Chapter 15
“Friends had always had two faces for her. She’d never had a friend who had proven to be what they had claimed to be, in this life or the one she’d had before. People were genuinely only for themselves.”
Adelaide, Chapter 14
Fitz had no excuse. Well, if he thought long and hard, he could always come up with one; though it would be flimsy.
He’d told Lady Noelle he’d call on her. He had failed.
He’d seen the young lady talking to his uncle, the very man who stood to inherit everything down to Fitz’s title and his boots, likely trying to spin doubts.
So he’d written her another letter under a friendly guise even as he stayed away.
Fitz realized by not showing up, he’d played right into the man’s schemes.
But he couldn’t reconcile the wrongness of it.
By God, she’d just debuted after two seasons of prolonged mourning.
If he called on Lady Noelle, he’d want to keep her.
Not as her friend, her pen pal, or her sparring partner; but as something else entirely.
And in doing so, he’d take her options away.
Was it so wrong to drag things out a little longer?
It likely was, and time was limited; that was entirely his problem.
Or the crux of many of his problems: putting things off.
That was yesterday, he was pretty sure. Tonight, an unmarked carriage rolled up to his large stone terrace in Mayfair, the reverberating sounds of a band -not an orchestra- playing, fountains swimming with French champagne, a swarm of well-dressed people outside.
The lord in question stepped forward to greet a familiarly marked carriage.
He’d decided to throw a party, his stalwart assistant Letitia had advised against it at first.
Even she couldn’t deny the satisfaction it would bring to know how much his uncle would loathe the excess.
Maybe if he played the part of rabble-rousing, reckless fool, his uncle would be none the wiser as Fitz enacted the next phase of his plan.
One that involved fetes and the biggest gossips of the ton.
“Who invited you lot?” Fitzwilliam Pomfrey said into the carriage with a mischievous grin.
His attire was slightly more ostentatious than the friends who made their way out of the carriage: a velvet jacket of dark green and a matching waistcoat shot with gold embroidery.
His eyes were blackened with kohl, his left ear sported a gold ring, and he had not a hair out of place.
Two of the ladies inside, and at least one of the gentlemen, eyed him over with fascination.
And of all the people spilling out of the carriage, was Lady Moria Pembrooke. He wasn’t sure which of the gentlemen or ladies they shared an acquaintance with had extended an invitation; but she was a complication he didn’t need. Definitely not tonight.
She wore a dress of cerulean satin that was tailored to her curves to perfection. Of course, he’d always thought her attractive; but he’d never been attracted to her. He saw the difference now, recalling the way he and Lady Noelle had-
“You invited us, jackass,” his cousin, Lord Tristan Valentine, cut through his thoughts. The other old school chums who’d arrived with him all laughed. Fitz distributed masks to each of them amid familiar claps on the back.
Fitz handed Lady Moria a befitting midnight blue mask trimmed with peacock feathers, “For you,” he said. Lady Moria locked eyes with him, he looked away.
When they had all exited the carriage, he grasped Lady Moria by the arm and motioned toward a secluded alcove. They were hidden behind a pillar, a potted fern, and a large marble bust when he spoke.
“I don’t think you should be here-” he shook his head, but she cut him off.
“I got a note, I didn’t know we were coming here. To your den of iniquity.”
He incredulously shot back, “So you got in a carriage full of people, not knowing the destination?”
She squared her shoulders. “Yes. Carina Smythe wrote me a note inviting me to a…fete at an…undisclosed location…and an unmarked carriage was waiting for me this evening.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose as she continued uncowed, “She never specified what type of party before hand...or that we’d wind up at your townhouse.”
“I’m taking you home,” Fitz tugged at her elbow impatiently; but she planted her feet in defiance.
Did all of the Pembrookes have to be so damned headstrong?
Lady Moria yanked her arm from his grasp indignantly.“You’re allowed to host this lavish party, but I’m not allowed to attend? Doesn’t sound very sporting.” Her back was ram-rod straight and her jaw was set. She punctuated the effect by placing her hands on her hips.
He exhaled. It came out sounding more like a grunt. “It’s because I’m hosting that I know you shouldn’t be here.”
“Why are you hosting this party, anyway?” She looked around pointedly at the festivities unfolding around them.
He pulled away from her, leaned against the wall like he was trying to disappear, to blend right into the stone where he’d never be noticed again.
“I’m one of your oldest friends, you can’t share your secrets with those people,” she gestured over his shoulder to Lord Tristan and the young ladies and a group of others who were playing an adapted game of “ring the bottle,
” but the bottle was a champagne bottle balanced atop another young lord’s head; “But you can talk to me.”
The throng cheered when one young lady successfully rung the bottle with one of the wooden rings. A chorus of cheers went up.
Fitz sighed. “I didn’t…receive my inheritance yet…not exactly.”
“Go on.” There was cool curiosity in her voice as she leaned against the wall beside him.
“There’s a stipulation…I have to take an active role in running my grandfather’s publishing house…And get married.”
Her face paled. When they were children, they’d shared a tutor during the off seasons when his family came to stay at Brookevale Park.
It wasn’t common knowledge, but she knew Fitz had always battled with a mundane adversary: reading.
To be tasked with the burden of running a business, a publishing house at that, was a cruel twist of fate.
“Dear lord,” she produced a flask from a cleverly concealed pocket in her cloak, one he guessed she’d sewn herself, and took a sip.
When offered, he took the flask from her and brought it to his lips.
He bore the welcome, contrasting tang of cold metal and the burn of the liquor before handing it back to her.
Lady Moria ventured, twisting the lid back on the flask, “So this isn’t a celebration…it’s a-”
He finished for her, “A last hurrah? A funeral for my former reputation as a rake? One last gasp before respectability?”
There was more to this saga, this never-ending episode that was his life; but he wasn’t putting all his cards on the table, not for her.
“At least you’re not being dramatic about it,” she said, playfully colliding her shoulder with his. He gave her a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
He had felt somewhat protective over her when she’d shown up here unexpected and uninvited; but now, he didn’t see that it was his place to do so.
Women of all sorts were always welcome at his parties, Letitia included (all disguised for their protection of course).
He didn’t feel it was fair that women had to give up any right to a good time while the men in their lives kept on doing whatever they wanted.
He’d wanted the lady next to him to leave because of what it would mean to one lady in particular if she found out.
“I’ll let you stay if you tell me why you’re here. And you must wear your mask.”
“Where to start?” She gave a hollow laugh, then began counting on her fingers, “My reputation is in tatters after Marcus. I’m an orphan. I’m so insatiably starved for entertainment after a year away from high society who’ve already started talking about my being on the shelf before I even arrived.
I’m probably going to be married off to some old entitled prig,” she shrugged, “So I might as well have my own ‘last gasp before respectability’ too.”
“You don’t think any of your family actually want that for you, do you?”
She clenched her jaw tighter. He turned the mask he was holding over in his hands. “You didn’t -don’t - deserve what happened with Marcus and it was not your fault. Others might not tell you that, because they don’t know the truth.”
She looked at him squarely, something registering in her eyes, she blinked twice before she cleared her throat. “Thank you for saying that, Fitz.”
“You’re hiding something else though. I saw you re-enter the coaching inn with your….” He cleared his throat, “your cheeks flushed, your dress and your hair were mussed…not a very Lady Moria-like appearance.” He narrowed his eyes at her, “Are you seeing someone in secret, Lady Moria?”
Her eyes shot to him, blue and gold and defiant. There was rarely a time when she didn’t look at someone that way, so he met her challenge. He waited her out with his arms folded against his chest until she capitulated with an affronted exhale.
“I met a man,” he nodded at her as though this part was obvious and she should get on with the rest of it, “The one person I feel a shared connection with, that my brother would never consent for me to marry. I’m just so bored with it all that I don’t care what happens, honestly.
Perhaps if my reputation is shattered, Jasper might consent to my courting a captain in Her Majesty’s Army. But even that can’t be, because that captain is currently on his way to Belgium.”
Fitz clenched his jaw so that it didn’t hit the floor.
Reputation notwithstanding, Lady Moria could easily have her pick of husbands among elite society, and she wanted to court a captain in Her Majesty’s Army?
Belatedly, he registered that she was looking at him expecting him to speak.
“You met him at the coaching inn,” he connected the dots together, the result was the tell-tale blush on her cheeks. “Does any of your family know?”
She shook her head vehemently.
“Don’t you think your sisters would be hurt if you kept secrets from them?” He had no issue with her being here for his own sake, he knew she could take care of herself without (hopefully) inciting any more duels or forbidden affairs. It was for the sake of someone else that he worried.
Lady Moria finally registered the other meaning of his words, as her palm flew to her forehead, “Oh my god, Noelle.”
Fitz thought it didn’t speak well of her that it had taken her this long to work out the equation, but a gentleman wouldn’t say as much.
Moria added, “You don't want her to find out I was here.” She said it as a statement of fact, rather than a question.
He tilted his head to the side, judging her reaction. “Does that surprise you?”
“I think you should answer for your intent.”
The haughty and protective way she tilted her chin so that she appeared taller, older, more formidable, almost caused him to laugh.
Lady Noelle with her sharp knives and her sharper wit did not need protecting; and if she knew her older sister had appointed herself to such a role, she might have laughed, or cried.
“My… intent?” He questioned.
“Considering what you just told me about your need to find a wife, and the environment we currently find ourselves in, I think it’s justified.” She folded her arms and stared at him pointedly, awaiting his answer.
Lady Moria could have been a solution to his problems.
She was of more than marriageable age, and rather in need of a match to smooth over her reputation; but as soon as he’d locked eyes with Noelle and she’d simultaneously complimented and berated him, it was the younger of the two that had taken up some not-insignificant corner of his heart.
Not only that, was the matter of how perfectly Noelle would solve at least two, if not many more, of his problems.
“I care for her,” He said each word with forceful conviction. The words gaped, an open chasm lengthening between them. When she didn’t speak, he added, “That’s why I was so anxious when I found you here. Not just for your own reputation, but because it would hurt her.”
She’d been fussing with her wide mass of skirts; but at his words, her eyes heatedly shot up to his. “And you don’t think that I care about her feelings? Her own sister?”
Fitz made to speak; but closed his mouth, deliberating on the right choice of words.
“Unbelievable,” she retorted, shaking her head as she walked away from him to join the friends she’d arrived with who reveled inside the ballroom, stopping to secure her mask and smooth her hair.
“Moria, wait!” He called to her; but she only made a rude hand gesture to him over her shoulder.
Fitz muttered a curse under his breath.
This was not how the night, or the conversation, was supposed to go.
He supposed he could try to pour enough liquor over his senses to dull them, find a pretty and willing partner for the evening; but he’d tried that predictable and staid routine and it had produced so little relief before, so little solutions, only more problems piled on.
Before her. No, he wanted only one woman, not a flashy parade of them.
The realization hit him square in the chest.
Images of Lady Noelle teasing him.
The way she felt in his arms when he’d danced with her.
How her hands came up to clutch his shirt when he’d kissed her back at the inn.
Her bow before the Queen she believed had become her close companion.
He heard her teasing, affectionate voice, “You clever, wonderful man;” not the sobriquets he was usually known by.
It was her he wished had exited that carriage earlier.
He was no longer in a reveling mood, damn it.
He had wanted a distracting celebration to flay his uncle’s nerves, not for his own entertainment.
He hadn’t thought that the others he’d invited would bring along Lady Moria, although the chit had a way of being invited to places she didn’t belong and gathering followers around her.
No matter what attempt he made, he was always disappointing someone. Instead, he retreated up the backstairs to his stately rooms, alone, resigning that the only person he’d disappoint tonight was himself, and locked his door behind him.