A Season for Love Read online

  So she would hold her tongue and attempt to remember all the social niceties Miss Tompkins had taught her. Perhaps, by the time they reached Cumberland, she might have learned a good deal more about this near-stranger, her father.

  And, in truth, she did. Superficial things, perhaps, but, taken together, they created a portrait of a man who treated even chance acquaintances fairly. Oh, the Duke of Longville might not actually see the many people who rushed to his service, Caroline realized, but he did not shout or demand, complain or criticize. She might be close enough to him to hear a faint long-suffering sigh over a servitor’s incompetence, but he seemed to recognize that certain people were incapable of anything better.

  And he had occasionally shocked her with a surprisingly wicked sense of humor, passing the long hours with devastating tales of members of the ton, although there were moments when he broke off—obviously biting his tongue over on dits he recognized as unsuitable for a young lady of eighteen. He grew stern, however, immediately following his skewering of the patronesses of Almack’s. Although the duke enumerated the rules governing this most exclusive of assembly rooms with undisguised derision, these self-same rules were, he told her, absolute. She would obey them without question.

  And then came Longville’s sketch of the Prince of Wales. Stories of His Highness’s difficulties with his wife, his mistresses, his mad father, his poor sad mother, his overwhelmingly many brothers and sisters. Of Prinny’s interest in the arts, his spendthrift ways, his breathtaking ability to convince himself that he was actually participating in the war in the Peninsula. Lady Caroline’s naive young eyes widened more than once, appalled not only by the sometimes scurrilous tales, but because she strongly suspected even a duke could be arrested for treason. But, then, perhaps he could not help his scorn, for his own lineage was considerably longer and more noble than that of the royal House of Hanover.

  And don’t forget the dowagers, the duke had warned. Those formidable ladies whose tongues could make or break a young lady, whether in her first Season or her fourth. Caroline’s grandmother, the Dowager Duchess, her papa reminded her, was one of these powerful women.

  And what would the Dowager Duchess of Longville, say, Caroline wondered, when she discovered she had a grandson?. What if she refused to acknowledge him?

  Lady Caroline sighed and pressed her nose to the glass. Yes, they were almost there. Dusk was closing in, mist rising from Lake Windermere. It was almost as if they were entering a fairy kingdom, their lives poised on the edge of magic. With a wave of his hand, the Duke of Longville was going to transport his son, his daughter, and their faithful governess into the glittering world of the ton. For better or worse, these were the last moments of the life she had led for the past eight years. Suddenly, Caroline was terrified.

  She had told Laurence nothing, only that she must go to London on business. For it was entirely possible the duke would reject his son. Certainly, he could have found ample reason to do so. So now . . .

  Now this meeting was going to be very awkward indeed.

  The coach stopped. The Duke descended, held out his hand. A shiver passed through her. Lady Caroline Daphne Kenrick Carlington, accepting her father’s aid, stepped down, then led him up the pebbled path, lined in a colorful frame of daffodils and tulips, to the front door of the large thatched cottage in Little Stoughton, Cumberland. The home of the late, and somewhat eccentric, Widow Tennet and her two children.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Five

  Mr. Peyton Trimby-Ashford, anxious to avoid the critical gaze of Beau Brummel and his needle-tongued cohorts, glided past the gentlemen seated in the bow-window at White’s. A late night of misadventures with faro, too much brandy, and too little sleep had left Mr. Trimby-Ashford with unsteady hands and a short temper that had prevented his valet from rectifying his master’s ineptitude with his morning toilette. Yet here he was, Peyton thought with a certain self-satisfaction, on the town by one in the afternoon, attempting to fulfill his role as a faithful friend. In this case, alas, the news he had to impart was none too good.

  Peyton Trimby-Ashford was a gentleman poised on the edge of the dandy set, wanting to belong, but without that certain something necessary to accomplish the deed. Perhaps it was his average height or that extra inch or two about his waist. Or his straight blond hair, when dark and curly was all the rage. Or was it the eagerness which lingered in his eyes, never quite destroyed by his many years on the ton? Gentleman in London society, it seems, were expected to be afflicted by boredom, not constantly regarding the world as if, surely, the next morning would bring something exciting and wonderful into their lives.

  Nor did Mr. Trimby-Ashford indulge in cutting remarks about other members of the ton, particularly the feminine half, that was characteristic of a certain set of gentlemen, particularly certain followers of Lord Byron. It was, in fact, Peyton’s good heart that had brought him to White’s after a night on the town he truly wished to forget. Somehow, he and his valet, Reed, had poured him into his good claret wool jacket, biscuit pantaloons, and a matching waistcoat embroidered with a multitude of gold fleurs de lys. He was well aware, however, that he was far from his usual jaunty self; with only his shining Hessians—solely due to the efforts of his valet—living up to the sartorial elegance he coveted but could never quite emulate.

  On a wave of relief over not being noticed, Mr. Trimby-Ashford escaped White’s front room and its collection of viper-tongued gentlemen, moving into the quiet confines of the Reading Room. A room that appeared to be full of nothing more than pairs of booted feet planted in front of comfortably upholstered chairs, for an open newspaper obscured each gentleman’s head and torso. It was, Peyton thought in a moment of whimsy, almost as if the newspapers in White’s Reading Room had suddenly sprouted feet.

  After wandering in an erratic course around the room, peering down at the faces hidden behind the newspapers, Mr. Trimby-Ashford finally discovered his quarry. Raising his rosewood cane with a handle that sported a snarling golden griffon, he poked the broad expanse of newsprint directly in front of him.

  From behind the newspaper a disembodied voice growled:. “Go away.” Peyton inserted his cane beneath the newspaper and lifted.

  “Bloody hell!” roared Lord Frayne, “watch where you stick that thing. You nearly—” Noticing that he and Peyton were the cynosure of a sea of disapproving eyes, the viscount broke off, though he continued to mutter dire imprecations beneath his breath.

  “Sorry,” Peyton apologized. “Been looking for you, don’t you know. Thought to acquaint you with the on dits I heard last night.”

  “Good God,” Tony exclaimed, as if he hadn’t heard his friend’s remark, “what is that appalling mistake about your neck?”

  “That,” said Mr. Trimby-Ashford, hunching his shoulders in the faint hope it made his cravat less visible, “is a Mathematical, which was supposed to have been a Trone d’Amour, but neither Reed nor I were at our best this morning.”

  “If that’s a Mathematical, your geometry is a trifle off, dear boy.”

  “Never did have the knack of geometry, Tony. Wouldn’t have made it through Eton without you, don’t you recall?”

  For a moment the two old friends stared at each other, then Tony Norville’s lips curled into a thin smile, Peyton’s into a sigh of relief. The viscount waved him into a chair. As his friend flipped up the tails of his claret coat and settled close beside him, Tony noticed the chairs on either side of him were the only vacant seats in the room. Oh, wise gentleman members of White’s. Give the bear with the sore paw a wide berth.

  “I examined the betting book on the way in,” Tony said, “so I imagine I have a good idea of what’s being said.”

  Mr. Trimby-Ashford leaned forward, keeping his words for his friend alone. “The odds against are longer at Brook’s as well,” he hissed. “Gone just yesterday from two-to-one to five-to-three.”

  “When I came in an hour ago, I was informed—with considerable sympathy, mind—
that the odds were expected to be three-to-one by tonight.”

  “Eight days without a word,” declared a newcomer, “what else could you expect?” Sir Chetwin Willoughby paused to drag the other empty chair closer to his friends. “Wedding’s scheduled for Saturday morning, ain’t it?” he added, twisting the knife.

  Tony didn’t bother to look up, or he might have noticed the casual elegance of Sir Chetwin’s attire. The baronet was everything Peyton Trimby-Ashford desired to be. Tall, darkly handsome, his was a face that stood out in a crowd, whereas Mr. Trimby-Ashford could be the model for Everyman. Sir Chetwin’s gray eyes were as cool and cynical as his attitude, making him an excellent foil for his two more easy-going companions. Although he never attempted to outshine the polished urbanity of Viscount Frayne, the baronet came close to it. He had been heard to admit, however—with deliberate ennui—that it took him a tad longer.

  “Four days,” Tony confirmed, his customary insouciance totally vanished under a cloak of gloom.

  “How’s your sister holding up?” Peyton asked.

  “Not well.”

  “And Lady Worley?” Peyton added, more from good manners than inquisitiveness.

  “You do not wish to know,” said Tony, repressively. “As if Jen did not have enough on her plate without listening to my mother rant from morn ’til night.”

  “Lay any bets yourself?” Sir Chetwin inquired, inspecting his fingernails with studied interest.

  “Who, m-me?” Peyton stammered. “Are you mad?”

  “I believe he was asking me,” Tony said. “And, yes, I’ve considered it. Just to even the odds a bit, you understand. Scarcely pleasant to know that most of the ton has wagered Longville won’t show.”

  “He said he’d be back.” Peyton sounded plaintive, as if begging for reassurance.

  “I said he said he’d be back,” Tony responded, a bit obscurely.

  “And not a word of explanation?” Chet prodded.

  “I’ve told you,” Tony snapped. “Nothing. Not one miserable word since he and that minx of a daughter drove off as if the devil were after them. It’s as if they disappeared into a void.”

  “Like those old sailors who thought they’d drop off the edge of the world,” Mr. Trimby-Ashford contributed.

  The viscount heaved a long-suffering sigh. “A fine analogy, Peyton. Thank you.”

  “Sorry, Tony, but your family’s in a devilish fix. I was at four events last night. That’s all the tabbies talked of.”

  “Cut line, Peyton,” Chet snapped. “You may be absolutely right, but you’re not telling Tony anything he hasn’t told himself a countless a number of times.” He turned to the viscount. “What does Worley say? Does he propose an action?”

  “A suit for breach of promise?” Tony shrugged. “He might, certainly he has grounds. But, truthfully, I think he has something stronger in mind.”

  “A duel!” Peyton cried. “But he can’t, Tony. He’s too old.”

  “Not to mention it’s illegal,” Chet drawled.

  “I believe he had someone younger in mind,” the viscount murmured, twisting his signet ring until it was perfectly centered on his finger.

  Mr. Trimby-Ashford and Sir Chetwin stared. “He’s your friend,” Peyton blurted. “Lord knows why, but Longville actually seems to like you. You’re one of the few people I know who’s been granted the privilege of using his Christian name.”

  Which was more than his sister could say, Tony thought glumly.

  “Impossible,” Peyton declared. “You can’t shoot a duke. You’d have to emigrate to the Canadas . . . or the Antipodes.”

  “Thank you for your confidence in my skills.”

  “More like, the only thing you’ll need is a coffin,” Sir Chetwin declared. “Longville’s as deadly a shot as I’ve ever seen. And I hear he’s not without experience.”

  “Lord, yes,” Peyton said. “With all the women he’s known, I shouldn’t be surprised if— Ah, um, beg pardon, Tony. I’m sure I never meant to insult your—”

  “Leave it,” Sir Chetwin advised. “You are on the verge of a yawning abyss.”

  A great stirring in the outer room caught their attention—a most unusual occurrence in any gentlemen’s club, particularly one as exclusive as White’s. The three young men raised their heads, almost as if sniffing the air. Their eyes fixed on the doorway. Sir Chetwin was just bestirring himself to go in search of the source of the disturbance when a gentleman burst into the Reading Room, his voice rising above the clamor echoing from the front. “Longville’s back!” he chortled. “I’ve won a thousand pounds. Told those fools he’d never welch. Wouldn’t leave her at the altar after what happened with the first one. Never hold his head up in the ton again.”

  Slowly, Viscount Frayne rose from his seat. Around the room newspapers lay unheeded in gentlemen’s laps. “How do you know he’s back?” he inquired softly.

  “Paid an urchin to watch his house,” the gentleman countered swiftly. “Told him to fly straight here the minute he saw Longville’s coach.”

  “Was the duke alone?”

  “That was the odd part,” the gentleman frowned. “Urchin told me Longville had a young woman with him and some sort of dragon, a chaperon, one supposes. And a boy. Thought that last was a hum, myself, a child’s imagination.”

  “Thank you,” Tony murmured. And sat down before his legs buckled in full view of society’s most elite.

  “I wonder if our jolly gentleman is not counting his chicks too soon,” Sir Chetwin muttered. “’Tis nearly four days to the wedding. Just because Longville’s back don’t mean he intends to have her.”

  “I might not be able to put a bullet through Longville, Willoughby, but I can jolly well manage to put one through you,” Tony growled.

  “Sorry. I have a sad addiction to realism,” the baronet confessed.

  “You still don’t think he’ll have her?” Peyton Trimby-Ashford looked as appalled as he sounded.

  “It’s a queer kettle of fish,” Sir Chetwin pronounced.

  “Indeed,” Tony muttered. “If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I must be off. I rather think I prefer to beat my prospective brother-in-law to the door of Worley House.”

  “If he intends to go there at all,” Peyton intoned mournfully.

  “Then I know how to find Longville House,” said Anthony Norville, Viscount Frayne, heir to the Earl of Worley, and protector of sisters.

  “I daresay there’s a great scrambling toward the betting books,” said Lady Eugenia through lips as tight as bowstrings.

  “I said nothing about bets!” her brother disclaimed. Hastily.

  “You forget the years I spent with the army,” Jenny reminded him, without rancor. “Men will bet on anything, from a cockfight to the gender of Lord Anybody’s next-born child, to which gentleman will win a courtesan’s favors. Why should they not wager on the Duke of Longville’s marriage? ’Tis irresistible, I’m sure. Tell me, Tony, how will the duke’s return affect the odds?”

  Lady Eugenia, suddenly aware her voice had risen in a most unladylike manner, ducked her head, sinking her teeth into her lower lip in deep chagrin. She had revealed more than she had intended. As dear a brother as Tony might be, she clung to her privacy, unwilling for anyone to know the full extent of her hurt. She would not escape, she feared. No doubt Tony would pounce upon her brave show of indifference, recognizing it for the false façade it certainly was.

  Yet—sterling brother that he was—all Tony said was, “He’ll be here, Jen. Give Longville time to wash off the vestiges of travel, and he will be here.”

  But Jen had caught the bit between her teeth. “He has no choice, is that your meaning, Tony? The Duke of Longville cannot, in all conscience, fail to speak to the woman he is supposed to marry in four days time?”

  “Even he must have realized by now,” Tony sputtered, “that he could not simply go off like that, without any explanation.”

  “But he did,” Lady Eugenia stated flatly. “So what makes
you think the great Duke of Longville has recovered any sense of what is due his betrothed?”

  “Very well,” Tony snapped, “if you wish to think the worst, Longville will come, if only to find some way to break the engagement. I’m sorry, Jen,” he added swiftly. “It so happens I think you and Longville are suited. You’ll make him a good wife. I’ve spent more than a week as furious with him as you, but I think you must be realistic. Give him an opportunity to explain.”

  “Do not throw the baby out with the bath water,” Jenny muttered between clenched teeth.

  “Exactly.”

  “That’s all very well for you to say,” his sister shot back. “You are not the cynosure of every eye in the ton.”

  “Nor do I care for pistols at dawn.”

  “Good God!” Jenny exclaimed. “Surely it will not come to that.”

  “Beg pardon,” Tony said, his back ram-rod stiff. “Naturally, cool heads will prevail. Can’t have blood on Weston’s finest, don’t you know,” he added, smoothing his long fingers over his dark blue jacket fashioned by London’s most famous tailor.

  “Papa!” Jen cried. “Do not attempt to gammon me, Tony. Papa has put you up to it, for duels are not your métier.”

  “If my blood is too precious to be shed for my country,” Tony countered blandly, “why would father expect me to shed it for my sister’s honor? I assure you the question is moot. Longville has returned. I am certain he will do the right thing.”

  The right thing. After her brother’s departure, Lady Eugenia retreated to her room, greatly relieved that neither of her parents was at home. A lump clogged her throat. Tears she had learned to ruthlessly repress during her years on the Peninsula suddenly threatened to spill down her cheeks. If Longville came now, she would not be able to manage a word.

  In spite of Tony’s protests, she now had a good idea of what the men in her family were thinking. A duel. At the very least, a suit for breach of promise. The latter had been spitting from her mother’s tongue before the dust had settled on the duke’s departure from London. And it was not her honor Tony would be expected to defend. It was the honor of the family. The one thing for which Lord Worley might be willing to risk the life of his son and heir.