Chapter 2
“Remember,” her father said as he led her through Vauxhall Gardens, her arm trapped against his body in a vice-like grip, “you must smile. Engage the gentlemen in conversation. Dance with them.”
Two days later, Thalia had successfully forgotten about her run-in with the Duke. And that was largely because of her father’s machinations and determination to see her married.
They approached their picnic, and Thalia saw at once that the group had largely split into the ladies, reclining on the picnic blankets, and a rambunctious group of young men, all with glasses in their hands. Despite the hot spring sunbathing them, they were already partaking of wine.
It would be a long afternoon.
“Come,” her father said, nearly dragging her along to the group of bachelors.
No doubt he intended to thrust her into their midst so they could all get a good look at her as though she were a piece of meat.
Fortunately, their host, Lady Campbell, approached with a smile on her face, and her father was obliged to stop.
“Lord Gilford,” Lady Campbell said. “I am delighted you could make it. And what a lovely day it is.”
As her father made the obligatory small talk, Thalia spotted her closest friend and cousin, Anna Fitzroy, the Marchioness of Bloomsby. She widened her eyes, indicating she would like to be saved, and Anna rose to the occasion with aplomb.
“Lady Thalia!” she said, descending on them in a rustle of skirts and a wave of perfume.
She was a tall lady, and although she was only twenty years old, she knew how to make an entrance.
“How wonderful to see you! Uncle.” She curtsied to Thalia’s father, who blustered a little in greeting.
“I must steal your lovely daughter. It has been too long.”
So saying, she took Thalia’s arm and immediately led her away.
“Thank you,” Thalia muttered. “He was about to feed me to the sharks.”
Anna gave the group of young gentlemen a dismissive glance. “You can do far better, darling.”
“I know that, if I were inclined to marry, but my father is determined to get me out of the house one way or the other.”
“Odious man.” Anna patted her hand and led her to the shade of a nearby tree.
At night, Vauxhall Gardens became a place of danger and splendor all at once, but by day, it seemed perfectly ordinary. A river ran through the beautiful gardens, and hedges and pathways intersected the grassy lawns.
“Did you find Calloway?” Anna then asked.
“Two nights ago. He owed money. I paid them off his debts, but…”
She went on describing the events of the evening, including when the Duke of Marrowhurst had saved them.
Anna’s eyes widened. “He’s back in London?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t particularly care. If I had to guess, I imagine he was away for business, but he’s returned now. I hope I won’t have to see him again.”
“Hmm.” Anna looked her up and down, a mischievous light in her eyes. “I don’t buy that for a second. Be honest. Seeing him again ruffled your feathers, didn’t it?”
“If you mean it was a shock, then of course. I hardly expected to see him there, and—”
And he had been so magnificently handsome.
She had contrived to more or less stop thinking about his broad shoulders and the hard, firm line of his mouth, but there was no denying she had been captivated by them in that moment.
His presence.
But that was neither here nor there.
The young ladies on the blanket nearest them all broke out into titters. “What do you mean you haven’t heard of Alessandro Rossi? Darling, are you living under a rock?”
Thalia stiffened on instinct. Alessandro Rossi had been the name she had chosen as her pseudonym for her sculpting. Elliot had assured her that an Italian name would suit her purpose well. Many famous sculptors came from Italy.
“He is simply fabulous,” another young lady gushed. “Everyone who is anyone has commissioned a piece from him. I quite assure you he is all the rage, although the waiting list is perfectly monstrous now.”
“Have you ever met him?” another lady asked. “Imagine staid old William’s face if I were to confess to meeting with an Italian sculptor. I think he would half go out of his mind with envy.”
Thalia grinned at Anna, who winked back. Of everyone in the world, Thalia trusted Anna the most with her secret. Even though Anna had married her husband, Simon Fitzroy, in a whirlwind romance, she had never once confessed Thalia’s secret.
“I think if the ladies were to meet the sculptor himself, they would be quite disappointed,” Thalia murmured, leaning closer to her friend.
“How is your latest project going?”
Thalia glanced at her father, who was glaring at her. She sighed. “Slowly. My father has been needling me about the upcoming Season and all the things I must do to gain a husband. It’s very distracting.”
Ripples ran through the crowd. Thalia glanced up to see a tall man approaching the picnic area, an older lady, and a fresh-faced debutante by his side.
The Duke of Marrowhurst.
A surge of unfamiliar emotion ran through Thalia as she observed the pretty young lady by the Duke’s side. She was entirely Thalia’s opposite, blonde with a delicate, angelic face, and dressed in a way that hinted at her naiveté.
This was not a young lady who would enter an underground club to save her friend from debtors.
Was this the sort of lady the Duke preferred?
Well, in that case, he must have been relieved to have Thalia, a self-proclaimed hellion, off his hands.
She wished him joy.
And then she wished him misery, with a viciousness that shocked her.
What did his happiness matter to her?
What on earth was wrong with me?
Maxwell strode through the crowd, heartily wishing his duty did not involve this preening about the ton as though he were a peacock. The whispers spread through the assembled people, and although he had known he was the source of rumors for years, he despised it.
Did no one have anything better to talk about than this?
Lady Campbell approached him with a wide smile. “Your Grace! And this, no doubt, must be your… erm, ward?”
She sent him a glance, presuming perhaps that Lydia Parsons was his daughter, though the respective ages between the two would have made that—well, not impossible, but unlikely.
“This is Miss Lydia Parsons,” he said, inclining his head. “And Lady Rivenhall, her mother. The late Viscount Rivenhall was a good friend of my family.”
Joyce, Viscountess Rivenhall, simpered the way she had a habit of doing, and Maxwell suppressed a sigh. “We are most grateful to His Grace, of course.”
“Of course,” Lady Campbell said, and Maxwell already knew that news of their situation would be spread through the ton by dusk.
At least he need not take the trouble of announcing himself or his situation; the entire world would know it before his next engagement.
Lydia bobbed a neat curtsy. Somehow, despite the situation of her parents, she had grown into a sweet-mannered girl.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady,” she murmured.
Lady Campbell tried to hide her smile behind her fan and gave a brief introduction to the other members of the picnic. Fortunately, before she could get too enmeshed in the gossip of the day, Simon Fitzroy, the Marquess of Bloomsby, waved and approached.
“Marrow,” Simon called, the old nickname a relic from their Oxford days. “What brings you here? I had no notion you were in London.”
“Duty calls.” Maxwell stepped away from Lady Campbell and gestured at Lady Rivenhall and Lydia. “This is Lady Rivenhall, and her daughter, Miss Lydia Parsons. They are staying with me for the Season. My ladies, this is the Marquess of Bloomsby, a friend of mine.”
Simon bowed. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, my ladies.”
“The pleasure is ours, my lord,” Lady Rivenhall murmured, sinking into a curtsy.
Lydia smiled. “Indeed, my lord.”
“You must be introduced to my wife,” Simon said in that good-natured way of his. “She is invited to everything, you know.” Quiet pride of his pretty, sociable wife shone in his eyes. “Ah, there she is.”
Upon spotting his wife, Anna, in the shade of a tree, Simon waved her over.
To his shock, Maxwell noticed she was accompanied by Lady Thalia, dressed this time in a pale rose gown that perfectly complemented her flushed cheeks and dark curls.
All cream and chocolate, that one.
He had rarely come across a lady who so tempted him to take a bite. The last time they had encountered one another, he had behaved as a brute, beating another man in front of her, and she had not hidden in fear.
Her defiance had aroused him almost to the point of madness.
He would have more control today.
“Darling, this is Lady Rivenhall, and her daughter, Miss Lydia Parsons. Ladies, this is my wife, Lady Bloomsby,” Simon announced, taking her arm and displaying her to the small group. “Is she not quite the prettiest lady to walk the streets of London?”
Anna blushed and gave her husband’s arm a playful slap. “You can hardly claim so in front of other ladies, dearest. It is ungenerous.”
Joyce gave a thin-lipped smile. “I can be forgiving when the slight stems from a husband’s ardor.”
Lady Thalia avoided Maxwell’s gaze. He spared her only the briefest glance. Their shared history and accidental meeting the other night were no reason for him to pay her any special attention.
“This,” Simon said, with a kind smile for Lady Thalia, “is my wife’s cousin and dearest friend, Lady Thalia. Lady Thalia, this is Lady Rivenhall, and Miss Lydia Parsons.”
Lady Thalia curtsied obligingly. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Lydia’s eyes widened when she heard Lady Thalia’s name, and Maxwell knew before she opened her mouth that she would say something impulsive and foolish.
“Heavens,” she said, turning to him with childlike curiosity, “is that not the lady you were going to marry, Your Grace?”
Lady Thalia started, a flush springing to his cheeks. Maxwell gave Lydia a sharp glare, and she colored, seeming to sense she had said something out of place.