Chapter Two #2
The remainder of the ride passed pleasantly until they reached Kensington Gardens and encountered the Marquis of Fellingham.
Richard had no liking for the marquis, whose persistent attentions to Valentina were particularly annoying.
The man gambled like a fiend, and to make matters worse, gossip circulated that Fellingham carried on an affaire de coeur with Mrs. Eleanor Davenport.
Richard couldn’t care who his former mistress kept company with, but he refused to let any taint of scandal enter Valentina’s world.
He avoided overt rudeness and bypassed the marquis as often as possible.
“Miss Merrick. Lord Seldon. What a delightful surprise.” The marquis tipped his high-crowned beaver hat. “I wish you good afternoon.”
“Lord Fellingham,” Richard nodded. Valentina inclined her head politely. He had never perceived any interest from his sister in that quarter, thankfully. To his mind, the marquis’s manners bordered on familiarity.
“We have missed you at White’s these past weeks, Lord Seldon. You must allow me to earn back the considerable sum I lost to you at whist the last time we played. Will I see you at Lady Smythe’s soiree tonight, Miss Merrick?”
The man was entirely too bold. “Our plans are undecided as of yet,” he said, picking up the reins so the horses came to attention.
The marquis looked admiringly at the pair of geldings, who stood calm and alert after a good hour of work. “As always, your taste in horseflesh is impeccable, my lord. You must let me know if you sell the pair. I will offer a fine price.”
Richard glanced over at the man’s flashy bay, all style and no substance. He tipped his head and lightly laid the whip. “We have paused long enough, I fear. Good day, Lord Fellingham.” The grays sprang forward.
Valentina clutched at her hat. “Are we going to Lady Smythe’s, Richard? I confess I am rather tired from the ball at Fotherington Place last night. We were there very late.”
“Perhaps an evening at home would be the thing, Valentina. I know I have kept you busy these past weeks.” And his damned head was worse. He had hoped the fresh air might help. “Did you know Percy Ferrar asked for your hand today?”
“Oh no, Richard, really? I hoped his embarrassing crush would subside. Did you refuse him?”
“Yes, I did. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not in the least. He is a very silly young man. I know you must find such interviews tedious. Sometimes I wonder if I shall ever find a suitable husband. I want love, you know.”
“Love is overrated, my dear. Look where it got Mother. An unhappy marriage and a pile of debt. What of Lord Atterbury? I thought perhaps you showed some interest in his direction. I fully expect him to offer for you.” The viscount was no duke, but he possessed excellent lineage, a bottomless purse, and an esteemed political career.
A veritable trifecta of qualities in Richard’s mind.
Valentina toyed with a button on her jacket, avoiding his eyes. “I suppose the viscount is very distinguished and polite…but, Richard, he is so old.”
He was taken aback. Atterbury couldn’t be more than two or three years his senior. The thought that she might consider Richard anything but in his prime at thirty-two rankled. He set the horses to a brisker trot and resolutely ignored the pounding in his head for the rest of the way home.
An hour later, Richard rounded the corner from Oxford Street to Merrick House. As he drew closer, his hands tightened involuntarily on the reins, causing the tired grays to throw their heads in objection.
In front of the palatial Merrick home, a weather-beaten hackney stood parked at the curb with two skinny, drab cobs in the harness.
A considerable pile of luggage, including trunks and miscellaneous valises, lay strewn about blocking the sidewalk.
Hansen stood at the gate, gesturing angrily and pointing at the carriage and the trunks.
A smaller figure confronted the majordomo, mostly blocked by his bulk, and above Hansen’s protests, he heard a feminine voice just as loud. Richard maneuvered around the unsightly public conveyance and parked his curricle. Jerome appeared instantly to take the horses’ heads.
“What the devil is happening in front of my house, Jerome?” Richard asked, alighting to help Valentina down from the carriage.
Jerome rolled his eyes. The wiry horseman was a familiar sight in fashionable London, perched on the back of one of the earl’s sleek carriages. In nine years of tenure, Richard had never seen his tiger at a loss for words.
“I dunno, Yer Lordship, but there’s some female giving Hansen the what for. Hanged if I can tell why, but they’ve had a go twenty minutes now.”
The earl spotted Lady Amelia on the stoop, pale and wringing her hands in agitation. His head throbbed madly and seeing his mother upset only added to his foul mood.
“Richard,” Valentina begged. “Such a scene…and everyone is watching. Can’t you stop it?”
“I most certainly will,” he answered and strode past the waiting hackney, who yelled something he didn’t stop to decipher.
Richard reached the center of the disturbance. “Hansen! You will cease arguing at once. And as for you, my good woman, you may—”
A tall, slender figure stepped around Hansen.
She couldn’t have been much older than Valentina and wore a fashionable sage-green cloak, rich with sable trim.
A matching fur muff dangled from one chocolate suede glove.
Beneath the jaunty velvet toque on her head, hair black as a raven’s wing curled in a chignon at the nape of her neck.
A few long tendrils had escaped, framing the young woman’s furious face.
A frisson of something—he was unsure exactly what—coursed through him. She was very fair, with a faint sprinkling of freckles across her straight nose and eyes of a startling sea green. He wouldn’t call her beautiful, but she was one of the most striking women Richard had ever seen.
“Why on earth are you shouting at my majordomo in the open street?”