Chapter Two
Robert Wormsley, the seventh Duke of Trentham, waited while his oldest and soon-to-be “ex” friend, the Earl of Lynchford, handed his lovely American countess into the carriage.
Dessie’s evening dress, a deep violet color, studded with pearls, was not quite as fetching as her sister’s, but it was appropriate for the event she’d been attending, not a ballgown at a private party.
Until tonight, Trentham had assumed Dessie must be the most beautiful woman that that silly new country could produce.
But apparently the place teemed with them.
Lynch vaulted up after her, fury evident in every taut muscle.
It was a wonder the man didn’t sproing apart when his backside hit the seat.
Having taken a page from the book of the charmingly gauche Miss Delancey, Trentham had sent his own coach back.
Therefore, Lynch had no choice but to cart him home, post-haste.
Trentham climbed into Lynch’s landau and seated himself opposite Dessie, then pulled a lump of rose-perfumed lap blanket out from beneath him.
Some soft ruffled thing. Gad. Marriage even ruined a man’s carriage.
He tossed it aside without comment. Dessie regarded him with a worried expression.
Lynch glared. The carriage eased from the Walpoles’ drive.
Trentham unbuttoned the neck of his great coat, set his hat on the seat beside him, and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. Where to begin? Backwards, surely.
“It’s soon enough mended.” He gestured vaguely.
“I’ll send flowers tomorrow and a very abject note, begging permission to call at her convenience to hear her delightful poems. I’ll even go.
I’ll wax enraptured and insist she publish her lines, and when she presses her awful booklet upon me, I’ll be as grateful as a petted puppy.
And Walpole won’t hold it against you. You cleared me out quick enough. ”
Lynch said nothing for a moment, then muttered, “Hopeless. You are hopeless.”
“Yes, I know. Two steps forward, one step back. But—”
“More like one forward, three back. Coming foxed to Lady Walpole’s recitation?”
“She was delighted to see me!” he protested.
“For five minutes. Till you passed out and bloody snored! While she was reciting! Robin, you are the one who swore you needed to rehabilitate your reputation. Not me. Still, I thought you had turned a corner! But this is the most appalling stunt since—”
“Since insulting Arbuckle’s bone-setter at Tattersall’s last week. Though, truly, this latest masterwork is not at all my fault.”
Lynch’s eyes narrowed. Dessie rescued them both.
“What is wrong, Robin?”
He scowled. He hated that name. His mother, God rest her soul, and his sister could call him that—no one else.
But Lynch had known him since his “Robin” days and the moniker had stuck.
Mistaking the name for one of endearment—though surely she was not that thick-witted—Dessie had adopted it.
Americans. He should insist upon “Your Grace.”
Lynch answered for him, disgusted. “He’s drunk as a wheelbarrow, that’s what.”
“Hmm.” Dessie tapped her chin. “I admit the flask was a nice touch. Give it here.”
Ah, Dessie. Too clever by half. Trentham pulled the flask from the pocket of his coat and handed it to her. He watched, admiringly, as she twisted off the cap, sniffed, and took a swig. Lynch’s eyes popped from his head.
Dessie made smacking noises, then a gagged face. “Is that supposed to be lemonade? Or throat tonic?”
“I don’t know. It’s been in there a while.”
Lynch snatched the flask from his wife’s hands, sniffed, then grimaced. “Whatever it is, it has turned.”
Trentham ignored Lynch for Dessie. “What gave me away? Was I not convincing?”
“You were horribly convincing. I fell for it until we gathered round the carriage just now. Foxed? I don’t think so.
I’ve breathed in the fumes when men have been drinking.
It oozes from their pores. You smell like soap.
Though you certainly don’t look washed.” She no longer appeared worried. Just curious. “Robin, why the farce?”
He leaned forward and stretched out his long arms, placing his hands firmly on Dessie’s shoulders; then he tilted and shifted her until she was draped across Lynch’s broad chest.
“Don’t let him leap at me.”
“Trentham, take your hands off my wife.” Lynch had perfected the languid tone of voice most peers could only hope to mimic poorly: bored and dangerous.
Trentham did as commanded, tempted to laugh. He settled back against the leather upholstery and asked, “Have you not seen the invitation I sent round? Musicale? Tomorrow night?”
“I hadn’t heard anything of it until just this evening. Jamison asked if we were going. It mortified him to have asked, since I answered I knew nothing about it. I suspect it will soon be all over London that we’ve fallen out. I hadn’t realized we had.”
“Ah, not yet, we haven’t.”
“A musicale?” Dessie asked.
“Eli is in town. Elias Cameron. An old friend—”
“Elias Cameron!” She bounced away from Lynch and kept bouncing on the bench. “Oh! Ophelia will sprout wings and fly! How could you have neglected to send us an invitation?”
“I did not neglect you.” He rubbed his chin, then pressed ahead. “This is no one’s fault.”
Lynch groaned. “Famous last words.”
“It seems your sister found the invitation. She mistook the date.”
For a moment, two pairs of eyes focused upon him. Then one pair blinked.
“She’s at your house!” Dessie erupted with delighted laughter.
How pleasant such innocence must be. Lynch gazed at her adoringly. When her giggles subsided, Lynch tucked her under his arm and turned to face Trentham. He looked disconcerted, as though he was beginning to see what a visit from his wife’s sister would mean.
“No harm done, I suppose.” It was grudgingly stated. “So long as you didn’t leave her alone with Eli.”
“Not alone. Foster’s with them.”
“Foster! Fetch-this-shiny-penny Foster?” Lynch shook his head. “My God. I’m going to have to shoot Eli.” He sounded quietly appalled by the workings of Fate.
“Foster has grown up. Some.” Trentham turned his face to the side of the carriage. “And that joke is not funny.”
“No,” Lynch said quickly. “It wasn’t.” His voice was low. Apologetic as one always was when a joke went badly wrong. Trentham took pity.
“Besides. You can’t shoot Eli. He’s not a gentleman. There are rules.”
*
They rode in silence. Dessie was clearly bursting with questions, but Trentham thought it was best not to encourage her to ask.
Let her sister answer them. Amusing as it had been, no one needed to hear about the attempted window escape.
Anyway, for full appreciation, that had to have been witnessed.
There may even have been a tantalizing bit of ankle, but he’d been too befogged to look, damn it.
He wondered if he should mention the dress. No. Definitely not.
After all, he was no arbiter of ladies’ fashion. Perhaps in New York, low-cut ballgowns were all the rage at small private evening gatherings. She might have gotten away with it had the room been crowded with befeathered females. Probably even start a new trend. She wore it so well.
But Lynch would never believe that he hadn’t noticed. He couldn’t believe he’d just walked away without leaving a puddle of drool on the floor.
The landau rolled up the drive of the Trentham townhouse, a comfortable old place—three stories, the necessary outbuildings, and an acre of gardens—though nothing to compare with his country estate in Hampshire.
Or the lake cottage in Italy—that was a treat.
Trentham preferred grounds. He liked views.
He liked to be able to breathe the air without choking.
That wasn’t to say London didn’t have its attractions.
They disembarked and approached the steps. Trentham had second thoughts about the ballgown. He couldn’t pretend not to have noticed.
He touched Dessie’s elbow. “Before we go in, I have to say, your sister is absolutely stunning.”
Dessie smiled. “Yes, she is.”
“No. But I mean, very stunning.”
Dessie’s smile faltered and, after a searching look, her eyes grew wide. “The mauve? Or the blue?”
The thought of a “mauve” made his breath catch. He managed, “Blue.”
“Thank goodness,” Dessie said. She linked her arm through his and led him up the steps.
“It is better to err on the side of overdressed for an occasion than underdressed, and our London modiste hasn’t yet completed Ophelia’s wardrobe.
Besides, she thought she was going to hear Elias Cameron.
” She patted his arm with sympathy. “You’ll recover, Robin. ”
Henson opened the door for them, and they stepped over the threshold to the accompaniment of music.
Eli’s practice. Trentham glanced over his shoulder.
Was that a smile on Henson’s face? No, of course not.
But there was music. Piano and harp. Wait.
That piece? It sounded different. Not only different: it sounded right.
“Is that Ophelia playing?” Lynch asked.
“Mmm-hmmm, I think so,” Dessie said, letting go of Trentham’s arm to take her husband’s.
“She plays the harp?” Trentham hadn’t anticipated this. This either. Frankly, his recovery from the evening was growing more and more in doubt.
“She does. Among other things.”
“I hope we are still talking about instruments,” he muttered.
The harp was his. An inheritance. He played well, but not nearly this well. And never in public. Men didn’t play harps. Unless they were old Irish bards.
He led them to the music room where the two musicians were engaged in a duet. Foster was seated in a chair near the piano. Agog as only a newly pubescent, gangly boy with spots on his face, staring at a vision of female perfection, could be agog.
The newcomers did not interrupt. They sat.
They listened. Trentham flicked something wet from the corner of his eye.
They all applauded when the piece ended.
No one bothered to take note of what Ophelia was wearing.
Or not wearing. She’d taken off her gloves to play.
Well, so Trentham had bothered. He couldn’t stop bothering.
She had shapely, strong arms. Lovely, graceful hands. Eli was no doubt entranced.
And Trentham was lost.