A Waltz in the Park (3 page)

“Is that what you are doing?” he asked wryly.  “Making my acquaintance?”

She stilled and looked him in the eye again at last.  “Yes, I hope so.  But I admit, I am quite admiring you as well.”

He clamped his mouth shut.  Safer to say nothing at all to something like that.

She shrugged.  “One does hear so many things about you, Mr. Vickers.  I am glad to find that at least one of the reports is true.  You truly do inspire chill bumps, up close.”

Surprise vanquished any remaining annoyance.  He laughed.  “I’ve heard about you too—heard that you are Perfection Itself.  Though if I were to judge by this conversation alone, I might be skeptical.”

“Perfection?  No.  Careful?  Yes.”  She shuddered.  “Who would want to be perfect?  It sounds ghastly boring.”  She glanced up.  “Though it’s a relief to know there’s at least one person in Town who knows I’m not.”

Again, she kept her voice low and her expression polite.  For all the people milling about and past them knew, they could be discussing the weather.

He had to admit, he was enjoying the farce.  He lowered his tone, too.  “And you?  What do you inspire, up close?”

Some of the light left her face.  “It would depend on just who you ask, sir.  I’ve learned that Society looks at me and I am instantly dubbed either a saint or a sinner.  Either way, the only thing I seem to inspire is caution.”

“You continually surprise me, Miss Stockton.  I felt sure the answer would be befuddlement.”

“It’s been known to happen,” she said affably. 

He narrowed his gaze and glanced at the group still moving off without her.  “What else do they say about me?

“Oh, many things.  That you are quite wonderfully witty, but wicked with it.  That you drink too much, gamble too much, and spend time with the wrong sorts of women.”

He shot her a tight glance.  “Let’s add exasperation to the list of reactions.  Do you always answer a question so directly?”

She shrugged.  “Not lately.”

He snorted.  “Then I don’t know whether to feel honored or annoyed.  I’ll wager that on further acquaintance you inspire even more volatile responses . . . murderous tendencies, perhaps?”

She stilled and he thought perhaps he’d taken it too far.  But no.  She didn’t look upset . . . but interested.  Everything about this encounter had been novel—but that look of speculation?  He was more than passing familiar with it.

The trees behind them shifted in the breeze just then and a stray shaft of sunshine lit her from behind.  And in that moment he understood the reverence with which Nowell had spoken of her.  Fair skin and fine form, wide blue eyes and the fresh look of a dew-kissed nymph—celestial indeed.  Yet paired with that saucy humor and the hint of pain she’d revealed? 

It all made an image that might have been specifically crafted to set his nerves on edge and his heart to kicking like an irritable stallion.  To stimulate his senses and tug at his dusty, neglected heart strings.

He spoke quickly to shut off that line of thought.  “Why did you say that Lady Rosamond cannot afford to interact with me?  It’s an odd choice of words.”

She blinked.  Suddenly she looked around, peering past him to gauge how far her party had gone without her.  “Odd, perhaps, but accurate.”  She lifted a shoulder.  “It’s not really my place to speak of it.”  She glanced askance at him. “What was it that you wished with her, sir?”

“Just a few words.   I won’t go into it now, it’s quite a long story.”

She glanced at him with a curious look of yearning.  “And one that contains pain, pathos and a bit of adventure, I’d wager, too.”

“What makes you say that?”

“All the best stories do.  All you need now is a happy ending.”  Her distracted gaze wandered south again.  “What color would you call that waistcoat?”

Surprised, he glanced down.  “I don’t know.”  He lifted a shoulder.  “The color of eggplant?”

“Eggplant . . . Yes, that
is
a good word.”  She shaped it with her mouth.  Or perhaps, plum?”  Shaking her head, she looked up and continued.  “Perhaps you and my cousin can exchange stories then, when you see her at the ball.”

  “When?” he asked with irony.  “After that reception, I’d say the more likely choice of words would be
if
I see her at the ball.”

She bit her lip.  “You might be correct, at that.”  She raised a delicate brow at him.  “But something tells me that would not be the end of it.  I feel sure that you are more stubborn than Cousin Rosamond.”

She looked ahead again and took a step away.

“Yes, hurry on.”  He waved a hand.  “You are right.  I am stubborn.  Don’t worry,” he added ironically.  “We will meet and talk again.”

She stopped and looked over her shoulder at him.  “Don’t you see?  I very likely should worry about that.  But I don’t.” 

With that cryptic statement, she turned and hurried away.  Vickers watched until he saw her rejoin the trailing end of Lady Rosamond’s party—without the countess ever knowing she’d been gone.

Thoughtful, he turned away—only to break out a real smile at the sight of Hestia Wright drawing close in her small, open carriage.

“Hestia!  You’re back!”

“Indeed.”  She returned his smile, but there was something . . . reserved . . . worried, perhaps . . . there too.  “Would you care for a ride home?”

“I would, thank you.”  He climbed up and settled in the opposite seat.  “And your expertise, too.  Tell me everything you know about the Countess of Mitford.”  He settled in, throwing an arm across the back of the seat and making himself comfortable.  “And her cousin.”

***

Her first slip.

Addy listened to Rosamond fuss and fume and thanked Providence that Great-Aunt Delia had not accompanied them to the park.  She’d done her best to follow the older woman’s advice.  She’d spent these last weeks acting as refined as any properly well bred girl of the
ton
.  She’d been everything quiet, prim and proper.

Until today.

A few minutes in Mr. Vickers’ company and she’d reverted back to her old ways.  Oh, she’d managed to hide all the excited flutterings he stirred up, and to quell the dozens of questions she was dying to ask.  Where had he been these last weeks?  Why did he look so solemn?  How had he come by that tiny scar above the arch of his brow?  She’d managed to swallow them all—but she’d acted too forthright, too outspoken, nonetheless.

“I vow, what is the good of being a widow if I still must act as if I were restrained by a leg shackle,” Rosamond fretted.  The group of her friends had dispersed and the two of them were now strolling home to  Cavendish Square.  “I know I promised strict propriety, but it’s growing tiresome.”

Addy’s mouth quirked.  “It hasn’t done you any harm.  The
ton
has applauded the mending of your ways for the sake of your family—and you still generate interest from men like Vickers.”

“True.”  Rosamond preened, just a bit.  Then she glared.  “And yet it hasn’t done you much good at all.”

Also true.  Parts of Society just couldn’t get past the scandal of her parents’ marriage—to them she’d always be tainted.  The rest seemed willing to forgive and forget—especially after someone came up with that nickname.  Then suddenly everyone wanted an introduction.  The men clamored for dances, the ladies wished to be seen with her.  But it was all so stilted and superficial.  Everyone, be they friend or foe, seemed universally unwilling to look past her reputation to see the girl inside.

“It’s not like I haven’t tried,” she protested.  “Perhaps we’ve overdone it with the strictly proper behavior.  They’ve dubbed me with that ridiculous name, and everyone who deigns to look past my family’s past treats me as if I’m made of ice.  Like that nice Mr. Nowell.  He comes around and seems happy to spend a little time in my orbit, but . . . nothing goes beyond the pleasantries. Neither he—nor any of them—will ever take a peek beyond my outer surface.”

Rosamond groaned.  “Not you, too, with the astronomical talk.   I realize Lord Worthe’s lectures are popular, but his enthusiasm is slowly turning us all into scientists.”

“He does make it all sound more interesting than I might have imagined.”

“Never mind that.  What am I to do at his engagement ball, when Vickers comes looking for his dance?”

“Dance with him?” Addy suggested.

Heaven knew she’d like to.  And not just because he was beautiful and quick with a quip and made her feel quite out of her depth and a little reckless with it.  There had been that moment when he’d accused her of inspiring murderous impulses—it sounded just like something her father would say and made her feel as if he, at least, had sneaked a peek and seen a bit of her true self.

“And risk my mother hearing of it?  Vickers is still a rogue and a rake—and enough of an excuse for her to cut off our funds like that!”  She snapped her fingers.  Her tone turned aggrieved.  “If you’d just hurry up and catch a husband!”

“I am trying.”

But though enough of society wanted to
know
her, it seemed no one wished to
marry
her.  The only gentleman to come up to scratch with an actual proposal had been Lord Nolan—and everyone in the
ton
knew that he was only looking for mother for his unruly brood.  It was a measure of her desperate state that she’d actually considered him—until she’d mentioned adding her infant sister to his litter of six and he’d flatly refused.

Then, so had she.

“Try harder,” Rosamond insisted.  “As long as you have no prospects, I must behave like a spinster too.  It’s hardly fair, especially with a man like Vickers hanging about.  I can only put him off for so long.”

Addy nodded, but in her heart she acknowledged that her experience of the Season had nearly put her off the idea of marriage.  Was this all there was?  Dispassionate maneuverings for the highest title?  Unacknowledged competition for the largest dowry?  Social niceties but no real interaction?  It was all so discouraging and disheartening.  No wonder her mother had dug her heels in and created a scandal until she won permission to marry the man she loved. 

Addy didn’t even have that option.  No man she’d met had even come close to inspiring that sort of palpable reaction.

She brushed away a quick vision of Vickers.  No use pinning any hopes there.  In fact, more and more she’d been harboring rebellious thoughts about arranging a life on her own.  She held back a sigh.  The finances wouldn’t be a problem.  She could move back home, or even into the village house in the Cotswolds that had been part of her mother’s marriage parcel.  Her allowance would cover her and little Muriel very well.  She could raise her sister as she’d been raised, with the real education and the wider outlook that her mother had wished her daughters to possess.  She could have a garden, and her books, a few friends.  Perhaps they could occasionally travel in to Town to visit the museums and the theater. 

It sounded lovely and peaceful, and yet—it just wasn’t done.  Girls like her were set on one path—and it led straight to the altar. 

Her family would object.  Society would object.  She’d be pitied . . . and possibly scorned. 

And it still felt like her best alternative.

As difficult as finding a mate was proving to be, forging a life without one would be infinitely more so.  For it to materialize into the slightest possibility, she’d have to manage the thing respectably. 

She would need help.  Such a departure would require a special situation, a great deal of persuasion—and if she was to have any chance at social acceptance—a veritable sparkling diamond of a pristine reputation.

She and Rosamond heaved simultaneous sighs.

Suddenly her cousin brightened.  “Unless,” she said with excitement.  “What if Vickers has reformed as well?  He hasn’t been seen about much this Season.  He hasn’t been frolicking with the
demi-monde
or frequenting his usual gaming hells or the races.  Perhaps his father finally won that battle and convinced him to give over his rakish ways.”

“Then your dance will not be nearly as much fun,” Addy remarked.

“Oh, think larger, girl!  What an interesting couple we should make.  Only imagine the splash we cause in Society!  How everyone would talk. We’d be on every guest list, for Seasons to come.”  The idea kept Rosamond happy and occupied for several blocks.  Until the intersection with Oxford Street, where she let out a horrified gasp and clutched Addy’s arm.

“Nooo,” she moaned.  “Damn it all!”

Addy gasped.  “Rosamond!”

“Oh, why?” her cousin groaned.  “Why could it not have worked out the way I’d only just imagined it?  It would have been perfect.  But no—the willful man!  Look!”

Addy searched until she spotted the problem.  Vickers again.  Her heart leaped, but he never noticed them.  He was seated in a small, fast moving carriage, listening intently as an astoundingly beautiful woman spoke, half a smile on her face.

Confident.  Competent
.

Like bubbles the two words bounced their way up and out of her, popping onto the surface of her mind.

Virile
.