To Love a Hellion (The London Lords Book 1) Page 8

  Stephen snorted as the four of them made their way back to the picnic area. “Sore loser. He’s a man, like the rest of us.”

  “I don’t know about that. There are men, and then there are men,” said Caroline in a loud voice, hoping to hide the unease she felt walking alone next to the limping Taff. George and Stephen were several steps ahead now, politeness had forced her to slow her stride to match the injured guest’s.

  “Such quick wit, Miss Edwards,” Taff said, smiling at her. “But cruel toward poor Westleigh. You must be very, very close to tease each other so.”

  “Well. He’s been my brother’s best friend since Eton,” she replied uncomfortably. “I guess you could say we’ve grown up together.”

  “Ah. Perhaps town isn’t so very different from country then.”

  Caroline frowned. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s very convenient when such a beautiful woman is close at hand. Tell me, were you willing the first time? Or did Westleigh take you by force?” he finished softly.

  Shock held her utterly immobile. “Captain Martin,” she began icily, her palm itching to slap his face for the filthy insult, to her and Stephen. “I—”

  “Now I’ve offended you. Forgive me, Miss Edwards that was unspeakably rude. It seems I have much to learn about town manners.”

  She glared at him suspiciously, but his expression was so contrite, so earnest, she practically felt her hackles retract. “Very well. I hope you enjoy your stay in London.”

  “Oh, Miss Edwards,” he said, inclining his head. “You may count on it.”

  Chapter Six

  “We’re going to be late, Stephen!”

  “No we won’t, I promise. And don’t cheat and open your eyes now.”

  His fiancée made a soft rumbling sound, like a displeased baby bear.

  “It wouldn’t matter anyway, your hands are clamped over half my face. It’s sheer luck I haven’t swooned from lack of air.”

  Glancing over the top of Flora’s head, he checked the positioning of said hands. Granted they were paw-sized, but unless she breathed through her eyes and ears any chance of asphyxiation seemed unlikely.

  Stephen sighed. Hopefully the surprise he’d planned for her would improve her mood. Since the picnic she had been rather out of sorts, and three days of minimal physical contact, short, non-committal replies and an increasingly snappish tone was enough to put any man on edge. Enquiring after her ‘health’ had been more than tempting, until his mother warned him rather snippily that such an idiotic question only resulted in trouble — apparently the one time his father asked that, he’d coincidentally walked gingerly for a week. Anyway, it might be nothing more than jitters, their betrothal-announcement ball was now less than a week away.

  “Only a few more steps,” he coaxed, starting to feel foolish as he nudged open the wide double doors to Forsyth House’s main ballroom with his boot. “Here. You can open your eyes.”

  Flora blinked and stepped forward, her intake of breath gratifyingly sharp. “Oh, Stephen. It’s…”

  “Do you like it? I sent a note to Esther asking what your favorite colors were. I hope she got them correct.”

  “Yes, she did, sapphire blue and silver. My goodness, the room looks beautiful. Really, really lovely. The silk on the walls is so shimmery and those big vases…”

  “I’ve arranged for flowers to be delivered on the day. An even split of blue and white I hope.”

  “You sh-shouldn’t have gone to so much tr-trouble,” she choked out, and he frowned.

  Trouble? It was their betrothal ball for God’s sake. Besides, he’d hardly done anything, his staff and a few hired helpers were the ones transforming the ballroom into a winter wonderland.

  “It’s nothing, Flora. Just a few decorations,” he replied uneasily, hoping her wobbling tone wouldn’t lead to full-blown crying. A fiancée sporting puffy eyes and a pink nose was never a good look, especially when they were due to meet everyone at Covent Garden in just over an hour.

  Flora threw herself against his chest and hugged him tightly.

  “I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I know I’m being awful at the moment. And you’re being so nice.”

  Stephen awkwardly patted her back. Christ, he hated female tears.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll resume my usual role as a complete tyrant after we’re married. Rags to wear, sleeping in an attic, cold suppers…you’ll have plenty of reasons to curse my name when you take tea with your friends.”

  “H-Hardly,” Flora said, hiccupping. “You’ll be a g-good husband, I’m sure. I really am sorry, Stephen.”

  “Look, no more apologizing, all right? By all accounts it’s normal to be a little nervous. That is why they’re called bridal jitters.”

  “You’re probably right. Yes, I think that’s what is wrong with me. I’m about to marry someone I know and yet don’t really know at all. Someone I think about every day, who makes my pulse race and my heart soar…but there’s still an element of doubt. What if I’m wrong? What if these feelings are just wishes in the wind?”

  He stilled at the most impassioned speech she had ever made, then smiled as he lifted a hand to smooth her dark hair. It was going to work. His future marriage was really going to work. Mathematics truly could be successfully applied to everything.

  “It’s not wishes in the wind when you build on a strong foundation, Flora. Trust, mutual respect, friendship, tastes and hobbies in common, they can all lead to a very happy union.”

  “That is true.”

  “But you seem a little, er, frazzled. Perhaps you need a break. A short trip away.”

  She tilted her head right back to look up at him, tears still dripping down her beautiful face, and he quickly blotted them with his thumbs. It was damned unnerving when your fiancée looked like a chit fresh out of the schoolroom, rather than a twenty-two year old woman.

  “You mean it, Stephen?”

  “Of course,” he said a touch too heartily. “I can’t have my bride-to-be looking peaky before the Season even begins. Why don’t you and Esther go to Bath or somewhere for a few days. Breathe some sea air, take the waters and eat desserts. When you return we can finalize all the ball decorations and such, the invitations have already been sent.”

  Her fingers dug into his back. “They have? But I thought we weren’t saying anything publicly until the night.”

  “Oh they don’t mention anything specifically about us, just that it will be a ‘Welcome to the Season’ ball and I hope they’ll attend to hear a very special announcement.”

  “I see. You know, I think going away for a few days is an excellent idea. I would visit my aunt, Papa’s sister. She is the closest thing to a mother I have, and there are, um…things…I would like to, ah, talk to her about.”

  He pulled back slightly and gave her a direct look. “She’ll give you frank answers?”

  A deep flush spread across Flora’s cheekbones, but he had to ask. On more than a few occasions, especially after their first kiss, he’d thought about bringing up the bedchamber subject just to see what she actually knew. Embarrassing for her as it would probably be, he wanted her to know she could always talk to him. It was completely ridiculous in these modern times to think young ladies still went to the marital bed knowing absolutely nothing about what went on.

  In fact, he’d already decided if he had daughters, his wife would ensure they were fully prepared. Actually he’d ensure they were fully prepared and educated in all matters. None of this ‘sew, paint and converse about the weather’ nonsense some parents favored. His girls would study languages, mathematics, science and classics the same as their brothers, no one would ever refer to them as empty-headed.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I believe so.”

  “That’s good. I wasn’t sure if you had anyone to, ah, speak with. Although I hope you know you can always ask me.�
��

  Flora’s cheeks darkened to scarlet, but she nodded jerkily. “Thank you for your generosity and understanding, I do appreciate it, Stephen. You really are a decent man. A very decent man.”

  “Er, well, especially when I’m asleep, no doubt. But perhaps we should leave for the theatre now? Hate to miss the performance.”

  “What about your mother and Taff? Are they coming with us?”

  “Mama is, but Taff will meet us there. I think he’s having supper with an acquaintance who has come to town first.”

  “Well then, let’s away.”

  Three-quarters of an hour later the three of them were enjoying the view from the spacious Westleigh box at the Theatre Royal. Shortly afterwards they were joined by George, Thomas, and Flora’s father Lord Anthony Hartley. William had sent his apologies, as had Alexander, both citing a small matter requiring immediate discussion with Liverpool and Castlereagh away from the House of Lords.

  Stephen snorted under his breath as he accepted a glass of brandy from a footman.

  Wonder what the national crisis is this time.

  Their ‘small matters’ usually turned out to be anything but. Most recently it had been the brutal ongoing Peninsula Wars in Spain and France, although Prinny’s debts and nonsense crusade against his popular wife were always threatening to explode into political disaster.

  “Evening, Westleigh,” Thomas drawled, sinking into one of the plush, red velvet chairs in the box and hooking one booted foot over the other.

  “Ardmore, looking splendidly disheveled as always,” he said, raising his glass.

  “If I came dressed like Southby, none of you would survive the fright. It’s your delicate English constitutions I’m thinking of.”

  “Very magnanimous.”

  “I like to think so. Now, I hope someone is going to pour me a third-rate brandy in double quick time. Can’t believe I’m at the ballet of all things, might trigger the end of days.”

  “Can’t believe I’m here either,” muttered George, slumping next to Thomas. “At this very moment there are hundreds of beautiful women who would greatly welcome the pleasure of my company, languishing alone. Hope you appreciate the giant sacrifice I’m making.”

  “A spot of culture is good for the soul,” Stephen intoned piously.

  “What he means,” said Thomas, shooting him a dark look, “is that if he has to suffer the ballet, we all have to suffer with him.”

  “God, we go above and beyond,” added George. “I mean really, this should qualify me for sainthood. Or at least a title. Don’t think it’s too much to ask.”

  Stephen nodded. “We probably could get Prinny to make you a baron or something. And give you a stipend. But then all those beautiful, lonely women would want to leg shackle you rather than just enjoy the, er, pleasure of your company.”

  “Good point. I shall politely decline all honors for a few more years at least.”

  “Lucky,” said Thomas. “Wish the taint of industry and Scotland negated my bloody title, but no matter how many ton rules I ignore, seems a marquess is a marquess. Talking of lords, where is Shilton and your twin? Not like Caroline to be late.”

  “How should I know? Last I heard, Caro was in a snit because Shilton leaves tomorrow morning for his country estate. A few days business or something. She is probably still burying what is left of his body.”

  “Tis true,” Stephen chuckled. “Getting rid of bodies is an onerous task. Must be even more so in heels.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” snorted George, flicking an invisible speck from his dark blue jacket. “I prefer to stay on the right side of the law.”

  “Unsurprising,” said Thomas. “The thought of facing Sir Malcolm from the dock is almost enough to keep me on the straight and narrow.”

  “Ha. You’d be fine. Me, however, he’d happily throw into Newgate. Or perhaps from a high window at Newgate, depending on his mood.”

  Stephen frowned at the bite under the casual words. What the hell was really going on in the Edwards household? But a discreet cough to his left interrupted him, and he turned and smiled at Anthony Hartley instead.

  “Enjoying your evening so far, sir?”

  “I am. The view is splendid from up here, simply splendid.”

  “Depends entirely on what you want to watch. Downwards to your right for the ballet. Straight down for pit skullduggery and directly ahead for the latest on dits.”

  “My word, yes! Place is so damn big, feels like half of London is packed inside.”

  “I know. But the theatre only sits about three thousand apparently.”

  “Really? Must say I was horrified when the place burnt down back in ’09, thought some foreign reprobate would redesign a monstrosity. Glad they decided to hire Wyatt, good sensible fellow.”

  “Indeed. Flora, do you need a refill?” Stephen finished, raising his voice so she would hear.

  She nodded, and a footman dashed to top up her glass of champagne.

  Anthony smiled fondly. “M’daughter looks far happier tonight. Have to admit I’d been a bit concerned the last few days, didn’t know what the hell was wrong with her. But I see you’ve taken matters in hand, Westleigh.”

  “Just a few nerves, perhaps. I suggested Flora go away for a few days. She indicated she’d like to go and visit your sister to, er, talk.”

  Color darkened the viscount’s cheeks and he tugged on his collar.

  “Ah. Yes. Well. Pamela has always been a sort of stand-in mother for the girls. Flora was only fourteen when her mama passed and I was so busy with my cabinet duties…they both love Pammy, she’s good with them. And some things a girl needs a woman’s advice on. I’ll pack Flora into a carriage tomorrow morning and send her to the country, bit of fresh air and sunshine and she’ll be right back to her usual happy self.”

  “Excellent idea.”

  “Talking about the country, I heard about what happened at the Bruce’s house party. My God, the sheer brazenness of those scoundrels, it’s a sad day when people aren’t even safe on private land. I’d quite like to meet the young man who did both of us a service, Flora mentioned he is staying with you at present?”

  “He is. Actually he’ll be joining us here shortly.”

  “Splendid. World needs more like him, I look forward to shaking his hand.”

  Stephen grinned and raised his glass.

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  ***

  “Don’t fret, my dear. We’ll only be a little bit late.”

  Caroline gritted her teeth and silently counted to twenty, both at the words and the gently soothing tone. It was either that or she’d be forced to explain to the authorities why the carriage floor sported a puddle of Bradford-shaped syllabub.

  Her fiancé didn’t yet know about her supreme annoyance at unpunctuality, and his various cheerful assurances as to why arriving at the private Westleigh box halfway through the ballet performance would be completely de rigueur, were only compounding the crime.

  It wasn’t like he had a decent excuse. No accidents, riots or rescuing a child from a burning building, just an audience with his damned mother running overlong. Bradford would learn over the course of the evening exactly how unacceptable a reason this was.

  Oh would he learn.

  Especially when he would be leaving first thing tomorrow for his country estate to attend to some important matters. Normally this wouldn’t bother her in the slightest, noble landowners had responsibilities so vast, it made her brain ache just thinking about it, but Bradford had been acting rather strangely since the Hastings House picnic. One minute he was cool and aloof, the next attentively escorting her for phaeton rides in Hyde Park and ices at Gunther’s.

  Other women might relish the drama of uncertainty or rationing of time and affection, but it did less than nothing for her. A straightforward man m
ight inadvertently bruise hearts and pride at times, but at least you always knew where you stood.

  “Caroline…” he tried again, tentatively.

  “Yes, Bradford?”

  “I really am sorry. For everything.”

  “Everything?” Caroline snapped, quite forgetting to hold her tongue. “What do you mean everything? Have you committed some heinous crime I don’t know about? Are there smuggled items strapped to the roof of this carriage we must stop and dispose of?”

  She regretted the rash words as soon as they tumbled out, yet instead of the usual rapid blinking and red cheeks signifying his acute dismay, Bradford laughed. An honest to goodness, right from the depths of his belly laugh.

  “Actually, I prefer to use my other carriage for such matters. Thicker curtains.”

  A giggle welled as she stared at his twitching lips, the twinkle in his silver eyes. Bradford could be playful? Perhaps she’d been too harsh in her initial assessment of him, and in the expectation she must completely change her personality to fit in with his. Perhaps they might rub along rather nicely after all.

  “Wait! Don’t tell me anymore. I think it’s only once a woman is married they cannot interrogate her about her husband’s nefarious activities.”

  “Ah. Good point. Let’s talk about the weather then. Cool at the moment, isn’t it? Excellent when you are trying to preserve delicate packages…oh dear, there I go again. A criminal to the tips of my toes.”

  “Stop it!” Caroline laughed delightedly, smacking him lightly with her emerald silk fan. “Look, we’re finally here. Thank heavens for small mercies, who knows what terrible past, present and future deeds you might confess to.”

  Bradford leaned forward, picked up her gloved hand and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles.

  “You really are a wonderful woman, Caroline,” he said, his expression very, very serious. “I hope the future is everything you wish it to be.”

  Her cheeks heated even as her brow furrowed slightly. “Er, why thank you, kind sir! But let’s get inside before the others start wondering if we have been abducted by gypsies or press-ganged into the navy or some such thing.”