Chapter One #3
Barney shook his head. “Don’t even think of it, my friend. That’s Lady Hewitt, the Ice Widow. She’s beautiful, I grant you, but”—he shuddered—“cold as ice, and venal as all get.”
The Ice Widow? Marcus watched as she glided through the crowd, serene—indifferent?
—her hand resting lightly on her escort’s arm.
She made no attempt to engage anyone in conversation.
The man she was with did all the talking, all the greeting—and he spoke only to other men.
No women spoke to her, none greeted her, and the few who looked at her did so with sour expressions, murmuring something to their companions—something even from this distance Marcus could tell was disparaging.
She just stood there looking beautiful. Seemingly indifferent. And, admittedly, cold.
“Who’s her escort?”
“Her brother.” Barney gave him a curious look. “Don’t you recognize him? It’s Blaxland Major, from school.”
“Blaxland Major? You mean Edgar Blaxland?”
“That’s the one. Not the younger brother of course. Died at Waterloo, I heard. Pity. He was the best of that family. And Blaxland Major is Lord Blaxland now: the father died a few years ago.”
Marcus stared at the woman and her escort. His head was reeling. It couldn’t possibly be . . .
But if she was with her brother, Edgar Blaxland, it had to be.
The beautiful, serene and apparently cold-as-ice widow was also Tessa, his wild and grubby little sprite from the forest.
It made no sense.
As he watched, Edgar Blaxland seated his sister and said something that made her stiffen.
She shook her head and rose. It looked as if she was ready to leave.
But Edgar simply shoved her back into her seat.
He turned to the companion, said something that made the woman nod, sit down beside Tessa and take her arm in what looked like a firm grip.
Marcus frowned.
Then Edgar made a ‘stay there’ sort of gesture to his sister and headed for the card room.
Tessa watched him go, her expression, what? Mulish? Angry?
What on earth was going on? Marcus could only surmise, but whatever it was, he didn’t like it. But not a soul in the ballroom had seemed to notice, or if they did, it hadn’t seemed to bother them, not even when Edgar pushed his sister into her chair, and not gently.
The moment Edgar disappeared, the companion or chaperone or whatever she was, started looking around and gesturing with her free hand, trying to catch the eye of a waiter. After a few unsuccessful minutes, she stood, made a ‘stay there’ gesture to Tessa, and hurried away.
Abandoning his friend in mid-sentence, Marcus strode across the room.
He had to talk to Tessa. As he approached, weaving through the crowd toward her, their eyes met.
For a moment he thought hers lit up with a welcoming expression, but then she looked away, biting her lip and looking first one way, then another, as if looking for someone. The chaperone? Her brother?
Had she not recognized him? Her eyes were still that deep violet-blue he remembered, but now he couldn’t read them.
But as he reached her the cool, frustrated, faintly worried expression vanished and she smiled up at him. “Marcus.”
“Tessa, what a wonderful surprise. I had no idea you were in London, let alone that you would be attending this party.”
“It was a last-minute decision. We’ve only just returned to London—or at least I’ve only just returned.” Again she glanced quickly in the direction her brother had gone, and the furrow between her brows deepened. If he hadn’t been watching her so closely he might have missed it.
“How long has it been? Remember how we freed the vixen from the trap that day?” Lord, but he was hopeless at making polite conversation with women.
Her smile was half-hearted, a little distracted. “Of course I do. And have often wondered whether she has survived in the years since.”
She kept darting sideways glances in the direction her brother had gone. Why? Was she nervous in company? The child he remembered hadn’t been nervous or the slightest bit shy.
“I don’t often come to London,” he told her, “But I’m delighted to see you here.” Lord, where was witty banter when he needed it?
She glanced around. “I rarely move in ton circles.”
“I gather you are widowed. My condolences on your loss.”
She didn’t reply, just glanced again in the direction her brother had gone, absently pulling off her gloves and smoothing them on her lap with restless fingers.
“Are you looking for someone?” he asked.
She started and gave him a swift smile. Again it felt forced. “No, I don’t know anyone here. Just my brother. And you.” She looked up at him with a serene expression, but he noticed she was picking at her nails with nervous fingers.
Marcus frowned. Was his presence unsettling her? He wasn’t much of a conversationalist it was true, but surely . . . Was he looming? He edged back—but no, she leaned slightly toward him, so it wasn’t that.
“What have you been doing in the years since we last met?” she asked him. “I suppose you’re married.”
“No,” he said bluntly.
She was about to say something in response when the chaperone returned with two brimming glasses of wine.
The woman pushed her way in between them, saying, “I mush ask you to leave, sir.” She plopped unsteadily down in the seat next to Tessa, drained one of the glasses and tucked it out of sight under her chair.
“S’most improper, you haven’t been introdushed.
” She sipped daintily from the second glass.
It was clearly not her first glass of the evening.
“Nonsense,” Marcus said crisply. “Lady—” he broke off, unable to recall Tessa’s married name. “The lady and I have known each other since childhood.”
“Nev’r’thless, I have my instrusch’ns,” the woman said.
“Oh no,” Tessa muttered, looking past Marcus. “I told him!” Her eyes flashed and she made a low, angry sound.
Marcus followed her gaze, to where Edgar Blaxland was making his way toward them, accompanied by a nattily dressed elderly man.
“You’d better go, Marcus,” Tessa said. “This is going to get ugly.”
“Yesh, go ‘way,” the chaperone said, flapping a hand at him.
Marcus had no intention of leaving, especially if things were going to get ugly. He hadn’t liked what he’d observed earlier, before he’d even spoken to Tessa, and from her expression now, it was going to be more of the same.
Her brother seated the old man on a settee outside a small, curtained anteroom and glided up to meet them. He lifted a quizzing glass and regarded Marcus through it. “Good lord,” he drawled, “Renfrew, is it?”
Marcus inclined his head. “Though now I’m Alverleigh.”
“And I am now Lord Blaxland. So melancholy, is it not, that our esteemed papas have both passed away? Still, life goes on. You wish to be introduced to my sister, I gather. Theodosia, Lady Hewitt, Lord Alverleigh.”
Marcus was about to point out that he and Tessa had known each other as children, but the expression on her face froze the words in his mouth. “Delighted,” he murmured, as if they were strangers, and bowed over her hand.
She murmured some polite phrase in response but before she’d even finished, her brother had taken her elbow, saying, “And now that dreary convention has been observed, I must tear you apart. Come, Theodosia, there is a gentleman who is anxious to meet you.” He gestured to where the elegant, white-haired old gentleman waited, watching them with a look of eager expectation.
Tessa’s mulish expression hardened. “No, Edgar, I’m not meeting him. We discussed this.”
“Now, now, don’t be shy, dear sister, come along.” Edgar gripped her arm and nodded to the chaperone, who drained her glass and grabbed another one from a passing waiter.
For a moment Tessa sat there, stiff as if refusing to move, but just as Marcus was about to intervene, she glanced at him and shook her head.
He stepped back. He didn’t like what was happening, but he didn’t know what it was all about, but she’d signaled clearly—twice—that she didn’t want him to get involved.
And it was clear that if he did intervene, there would be a scene.
“Very well,” she told her brother, “I’ll meet him, but there’s no point. I told you, I’m not doing it again.”
Edgar laughed as if she’d said something silly. “Come along.” His voice was implacable.
Marcus watched as her brother introduced her to the old gentleman, with what looked like a lot more charm than the perfunctory introduction he’d given Marcus.
He couldn’t see how Tessa was responding to the old man’s remarks—her back was to him.
But the old man, whoever he was seemed delighted with her.
“Told you,” Barney said at his elbow.
Marcus turned. “Told me what?”
“Not to bother with her. She’s not for the likes of you—or me, for that matter, not that I’m looking for a leg-shackle just yet. Didn’t think you were either.”
“What do you mean, not for the likes me?” He wasn’t looking for a wife; he was just reconnecting with a childhood friend.
Barney nodded to where the dandified old man was beaming down at Tessa.
She’d turned a little and he could see her better now.
Her expression was remote as the moon again and she seemed to be saying little, but her brother looked on complacently, clearly pleased with whatever was going on.
“Lay you a pony he’ll be her next victim. ”
Marcus frowned. “Victim? What are you talking about?”
Barney shrugged. “Victim, husband—not much difference when you boil it down.”
Marcus stared. “Do you mean to say she’s planning to marry that old man?”
“Not sure what she’s planning but unless I’m mistaken—and I rarely am—her brother is certainly brokering the deal this very minute.”
Brokering the deal? Marcus was revolted at the suggestion. “But she’s only twenty-four or five. That old goat’s old enough to be her grandfather.”
Barney glanced at the little scene again and said, his voice full of disgust, “That’s how they like them, those Blaxlands—old and rich.”
“I don’t believe it.” He couldn’t imagine the passionate, animal-loving little scrap he’d known all those years ago becoming in the least bit venal. And on Tessa’s behalf he resented her inclusion in ‘those Blaxlands.’
Barney shrugged. “Believe what you like, but you’ll see I’m right. Oh, look, there’s Monty. I haven’t seen him for ages. Hey, Monty!” He hurried off to greet his friend, leaving Marcus thoughtful and disturbed.
He could believe anything of Edgar Blaxland, but Tessa? No.
And yet, Barney had always been up-to-the minute with the doings of London society. And Tessa had been behaving oddly, far from the open-hearted little girl he remembered. What was going on?
He looked again to where the old gentleman was seating Tessa beside him on the settee, patting her hand, with her brother smiling benevolently on. Her expression was blank, cold and distant as the moon.
He hadn’t seen her for years, but it was only natural that she’d changed.
Was she being forced into some hideous mismatch? Was her brother exploiting her? Was she frightened of him? Did he mistreat her, was that it? There had been definite undercurrents in their brief exchange, undercurrents he didn’t understand, and didn’t like.
The questions hammered at him. The contrast between this reserved young woman and the warm and passionate little scrap was . . . unsettling. He had to speak to her, in private.
After a while the old man rose and after a brief exchange with Blaxland, he kissed her hand, shook the hand of her brother and tottered off.
Immediately Tessa turned to her brother and said something that made him throw up his hands in apparent exasperation. Then he jerked his head and the small party rose and turned toward the exit.
Marcus hurried to catch them. “May I have the next dance, Lady Hewitt?” he said.
She opened her mouth, but her brother answered for her. “My sister is still in mourning and doesn’t dance.”
And yet he’d brought her to a ton party and though she hadn’t danced, she was not wearing black as she would be if still in full mourning.
“In any case she’s tired and we’re leaving,” her brother added. She didn’t look the slightest bit tired, but she didn’t try to contradict her brother. And when Marcus caught her eye, she gave a barely perceptible shake of her head. It was very odd.
“Then may I call on you, Lady Hewitt?” Marcus persisted.
“She doesn’t wish for callers either,” her brother snapped. “Goodbye.”
Marcus looked at Tessa, willing her to indicate something—anything—that would help him to understand her situation.
But as her brother urged her out the door toward the waiting carriage, she looked back at Marcus and though he searched her face for signs of regret—or any other emotion—she simply said, “I’m sorry, Lord Alverleigh.
Goodbye.” She looked pale and . . . brittle.
He watched her leave, puzzled and more than a little disturbed.