the corridor from the Rose Salon. Esme's library was a snug nutsh.e.l.l of a room, all lined with books that gave off a sleepy, satisfied smell. Bea felt better immediately. The library had been one of the few places in her father's house where she'd felt happy.

Lord Bonnington walked away from her and looked out one of the arching windows that faced into the garden, so Bea followed. She still could hardly believe that he hadn't shown her the faintest interest. Perhaps-perhaps it had been too dim in the corridor. Perhaps he hadn't seen the expression in her eyes.

It had rained all day. A silver layer of mist crept over the garden, drifting down to a blocky structure that Bea knew was the rose arbor.

"I gather you think that Lady Rawlings should marry Mr. Fairfax-Lacy," Lord Bonnington said abruptly, looking at the garden, and not at her.

"I-".

"And you brought me here to give them breathing s.p.a.ce."

Bea swallowed. She could hardly say that she'd brought him to the library in a weak effort to make Stephen Fairfax-Lacy jealous. Or to prove that she was still desirable.

"I do think that Lady Rawlings would be happier if she were married," she said, steadying her voice.

"Married to him?"

The scorn in his voice lashed her into speech. "Esme would be extremely fortunate to marry Mr.

Fairfax-Lacy!"

"He's a stick," Bonnington said, still gazing out into the garden.

"No, he's not. He's quite handsome, and he's funny, and kind. And he... he seems to care for her," Bea said.

"So do I."

What could she say to that? She stood next to him, feeling the chill that breathed off the leaded window panes.

"Did she tell you to take me away? Did she send you some sort of signal?"

"No, no," Bea said. "It wasn't like that at all! I merely... I merely..."

He turned and looked down at her. After a moment, he said, "We're in the same boat, then."

She couldn't ask what boat that was because she was afraid that she knew. "Absolutely not," she replied stiffly.

"Are you saying that you don't wish to marry that proper M.P. in there?" The touch of disbelief in his voice made her raise her head.

"I do not."

There was a skeptical curl to his lip.

"I don't wish to marry anyone." She walked over to the couch and sat down, not bothering to tilt her hips from side to side in the walk she had perfected at age fifteen. The man was not interested in her. That slow fire she saw in his eyes was for Esme, not for her.

But he did follow her, throwing himself down on the couch. "If I thought jealousy would help, I would have a go at pretending to be in love with you. But it wouldn't make any difference," Bonnington said flatly. "I'm sorry to say that the man appears enamored of Esme Rawlings. And once she draws you in, it's d.a.m.n hard to look at another woman."

"I am not interested in Mr. Fairfax-Lacy," Bea insisted, more for the sake of her pride than anything else.

He didn't even answer her. "I expect he thinks you're too young."

"Too scandalous," Bea put in, unable to pretend any longer.

"Scandalous, hmmm?"

She nodded. She knew Marquess Bonnington by reputation; well, who didn't? He used to be

considered one of the most upright men in the ton. There'd never been a whisper of scandal about theman until last summer. Not even a shred. If he knew her past, he would spit at her and leave the roomimmediately. But he didn't seem to be reacting with condemnation.

"Didn't you side-step with Sandhurst? Why on earth did you choose that odious mushroom?" he asked, and she couldn't hear any censure in his voice. Just a kind of lazy curiosity.

She shrugged. "He had a lovely bow. He complimented me."

He looked at her without saying anything.

"And my father loathed him," she added.