Vivian Roycroft Read online

  "Are you actually suggesting you're going to dance with the most atrocious rakehell in Mayfair?"

  Her eyes flashed. With pure delight.

  She was suggesting it. No, she had every intention of fulfilling Cumberland's request.

  Every intention. Of making a display of herself in the Hanover Square assembly rooms.

  And all he could do was be there, to do — whatever little she allowed. Perhaps she'd come to her senses and let him protect her, as he'd done since their childhood together. Perhaps all he'd be able to manage would be the witnessing of her social downfall, helpless to intervene.

  "So be it."

  He'd walk back home. To his home, not hers. The exercise would help him sort this through. But his first step entangled him with a bystander. No, buff and red livery, dancing aside away from his path. It was Paul, Beryl's personal groom-footman-factotum, assigned to keep an eye on her by a father worried about his boisterous daughter. Well, as it proved, he had every reason.

  Fitz dodged Paul and stalked off. There had to be something he could do. He just had to think about this.

  ****

  From his position on the west-facing portico of St. Mary-le-Strand, peering from behind the smooth, handsome Ionic columns, His Grace watched Fitzwilliam duck around Miss Beryl's liveried footman and stalk away. Rather as a wounded bear, finding itself outmaneuvered by a huntress and her hound, might find it expedient to exit a scene, trailing the sad remnants of its dignity behind.

  Miss Beryl stamped one elegantly booted foot on the pavement and planted her hands on her hips, tightening her pelisse against her appealing form. A sudden qualm of indecision, that most unbalancing and for His Grace, almost unknown of sensations, made him shift slightly in place. Perhaps his assumptions were incorrect. After all, Fitzwilliam didn't even glance back toward that delicious sight.

  But then the footman rolled his eyes, chest rising and slumping on a heaved breath, and the world righted itself. The man's unspoken message had a point; it wasn't as if this couple ever argued, after all. Only every single time they got together.

  No, he could hardly blame a man for not noticing an event that happened behind his turned back. And not every man appreciated the female form — and such a form — as he did.

  He'd continue the hunt as planned.

  And so the game begins.

  Chapter Two

  Tuesday, March 16, 1813

  Ah, breakfast, the best meal of the day. Until dinner, at least. And it seemed Cook had outdone herself with buttered poached eggs, fried sausages, fried bread, grilled tomatoes, bacon, and potato cakes. Fitz rubbed his palms together, grabbed his plate, and reached for the serving fork.

  His father eyed him over a sliver of fried bread. "And good morning to you, as well."

  True, the social graces and all that. "Good morning, Father. Charles."

  His elder brother, the honorable Member for Yorkshire and also Viscount Milton, lowered his tankard of ale and swallowed. His every hair poised neatly in place and he presented the image of a fashionable, prosperous, contributing member of good society. Wretched man, he must be. "Finian." A glance down at the rapidly filling plate. "Is that an appetite I detect?"

  "Might say that, yes." Fitz settled in the chair across from his brother, shook out his napkin, and attacked. He'd need all his strength to unravel the little problem Beryl had tossed at his feet. And besides, disappointing Cook by not wiping out her offerings constituted a path of the utmost danger, considering the same woman would be placing all future offerings upon the table. Expecting them to eat it.

  After a pause filled with munching, Fitzwilliam père said, "Ran into Manvers the other day."

  "Oh?" Charles set down his silverware, bright rattles on the pewter plate. "And what of interest does our good Earl of Manvers have to say?" He paused. "If anything."

  Fitz sliced into the bacon. Not a family to occupy his own thoughts for any recognizable length of time. Best if he sat this conversation out; otherwise he might confuse the meat dish with the Anson son. In that case, he'd lose his appetite and waste an excellent meal. Not to mention antagonizing Cook.

  Only a grunt from their father acknowledged Charles' score. "He's concerned for his son."

  "Lord Phillbush, yes, well, someone should be. And it doesn't seem as if his mother is inclined in that manner." Charles applied his napkin with delicate relish. "Anything new or merely the usual?"

  "The usual, I suppose we must call it." Father snagged the last scone and drew the butter dish across the tablecloth with a rustle and thump against his plate. "Phillbush can't be bothered to learn a trade, make himself useful to society, contribute to the world in any meaningful way." The loaded butter knife flashed back and forth across the scone in rhythm with the tripled phrases. "He's satisfied to gad about town, earn a raffish reputation, and occasionally escort his mother about the shops." A nibble at the scone's edge, a swallow, and Father glanced up, as if a new idea had just occurred to him. "Waste of a young man's life, that is." He took a second, bigger bite.

  So much for the last scone. Well, there was always the fried bread to fall back upon. And less chance of earning Cook's ire.

  No, he couldn't let Beryl make a fool of herself the way Lydia Townshend, Anne Kirkhoven, Dorcas Wentworth-Gower, and countless others had done. Any female caught cavorting with that Cumberland churl would suffer a serious blow to her reputation — and Beryl's was of far more interest to him than Manvers' spawn's. He couldn't imagine Beryl no longer being invited to all the fun places and entertainments. Couldn't imagine attending them without his childhood friend being along for sport. Now that would be boring, indeed.

  But what could he say that would penetrate her headstrong determination?

  Father cleared his throat and slugged down the last of his ale. "We still haven't found a new tenant for the Woodhouse farm."

  "Not unusual, that." Charles lounged back in his chair, elbows splayed on the chair arms. "Not considering the amount of work required to bring it back to full production after Henry Gateson's management. Astonishing, how much damage can be achieved in only a few years of lazy neglect."

  Better than anyone, he knew her willfulness, her testy temper when challenged, her blatant disregard for society's niceties. Only yesterday she'd stalked down the Strand, giving him a dose of said temper at the top of her not inconsiderable voice. She'd defiantly demonstrated that she'd willingly dance with the sibling of Satan himself.

  And nothing he'd said had penetrated that determination. Still… there had to be something constructive he could say.

  Fitz reached for the fried bread. Across the table, Charles stared at him. Pointedly. Between them at the table's head, Father echoed the stare.

  Whatever that was supposed to mean.

  ****

  Her father's shiny, rounded dome, innocent of all but a few mournful strands of greying hair, glowed a gentle pink. It always did when Beryl kissed his lowered forehead and awarded him his favorite smile, and he pressed a gentle answer to her salute upon her cheek before he settled her on the settee and perched at the other end.

  Papa was always the best of fathers, kind and generous, smiling and indulgent. Even when he requested her presence in his study, surrounded by stacks of papers, shelves of books, and wreaths of tobacco smoke, in this most masculine of bastions short of a club — even then and there, he'd only rarely scolded her and never once had he punished her. And if she continued reminding herself of that fact, she might get over her qualms.

  He simply didn't send for her all that often. Last Season, he'd spoken with her after every entertainment, encouraging her to tell him about her dances and partners, and he'd sat with her and Mama when they'd received callers after each ball. But over the autumn and winter, weeks had passed with their times together limited to meals and cheerful passings on the stairs. Whenever he did send for her, it was always to make a point.

  Hence her present state of nerves, half trepidation and half wordless, s
enseless guilt. If she'd done something incorrigible, surely at her level of maturity, she'd be aware of it without her father's pointing it out to her.

  Well, of course she would. Besides, a father wearing such a gentle, pleased smile, as he visually measured her, from hair ribbons to demurely tucked slippers, not missing her folded hands — surely such a proud, loving expression boded no ill. Especially when he wore his disreputable old green morning coat, comfortable but hardly stern or sufficiently formal for a reprimand. And especially since she'd worn his favorite morning gown, the pale blue muslin with the sweet little primrose Spencer that tied in front.

  Surely.

  "So, pet." The corners of his lips crept higher. "You're enjoying the Season, I presume? Was the new mantua-maker as exquisite as Lady de Lisle claimed?" The smile diminished. "His bills are certainly exquisite enough."

  Ah, yes, that would account for this little meeting. All that superb muslin, silks and netting, fashion plates, ribbons… she'd gone quite, quite wild. And that was an event over which she should and did feel some guilt. "I must apologize for that shopping trip, Papa. If Doctor Battie defines madness as deluded imagination, then for the duration of that visit I must have qualified, for my imagination was perfectly deluded as to the amount of money being spent."

  He laughed, eyes squenching shut into tightly wrinkled folds and his head falling back. "No, no, no. I cannot have you considering yourself mad, temporarily or otherwise. The mantua-maker's bill shall be paid. But, please, for the sake of the ledger's balance," and in a moment all mirth vanished from his face, "upon any subsequent visits, demonstrate some restraint, daughter. Belinda might not be out yet, but she does require a few new gowns occasionally, as well."

  Belinda. Of course. She'd not sniff in Papa's face, certainly not since he'd let her off with such a mild scolding. But it wasn't easy. "I promise, Papa."

  His smile returned and deepened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Now, you know I want you to enjoy this Season. You know I'd never wish to subject you to undue pressure nor censure."

  Not a good introduction for a new topic. She pouted quite deliberately, sticking out her lower lip at the angle that always made him smile. And he did, even more widely.

  "But you wish for me to marry this year. Is it Belinda? Has she been whining?"

  "No, of course not. Well, not whining, not precisely—"

  Whining. Precisely. "Papa, practically every family in town has younger daughters out, as well as the older ones—"

  "—and we've discussed this before." He held up a hand. "I'm old-fashioned. You could not come out until Beatrice married, and so Belinda cannot come out until I've given you away to a deserving young man." He cocked his head. "Is there anyone…?"

  But it was obvious where his question was heading. Beryl shook her head before he finished and, for the first time in her life, told her father a cold-blooded lie. "Not in that manner, no, sir." It was simply too humiliating to admit that the man upon whom she'd set her heart couldn't even notice her without starting an argument. But her innards trembled at such willful disobedience.

  "Hmm." He pursed his lips. "No one can say you are not beautiful. Accomplished. Polished. Intelligent. There can be no complaints regarding your education, breeding, dancing, playing, singing, painting, presentation, mode of dress…"

  This conversational topic's intended destination was just as clear as that of the preceding one. The room warmed — no, her face did. She had to be turning that peculiar shade of pink that clashed so horribly with her copper curls, which meant this tête-à-tête could become no more embarrassing and she might as well admit her shortcoming and get to the denouement.

  Papa waved a hand. "…and so all that's left…"

  She cleared her throat. "…are my character flaws of stubbornness, ill temper, sarcasm…"

  His lips twitched. But his eyes remained serious. "The arguments with young Fitzwilliam must stop."

  He couldn't be serious. She'd been trying to stop the arguments with Fitz for six years. Certainly none of them could be blamed upon her. Never once had she snapped, unless he'd first baited her beyond forbearance. But explaining that to Papa—

  "At least in public."

  Of course. "I never start the arguments."

  He held up a hand. "That matters not, my girl. This Season, what matters is how you are perceived by good society. If the public bickering ceases forthwith, and if from this moment forward you present a composed and serene face at every gathering, then it's possible, just possible, the earlier contretemps will be dismissed as the last of childhood's tantrums. Otherwise…" He drew the word out as if tasting it, and Beryl's blood chilled. Not a good sign. "Otherwise, we may find ourselves discussing the necessity of your spending the remainder of the Season in Suffolk."

  She froze. He wouldn't. He had to be bluffing.

  His eyes testified otherwise.

  "I know you enjoy the country, Beryl."

  She chewed her lip. "I do. Just not during the Season."

  "Motivation." He rose, took her hand, and drew her up with him, kissing her forehead and brushing a playful finger through her curls. "No pressure and no undue censure. But your direction in the near future depends upon your behavior, not upon my goodwill."

  He was serious.

  ****

  Too many times Fitz's handkerchief had staunched her tears, costing the golden and silver threads their gleam, the red ones their depth. Even with the early spring sunshine falling through her bedroom window and highlighting the monogram, the colors seemed faded and tired. She tilted it this way and that, held it near the glass and pulled it back. But nothing she tried breathed new life into the fine linen, nor into the silken threads.

  She sighed and dropped it into her lap, leaning her forehead against the cool glass. The handkerchief's worn-out state didn't symbolize her love for Fitz. Only her equally exhausted emotions and spirit.

  The monogram did not include the entire Fitzwilliam coat of arms, of course; one could only feel sympathy for any needlewoman ordered to stitch those two practically naked wild men and their ghastly clubs. No, it was just the earl's coronet with its red velvet cap, the barred silver helmet with its open crown rising above, the initials FGF in an arc atop them all, and a dangling, frayed thread left a pale line through the midst of one golden strawberry leaf.

  It seemed a fitting symbol for her predicament.

  No pressure to marry; of course not. But Belinda could be a terror at the best of times, and Papa would not play favorites nor mediate between them. If she didn't find a husband this Season, or the next at the latest, her home life was likely to deteriorate. Abominably.

  But no man she'd ever met attracted her the way Fitz did. No one else warmed her soul and filled her heart; everyone else paled to boring in the comparison. Unfortunately, he still viewed her as his childhood friend, viewed and treated her as such, with all the infantile hectoring and raillery implicit in that perspective. Their relationship hadn't changed since he'd been thirteen and she twelve.

  Most importantly, he refused to look at her that way. In the manner of a man with a woman.

  Just once. Just one time, one single iota of the most miniscule of moments, and that would be all the opening she'd need. She'd return his look, across a crowded ballroom if necessary, under the noses of the entire ton, in front of Papa, even, and blister the consequences. Because in that little bit of time, she'd convince him of her undying love. And Fitz, of course, would never let her down. Not knowingly, at least.

  And there lay the rub. He'd no idea what he did to her, how he set her insides to smoldering just by being Fitz. He couldn't. Otherwise, he'd surely change his behavior. Or return her affection. Surely.

  If her love hadn't died under the hammering it had already taken, then its chances of doing so in the future were slim.

  The window glass, cool from April's blustering, warmed between the sunshine and her forehead. Beryl sighed and leaned back against the window seat's wall. Th
e edge of the flowered calico cushion, padding her anatomy against the pitiless bench, gleamed with more life than the poor little handkerchief.

  She'd no idea how to change the situation. None.

  Fitz, being the male in her yearned-for equation, had the requirement of making the first move. But blithely, he continued their pitiful friendship without ever doing so. Without wanting to, perhaps? He'd no reason to marry, no incentive of finance or companionship or inheritance. His position and his purse were clear of encumbrance and entailment, and his cheerfulness guaranteed him friends across Mayfair. The only enticements that could direct his steps toward the altar would be those of love.

  Discouraging state of affairs, no matter the immortality of her love for him. Infuriating. Frustrating. Worst of all, if she gave him that look first, she risked not only his ridicule, but that of good society, as well. If he ever suspected her secret, without first being induced to suffer a similar fate, then—

  —then he'd do what Fitz always did. He'd tease.

  It seemed he'd never take that next step. Never see beyond their childhood friendship to the delights adulthood could hold for them. Never look at her that way.

  Never admit that his behavior was wrong.

  So perhaps it was time to lock away her disappointed, aching heart, and move on.

  Which brought her to…

  Cumberland.

  A fearsome thought, that, and it gave her the cold tremblies deep inside. No matter his charm, intelligence, wit, sensibilities, amiability — no matter any of his possible virtues, Cumberland's reputation was dubious, at best. His title didn't impel her; she'd never expected a fairy-tale life of being raised to that breathless echelon of the peerage and had difficulty believing in it now, despite his toe-curling smile. Nor did his person draw her in that way, handsome though he most assuredly was, with black curls atop his collar and pale blue eyes that gleamed when he smiled. Nor his wealth, which could be no greater than the Earl of Fitzwilliam's, one of the richest men in England.