A Waltz in the Park (2 page)

Only one thing marred the perfection of the image; the cold, hard look on his face.  It shouldn’t be possible for a man to smile politely and at the same time look dark and brooding—yet he pulled it off.  He laughed at something the blonde woman said, yet the laughter never climbed as high as those piercing eyes. 

She wished—suddenly, fervently—that she knew why.  It struck her—this man had seen things, done things, things that she couldn’t yet imagine.  That polite smile could not hide the message his eyes told the world—
I am capable of anything
.  He would have
stories
to tell—the thought perked her up, piqued her interest and called forth a stabbing jolt of longing. 

Stories.  Tales.  Imaginings.  They had long been her blessing, her companions—or her curse, if her mother had been asked when Addy lost herself again and forgot to stitch on her embroidery, dropped the count of the linens or paused, frozen with her fork raised and food forgotten. 

But she’d lost their comfort.  After her mother’s death the words had dried up.  Fantastic scenes had become colorless and dull.  The fascinating people who lived in her head and her heart had disappeared

Now, staring at this handsome enigma of a man, she could imagine herself, curled up, in thrall, granted the privilege to hear
his
stories, to laugh with him over the amusing tales and soothe the sting of the painful ones.

The thought startled her and called to her at the same time—but she shook her head to dispel the silent pull. 

It was ridiculous.  She’d lost control.  She willed herself to look away.  Why was it suddenly so difficult?  Good heavens, he was just a man—and she was perspiring, though she’d yet to dance this evening.

And then he met and held her transfixed gaze.

Nearly twenty years of innocence evaporated in a second.  Suddenly Addy knew—for the first time—that she was a woman.  Her heart sputtered, her body tingled and her womb awoke to send out a message.

Yes, please
.

She reached again for the strength to look away.  Too long.  She’d been staring too long—when her Cousin Rosamond stepped abruptly into her line of sight.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, her tone furious.  “Wipe that look off of your face right now, young lady!”  She whirled around, gaze searching.  “Who are you ogling in such an appalling, country-bred fashion?”

Addy flushed as Rosamond gasped and turned back.  “Vickers!” she whispered in tones of horror.  She looked to Great Aunt Delia.  “Mama, this stupid girl is mooning in public—over
Vickers
!”

Stupid?  To react to such a man?  It didn’t feel stupid at all, but eminently sensible.  Inevitable, one might say.  For one defiant moment, Addy considered challenging Rosamond to meet his gaze and remain unmoved.

But Delia was clucking her tongue.  “Stop turning everything into a Cheltenham Tragedy, Rosamund.”  She shook her head at Addy.  “She’s right, though, child.  You must learn to school your expression.  You should not be indulging in such emotions, let alone allowing them to show on your face.  That is not what making a marriage is about.” 

“No, that comes later.”  Rosamond preened.  “If you are lucky enough to be made a widow.”

“At least you waited for poor Mitford to expire,” said Delia with a roll of her eyes.  Her expression hardened as she turned back to Addy.  “Nor should you feel such things about a scoundrel like Vickers.  He’s a wickedly hard man, interested only in drinking, gaming, whoring and disgracing his family name.  He’s nothing to offer a young debutante but trouble—so don’t tempt him into it.”

Addy nodded.

Delia pushed herself to her feet with the aid of her cane.  “Rosamond, it’s your role to teach her such things.  How can she learn to avoid the rakes and scoundrels if you are gallivanting about with a pack of them?  Remember your promise.  Stay here.  Show her how to go on.”

“I will, if only to get this dull endeavor over with.”  She shook a finger at Addy.  “Now, mind my instruction and don’t make a fool of me, girl.”

Her great-aunt was scanning the ballroom.  Addy’s heart sank as she indicated a younger, thinner, spottier gentleman.  “There.  Philpott’s heir will get the title and half of Hertfordshire besides.  Go with Rosamond and obtain an introduction.”

Sighing, Addy followed.  Titles and land came with this sort of young man, but no stories, she’d wager.  Making her way across the ballroom, she steeled herself.  She already knew what they would speak of: the pranks of his old school chums, the triumph he felt over his new matched pair or the shining racing curricle he planned to commission.  Only a few weeks in Town, just a few introductions to young gentlemen of her own age, and it had been the same with them all.

She sneaked a last glance back.  Vickers.  With that sort, she was certain, she would hear some hair-raising tales and likely live out a few of her own. 

“
Adelaide
!” her great-aunt hissed.

Yes.  Propriety. 

She allowed herself one long, lingering look, then turned dutifully away to see what she could make of her future.

Chapter Two

Several weeks later . . .

The
ton
could not have ordered up better weather for their afternoon outing in Hyde Park.  A brilliant blue sky, the sun just warm enough, and a slight breeze wafting through, pausing to ruffle the leaves on the trees and the hems of the ladies’ skirts.

Vickers stood beneath the shade of a large oak and watched Society’s glittering promenade pass.  He felt the need to re-acclimate to light and gaiety again.  The task he had set himself had led him lately into darker territories.

Following the string of his father’s mistresses had not been a happy duty.  None of them had gained the better of that particular bargain.  He understood their plight.  Who knew better, in fact, how much his father demanded of a person.  How it felt at times as if he drained your very life away.  How one was left bitter, dry and as empty as a husk after he’d done with you.

Anger and determination had grown apace as he searched them out.  Most of the early ones he’d found in brothels and gaming halls.  Many of them had been left tired and disillusioned, many too broken or unwilling to enter the demimondaine again.  But the later ones?  Some of them he’d found not at all.  They grew more skittish and reticent, less willing to talk to him.  A couple he’d found were unable to converse at all, lying insensate in gin halls or hovels. 

He’d talked with all that he could, documented everything he could find, and let his father know exactly what he was doing.  Then he’d done what he could for the poor souls, with his meager funds and with Hestia’s help, but his anger grew as their predicaments worsened.  Invariably, these women had been left in bad straits after dealings with his father.

Except for one.

Rosamond, widowed Countess of Mitford.  She’d been his father’s last mistress, as far as he could tell.  She’d stayed with him for only a short time, at the beginning of the year—and it appeared she was the only mistress so far to emerge intact and unscathed.

At first Vickers had thought the brevity of their affair accounted for it.  But the further he moved along the list of mistresses, the more incensed his father grew.  He’d sputtered and fussed at first, but then he’d begun to appear almost . . . panicked.  Last night he’d threatened dire retribution should his son not leave off.

Which of course only heightened his ambition to see this through to the end.

Lady Mitford appeared to be the end.

And Vickers wondered if there was a reason she’d passed through the viscount’s fire un-burnt—and if perhaps that reason might be what had catapulted the old man into leaving scolds and lectures behind and into making actual threats instead.

Vickers’ old hatreds entwined with new excitement and flared high.  He must find out what had his father so agitated.  He had to talk to her.

But the notoriously accessible Lady Mitford had turned unaccountably shy.  In the past she’d been eager to flirt a bit, and quick to hint at more.  But now she passed him in Bond Street with barely a nod.  She’d been ‘out’ during her at home hours yesterday and just happened to leave a ball immediately after his arrival last evening. 

So today he lay in wait in the park, watching for her while a pack of his young contemporaries gathered around him to debate the merits of the passing ladies.

“Straighten up, chaps!” young Lord Beeton called.  “Here’s Mrs. Hervely!”

The group of young bloods grinned and bowed as the popular hostess, widely known for her fondness for initiating young men into the pleasures to be found in Society, passed in an open barouche. 

“Who shall you dance with tonight, Beeton?”  The conversation resumed as Mr. Nowell turned back to the group.  “Now that Miss Jane Tillney is to be married, you’ll have to find someone else to appease your mother.”

“I don’t know how I’ll find someone else so perfectly available and yet unattainable,” Beeton mourned.  “Miss Tillney was the perfect foil.”

“Well, you cannot claim Miss Stockton,” Nowell avowed.  “I’ve chosen her as
my
perfect shield.  She has connections and an adequate dowry.  She behaves beautifully, which should make my mother happy, but there’s that bit with her parents that makes Mother nervous.  While I’m dangling about Miss Stockton, she’s afraid to push me too far.  She’s leaving me be, and for that I’ll thank the girl a thousand times over.”  He shrugged.  “In any case, it’s no hardship to befriend her.  She’s stunning, although it is an odd sort of beauty is it not?”

“She has a quick wit,” another young buck piped in.  “You never quite know what she’s going to say, but it’s always spot on target.”

“I like that about her,” Nowell insisted.  “But not as much as I like the fact that she gives off that same air of not truly looking for a leg shackle.  Not that my mother needs to know that.”

“Maybe she only gives off that air around you, Nowell.”  Beeton lounged against a tree.  “She is a beauty, although of a different sort.  All big eyes and dramatic brows and fresh innocence.  Except for that plump bottom lip of hers.  That pouty mouth is the only bit that doesn’t look like it belongs on one of heaven’s cherubs.”  Vickers noted the glitter in his eye.  “On the contrary, that mouth looks very devilish indeed.”

Nowell objected, but since he didn’t know the woman of whom they spoke, Vickers turned away and let the talk drift over him.  He watched the
beau monde
parade slowly along, nodding to acquaintances and keeping his eyes peeled for Lady Mitford—when suddenly he realized the pups were speaking of her.

“What was that?  About the Countess?  Lady Mitford?”

Nowell huffed.  “Never say you mean to edge in here too, Vickers.  I just told Beeton that Lady Mitford will never let him near Miss Stockton.  She’s a high stickler.”

“Lady Mitford is a high stickler?” Vickers repeated with disbelief.

“The girl is.  Hadn’t you heard what they call her?  The Celestial, because she’s as beautiful as an angel and as pure and well behaved.  She never sets a foot wrong, that one, and Lady Mitford encourages it.  The countess has quite reformed her own behavior as well.  So, if Beeton is too wicked to warrant an introduction to the angel, that likely goes double for you.  You’d both do best just to leave the lady to me.”

“I say Nowell is naught but a bag of hot air.  You cannot claim a lady unless you betroth yourself to her, you nitwit.  And the hell you say, in any case.  I can charm the countess into doing whatever I wish.”  Beeton pushed himself away from the tree.  “See for yourself.  The lady approaches now.”

Vickers looked up.  Indeed, the countess did approach, in the midst of a group of ladies and gentlemen.  He made a sharp gesture at Beeton.  “Leave this to me.”

Both gentlemen objected, but Vickers quelled them with a glare.

“Damn it all, now none of us will have a chance,” Nowell complained.

“Speak for yourself,” Beeton bit out.

“I’m not stealing a march on either of you, for God’s sake,” Vickers snapped.  “I don’t know which virgin you are going about and I don’t much care, either.  You can have the cherub—I just wish to talk to the widow.”

“Good luck to you, there,” Beeton grumbled, slightly mollified.  “Weren’t you listening?  The wicked widow has been treading the straight and narrow this Season.”

“Then it is a good thing that I only wish to have words with her and hadn’t planned on tupping her up against a tree.”  Shaking his head, Vickers left the group behind.  Lady Mitford was almost upon them.  Her attention was diverted as she laughed at something one of her companions said.  He merged into the crowd milling in the opposite direction and let his gaze roam nonchalantly over the oncoming faces.  When he lit upon the countess, he stopped.

“Lady Mitford.  Well met,” he called.

Hats and bonnets turned.  Let her avoid him now.

“Mr. Vickers.  Good afternoon.”  She did not look pleased.

“I vow, it’s been an age.”  He gave her his most charming smile—a rare enough occurrence.  Enough so that it set off a wave of whispers and giggles through her entourage. “How is it that we keep missing each other?”

“Just luck, I would guess.”

This time only one of her companions tittered.

“The worst sort of luck,” Vickers pressed on.  “Let me remedy that now.”  He bowed.  “Lord Worthe’s engagement ball approaches.  May I be first to solicit a dance?”

Looking seriously displeased now, she glanced somewhere behind her. 

Vickers kept a polite smile fixed in place.

“You tempt me,” the lady responded at last.  “But alas, I’ve an injury that keeps me from dancing for a few days.”

Gallantly, he refrained from pointing out that her injury allowed her to stroll easily enough in the park.  Relentless, he continued.  “Well, then, I shall look forward to sitting out a set in your fair company.”

He’d trapped her.  She couldn’t escape now unless she failed to attend the ball altogether.

“Yes, of course.”  Her face was set.  “But we must move on now.”  She glanced about her for support.

He faced the chorus of agreement with bland acceptance.  “Until the ball, then.”  He bowed again.

She nodded and pressed forward.  The group accompanying her followed, parting and flowing around him like a river around a rock, while he stood, staring and musing, after her.

“She’ll avoid you if she can, you know.”

He barely glanced at the young lady who had detached herself from the tail of the group long enough to address him.

“Will she?” he asked thoughtfully.

“She must, I’m afraid.  She cannot afford to fraternize with someone innocent maidens have been warned of.”

“Have they?  Been warned off me?”  He took a grim pleasure in the idea.  “All of them, as a general rule?”  Oh, how that would set his father aflame.

He looked to her for the answer, only to find the thought arrested by a cold, little frisson of shock.

A pretty girl, she was, the young lady who had stopped to speak to him.  A very pretty girl, indeed.

The pause lingered.  His mind needed a moment to absorb it all, to fight off the notion that he’d imagined her, that it must be a mistake—the idea that nature had fashioned such a creature.

Ice blue eyes smiled back at him from a lovely face—eyes of that pale color that seemed destined to be always accompanied by or edged in silver.  Yet they looked just fine in a rim of thick, dark lashes too.  Very fine.  More warm and alive than Vickers would have predicted.

And yes, they smiled at him, those startling eyes, though the rest of her countenance displayed only that which was correct, calm and polite.

“Well,
I’ve
been warned off you, at any rate.”  She grinned then, and bit her lip—her full lower lip that didn’t quite seem to match the sweet bow shaped upper one—and yet together they made an irresistible sight—a perfectly kissable mouth, just begging to be put to use.

Wait.  Beeton had said something about a girl with an angel’s countenance and a devil’s mouth—one connected to Lady Mitford.  Was this her?  He looked her over again.  She didn’t look angelic to him, with those wide set, slightly slanted eyes and those dramatic, gently pointed brows.

He racked his brain, but couldn’t come up with the name.  He raised a brow instead.  “And you are?”

Her color rose, just enough to tint her fair skin with a rose flush.  “Oh, I am sorry.  I’m being terribly forward, aren’t I?  I hope you’ll forgive me—only, this might be my last chance, you see.”   She dipped her head and bobbed a quick curtsy.  “I am Miss Adelaide Stockton.  Lady Mitford is my cousin.  She is very kindly sponsoring me this Season.”

Ah, so here was the reason for the countess’s sudden proper streak—and a distasteful burden it must be for her, too.  No.  Rosamond would not enjoy being held up for constant comparison to this girl. 

He flicked a glance at her scrap of a bonnet, which did nothing to hide her thick, blonde hair or the length of her elegant neck.  The girl stood taller than most, perhaps half a head below his own height.  Slim, but with curves in all the most interesting spots.  And her manner . . .

Vickers shifted, feeling himself on uncertain ground for the first time in ages—and somewhat annoyed about it.  He had a reputation—hard won and well deserved.  Damned useful, too.  The
beau monde
saw him as a gambler, a spendthrift, and a rake of the highest order.  Society’s older women loved him for it—or they stayed away.  Innocents who wandered into his path usually sidled quickly away again, as if the stain of his wickedness might rub off on them.

They did not usually stare at him with frank assessment and open appreciation.  They did not often run a searching gaze over him, from his short hair to his shining Hessians—and every spot in between.

And he did not usually react like a restless and jumpy, untried boy. 

“Last chance?” he asked at last. “At what?”

He stopped, suddenly aware that this was the third—no,
fourth
, time he’d responded to her with a short, sharp question.  So much for his vaunted charm. 

“To make your acquaintance.”

Her gaze still roamed, scanning his shoulders and arms, following the lines of his waistcoat and moving on to widen again, as if measuring the width of his thighs.