A Wild Pursuit (19 page)

W
hen Dante was writing
The Inferno,
making up all those circles of hellish occupants—the gluttons, the adulterers, the…the whatevers—he should have included the Sewing Circle. To Esme's mind, they deserved a circle all their own. Admittedly, her memory of
The Inferno
was rather foggy, but weren't the gluttons sitting around eating and eating as punishment for a life of overly rich dining? In Esme's version of hell, overly righteous women would have to sit on small, upright chairs and sew seam after seam in coarse white cotton while Mrs. Cable read improving literature aloud.

They had been sewing for about fifteen minutes when Mrs. Barret-Ducrorq smiled genially at Esme and said, “That child of yours won't want to wait much longer.”

Esme looked down at her vast expanse of stomach, suppressing a wince as a foot made its presence known just under her ribs. “The midwife has suggested that it's only a matter of a few days.”

“They don't know everything,” Lady Winifred said comfortably, putting down her sheet.

Esme had noticed that everyone except Mrs. Cable took every opportunity to stop sewing.

“The midwife for my first child told me every day for a month that today was the day,” Lady Winifred continued. “Consequently I refused to actually believe that I was in labor when the time came. Is Lady Withers going to join us today, my dear? Arabella is such an amusing woman. And so brave. I know the loss of three husbands has been a true source of grief in her life, but she never seems disheartened.”

Mrs. Cable said, very frostily, “I doubt that Lady Withers has risen at this hour.”

But Arabella pranced through the door at that very moment, blowing kisses in every direction. “Ladies!” she announced. “I come to you on an errand of mercy.”

Arabella took a few moments to seat herself. She was wearing a morning dress of celestial blue muslin, which opened down the front and pulled back to reveal an underskirt of sprigged muslin. She looked charming, effortlessly elegant and, to Esme's eyes, unmistakably mischievous.

“Surely you heard who arrived at this house last evening!” she announced, once she had arranged her gown to her satisfaction.

Even Mrs. Cable looked up from her seam.

“The most disreputable man in all England!” Arabella trumpeted.

Esme groaned inwardly.

“The Duke of York!” Lady Henrietta exclaimed.

“No, no, slightly lower in rank,” Arabella said, obviously enjoying herself hugely. “It seems quite overheated in the morning room, Esme my dear. Perhaps that fire is too high for the season.” She took out a small blue fan and began fanning herself.

“I'm having trouble keeping myself on the cool side as well,” Lady Winifred said, eyeing the fan. “We've entered that time of life, I suppose.”

Arabella dropped the fan as if it had bitten her.

“Who is it?” Mrs. Barret-Ducrorq said eagerly. “Who arrived last night?”

“Bonnington,” Arabella said after a magnificent pause, “has returned.”

It was a good line. And if it weren't for the fact that Esme's own life was being paraded before the gossips, she would have applauded Arabella's dramatic turn of phrase.

There was a collective intake of breath. Lady Winifred was obviously amused; Mrs. Barret-Ducrorq was shocked; Mrs. Cable was so horrified that she covered her face with her hands, as if she'd been faced with the devil himself.

“He's reformed,” Arabella dropped into the silence that followed.

“I doubt that very much!” snapped Mrs. Cable, seemingly unable to contain herself.

“Astounding, yet true.” Arabella picked up her fan again and glanced significantly at the ladies. “He's come back to England to prostrate himself at my niece's feet!”

“As well he might,” Mrs. Barret-Ducrorq said rather sourly. “After all, he did…” But her voice trailed off when she realized that mentioning the fact that Esme's husband had died grappling with her latest guest wasn't entirely well mannered.

Esme looked down at her sheet and very precisely put another crooked stitch into the hem. That foot was still in her ribs. Oddly enough, she didn't feel the pinched sensation that she usually got at the very mention of Miles. Poor Miles. She placed another stitch. Dear Miles.

“Prrrrostrate himself,” Arabella said with pleasure. “As you say, Mrs. Barret-Ducrorq, Bonnington is at least partially responsible for the death of poor Lord Rawlings. Although his doctors had said that Esme's late husband was liable to die at any moment. I lost a husband to a weak heart myself; it's a terrible circumstance. At any rate, Marquess Bonnington is overcome with contrition. Quite beside himself.”

Everyone looked at Esme, so she tried to look like a grieving widow. Far be it from her to diminish Arabella's performance. Why was it that whenever she was supposed to look miserable, she felt cheerful? “The marquess has certainly expressed his repentance,” she agreed, placing another stitch so as to avoid Mrs. Cable's piercing glance. Really, sewing had its uses.

“How can Bonnington possibly think to alleviate Lady Rawlings's situation?” Mrs. Cable demanded. “What's done is done. The man should stay on the Continent, where he is less likely to corrupt others.”

“Unless he's asked for her hand in marriage?” Lady Winifred said, giving Esme a shrewd look.

“A revolting proposition,” Mrs. Cable said tightly. “Lady Rawlings is not even out of a full year of mourning! Only think of the scandal!”

“Oh, one can always think of the scandal,” Lady Winifred said. “But it's so seldom worth the effort. The marquess, after all, has a very fine estate.”

“My thought precisely,” Arabella said, beaming. “I do believe the man is genuinely overcome by penitence. He wishes to mitigate the evils he visited on her in any way possible.”

“What makes you believe that his intentions are honorable?” Mrs. Cable wanted to know. “After his behavior last summer!”

Esme felt a pang of guilt. She was hardly innocent when it came to the loss of Sebastian's sterling reputation, since he had fabricated a story of depravity in order to protect her reputation. “His mother accompanied him to this house, which seems to bode well for his sincerity,” she noted. “The Marchioness Bonnington is also staying with us.”

“My goodness!” Lady Winifred exclaimed. “If Bonnington persuaded his mother to accompany him, the man must indeed be serious. Lady Bonnington is as stiff-rumped a lady as I've ever met!”

“I sincerely hope that you informed him that marriage was impossible,” Mrs. Cable told Esme.

Esme suddenly remembered her supposed engagement to Fairfax-Lacy. There was more than one reason why marriage to Sebastian was impossible. Rather than answer, she started sewing again.

“After all, the man forged a marriage certificate in order to take a lady's chastity!” Mrs. Cable continued. “The poor Duchess of Girton might well have been taken in by his depravity, if it hadn't been for the happenstance of his stumbling into your bedchamber rather than hers. And that's not to mention his hand in your husband's death.”

Arabella leaned forward. From the look of pure pleasure in her eyes, Esme could see her aunt had prepared herself for just this moment.

“A woman of mercy does not spurn a geninely remorseful soul,” Arabella intoned. “By doing so,
she
would be responsible for any lapses in judgement that followed. No, Esme's path is clear. She must aid and succor the poor unfortunate sinner in his moment of contrition.”

“The devil is full of all subtlety and all mischief,” Mrs. Cable snapped. “Acts.”

“By mercy and truth, iniquity is purged,” Arabella retorted, without even pausing for breath. “Proverbs.”

Esme bit her lip so she wouldn't ruin the moment by laughing. Mrs. Cable was flattened, trapped between the Bible and her abhorrence of iniquitous behavior.

Lady Winifred jumped in at this point. “I quite agree with you, Arabella dearest. It takes a truly charitable heart to recognize where the path of goodness lies.”

Arabella was obviously trying to look as if she had a charitable heart. To Esme, it looked as if she had wind.

“I don't support it,” Mrs. Cable snapped. “The man is a poisonous influence. You'll have to watch the young women in the house very carefully, Lady Rawlings. He may besmirch them, corrupt them, deprave them!”

No, Esme thought ruefully, he's only interested in besmirching me. Although she wouldn't argue with the idea that Sebastian was depraved. He had
no
sense of propriety in bed. Esme's cheeks grew hot at the very thought of the liberties he had taken the previous night. She wrenched her attention back to Mrs. Cable.

“A man like that is more than likely to seduce the maids,” she was saying. “There'll be no woman in the house safe from him.”

Too tired, Esme thought. He's definitely too tired for the maids.

Arabella giggled. “It's a pity I'm too old for the man.”

Mrs. Cable gasped, but Lady Winifred chuckled. “Handsome, isn't he? I remember seeing Bonnington riding to the hounds, last year it was, before all the scandal broke. He looked as regal as a prince. A prince in a fairy story,” she clarified, “not one of our own.” Everyone accepted that. The royal dukes were more easily described as fat and friendly than regal.

With pressed lips, Mrs. Cable backed down. “Well, you won't accept Bonnington's proposal, of course,” she instructed Esme. “But I do acknowledge Lady Withers's point about improving his soul. It is not ours to question why the Lord places a sinner at our doorstep. We must simply endure while we aid in the cultivation of a better life.”

“I must try saying that to my husband,” Lady Winifred murmured to Arabella. “I endure, and he never seems to cultivate. Perhaps I could bore him into virtue by reading the Bible aloud.”

But Mrs. Cable heard her, and the Sewing Circle disbanded on an acrimonious note.

Lady Rawlings's Rose Salon

“I
suppose your mother felt she couldn't attend you,” Lady Bonnington said to Esme with her usual lack of finesse. “Fanny does have strict notions of propriety.”

“My dear sister is very preoccupied by the fate of the poor,” Arabella said, with a little snap of her teeth. “She cannot be in as many places as she would wish.”

“She wrote me as much,” Esme put in. Though why on earth she always defended her mother, she didn't know.

The marchioness's expression showed exactly what she thought about Arabella's fib. “Yet during the confinement of her only daughter!” Lady Bonnington said. “Quite dismaying. You must find her absence painful,” she said to Esme.

Esme smiled tightly. “Naturally I am proud of Mama's unfailing attention to those less fortunate than ourselves.”

To her surprise, Lady Bonnington's eyes were not scornful; Esme could see a gleam of sympathy there. “As you undoubtedly know,” she announced, “I am close friends with your mother. Perhaps the combination of my presence and your entirely acceptable engagement will be enough to change her mind. I fancy I do have some small authority in society, you know.” She bent toward Esme with the fanged smile of a leopard about to spring. “If
I
champion your reentry into society upon your marriage to Mr. Fairfax-Lacy, I feel quite certain that the
ton
will quickly dismiss the foibles of your youth.”

Esme gave her a weak smile. Obviously Lady Bonnington was offering her a pact. Marry Fairfax-Lacy instead of her son, and the marchioness would reinstate Esme in the good graces of her mother and society. She nodded, meeting Lady Bonnington's eyes. “That would be most kind.”

At that moment the rest of the party entered the room. Sebastian strolled over to Esme. “How are you?” he said, leaning over her sofa and speaking in her ear with unmistakable intimacy.

“Stop that!” she scolded, trying to avoid Lady Bonnington's glare.

Sebastian followed her glance. “Ah, my dear mother is here. Now where's your inamorato? Mr. Fairfellow. What is his name? I loathe double-barreled names, don't you?”

“Hush, you monster!” she said, pinching his arm. Under his laughter she caught a spark of something—jealousy, perhaps? She decided that her plan wasn't a failure after all. So she held out a languid hand to Fairfax-Lacy. “Ah,
there
you are!” she cried. “It seemed ages since the men retired for port!”

A few moments later, Bea entered the salon to find that Stephen Fairfax-Lacy was dancing attendance on Esme in a manner that could only be called lavish. They were snugly tucked into a small couch together, and as Bea watched, Stephen tenderly rearranged the cushion behind Esme's back. She felt a prick of jealousy. Apparently Esme and Stephen had discovered a shared affinity for bawdy jokes; Stephen kept murmuring things into Esme's ear that made them both roar with laughter.

They certainly
looked
like an affianced couple. But Bea couldn't work out what exactly had happened the previous evening. Why had Esme announced that she and Stephen were marrying? Presumably because they had agreed to marry, a sensible little voice in the back of her head insisted. But—and this seemed the crucial question to Bea—what was Marquess Bonnington doing in the house, and what was
his
relation to Esme? As Bea watched, the marquess strode over to join the lovebirds. Esme began sparkling like a tree decorated with candles, and laughing (Bea thought uncharitably) like a hyena.

Bea herself was dressed for attention, and she wasn't going to get that if she kept hugging the fireplace like a debutante wearing too many ruffles to dance. So she drifted over to the group and paused for a second until they looked up.

Esme's face lit with pleasure. “Bea, darling! Do join us. Mr. Fairfax-Lacy is telling me abominable jests about codpieces.”

“Codpieces?” Bea inquired, walking toward her. She was wearing a gown of slate-gray silk. Slate-gray was the kind of color governesses wore, but this gown was cut with cunning precision to make it appear that she was a governess hiding the soul of a Jezebel. The bosom was as low as an evening gown's, but the addition of a trifling bit of lace gave the bodice a faint claim to respectability. “What is a codpiece?”

Naturally, the gentlemen stood at her arrival, so Bea nimbly slipped next to Esme, taking Stephen's seat.

Stephen himself answered her question, one dark eyebrow raised. “Have you not heard of codpieces, Lady Beatrix? Gentlemen wore them in the sixteenth century. Rounded pieces of leather sometimes decorated with ribbons.”

“Wore them? Where did they—” Bea broke off, suddenly guessing where they wore them. Now she thought of it, she had seen portaits of men wearing codpieces over their tights. It was wicked of him to laugh at her in such a fashion, though.

“Life must have been so much easier for women in those days,” Esme said, her voice spiced with mischief. “One could presumably choose a man by the number of ribbons he wore. Bea, we must sit together all evening. Our gowns suit each other extraordinarily.”

Esme was dressed in a dark silvery crimson gown whose bosom was as low as Bea's but didn't include any disguising lace. Given the fact that Esme was approximately twice as endowed in the chest area, Bea figured that the contrast was personally unfortunate. But it was better than watching Stephen nestle up to Esme's curves.

“So, would you insist your husband match his daily ribbons to your gown?” Bonnington asked Esme. There was a sardonic twist to his lips. To Bea's mind, something smoldered in the marquess's eyes when he looked at Esme. And the same could be said for the way her lips curved up at his question. If she laughed a great deal while talking to Stephen, she got a husky undertone when she spoke to the marquess that was utterly suggestive.

“Ah, what a dilemma!” Esme said. “I doubt my fiancé would agree to wear rosy ribbons, were I to wear a pink costume.” She threw Stephen a languishing look.

Stephen sat down in a chair beside the settee. He was suffering from awareness of the fact that if he were indeed an Elizabethan gentleman, wearing little more on his legs than some thin stockings, he'd be grateful for a codpiece, because his body's reaction to Bea's outrageous gown would have been all too obvious. “For you, Lady Rawlings, I would wear the colors of the rainbow,” he said, pitching his voice to a velvety earnestness.

“How fortunate that you, rather than I, are marrying Lady Rawlings,” the marquess drawled, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. “Lady Beatrix, would you demand that a man make an ass of himself?”

Bea could feel Stephen watching her. She gave the marquess a look of liquid promise. Bea had a distinct preference for dark hair, but the marquess's tawny golden-brown hair could well nigh change her mind. “I do believe I would insist on the removal of all ribbons.”

“Oh?” he asked. He had lovely blue eyes. If only she weren't so fond of dark eyes. “You prefer a
naked
codpiece, Lady Beatrix?”

“I would prefer that my husband not advertise,” she said. “Don't you agree, Esme? If a man wore too many ribbons, he might become the target of many women's attentions.” Bea looked at Stephen, her face as innocent as she could manage. “And the next thing one knew, one's husband would have virtually turned into a peacock, thinking that every woman within eyesight is longing for his attentions.”

Vixen, Stephen thought. “Do you mean
his
eyesight or
theirs
?” he asked.

“I shall have to take the idea of naked codpieces into consideration,” Esme put in. “Perhaps we should have a game of charades. There must be some Elizabethan clothing up in the attics.”

She turned to Stephen and said, with a simper, “But, darling, wouldn't you mind dreadfully if I stripped you of ornamentation?”

Bea thought Esme was playing a dangerous game. There was something wild about the marquess, something ungentleman-like, that made Bea a trifle nervous. And yet Esme was toying with him as if he were a mouse and she a kitten. But it was closer to the truth to see him as a tiger, and Esme a mouse.

For his part, Stephen was fairly certain that his courtship of Esme was piquing Bea's jealousy. There was a stormy something in her eyes that he liked. So he picked up Esme's hand and told her, “I would strip myself naked, if you wished.”

“Even in this state?” Esme said, gesturing toward her nonexistent middle.

“If carrying a child made every woman as beautiful as you, Lady Rawlings, England's population would be growing by leaps and bounds.” Stephen kissed Esme's hand as he watched Bea out of the corner of his eye. Her hands were clenched into fists. Stephen felt a burst of cheer. As long as he wasn't knocked into a corner by Bonnington, his plan was a success.

“I do believe that most women would faint at the idea of gaining such a waistline,” Esme was saying.

“The most beautiful things in nature are those about to burst into flower: a bud on the verge of becoming a rose, a tree dripping with ripe apples. And you are more beautiful than a rose, Lady Rawlings.”

“Quite the dandy, aren't you?” Marquess Bonnington said to Stephen. There was a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “I wouldn't have thought a politician would have so much address. You could do much worse for a husband, Lady Rawlings.”

“I merely speak the truth when I feel pressed,” Stephen said promptly, hoping that Bonnington wouldn't lose control and floor him. Clearly the man had a prior claim. “Lady Rawlings is so beautiful that one can hardly stop oneself from singing her praises. It was the most surprising moment of my life when she agreed to marry me.” He sighed, a languishing expulsion of breath. “The keen pleasure of that moment will never leave my memory.”

Esme blushed faintly, and Bea realized that Esme had, indeed, decided to marry Stephen, no matter what her previous relationship with Marquess Bonnington might have been. Who could possibly choose to raise a child alone when she might have Stephen as a father? To Bea's annoyance, Stephen began kissing Esme's every fingertip. Now her stomach was churning with jealousy.

“Your eyes are the color of sapphires,” Stephen said, his voice a low croon. “And your lips are finer than rubies.”

Bea cleared her throat. Stephen looked around in a faintly irritated fashion and then said, “Forgive me, Lady Beatrix, Marquess Bonnington. You must forgive the flush of early love, the delight with which one greets his bride-to-be….”

“I've never met a woman whom I wanted to compare to sapphires,” the Marquess Bonnington said with an easy shrug of his shoulders. “What appeals to me is a kind of willowy grace…an elegance of form.”

Esme stiffened slightly.

“Isn't it the poet Petrarch who compares his lady to a slender willow, swaying in the breeze? That appeals to me much more than comparing my lady to flinty little gems.”

“Petrarch loved a woman who was only twelve years old,” Stephen said dismissively. “I leave the younger set to you, Lord Bonnington. I find young women tiresome. A woman who
is
a woman is the most appealing.” He carefully didn't even glance at Bea. Unless he was much mistaken, a pale pink nipple was just visible through the lace of her bodice. One more look at her chest and he would pick her up and stride right out of the room, and it wouldn't be
his
decoration that was stripped.

Bea was having trouble biting back an unpleasant comment. Clearly she was a member of the
younger set
whom Stephen professed to find tiresome. And presumably Stephen expected her to compete with Esme, though how she was supposed to do that, short of stuffing her corset with all the cotton in Wiltshire, she had no idea. The least she could do was to help the cause of true love.

“Lord Bonnington,” she said rather jerkily, “I brought the most exquisite book of poetry with me. And you had not yet joined the house party when we read some of it aloud. Would you like me to introduce you to the work?”

“I would be more than pleased,” he said, rising and giving her an elegant bow.

Bea didn't look to see what Stephen thought. He was probably grateful. After all, if she took Bonnington off of Esme's hands, he had no competition to worry about.

They walked into the corridor together. She took a deep breath and gave Lord Bonnington the full benefit of one of her smoldering looks. There must be something wrong with her. He looked no more impressed than had Sebastian. Bea blinked to hold back sudden tears. Was she…was she losing her attractiveness to men? That was inconceivable. It was all she had.

The library was just down the corridor from the Rose Salon. Esme's library was a snug nutshell of a room, all lined with books that gave off a sleepy, satisfied smell. Bea felt better immediately. The library had been one of the few places in her father's house where she'd felt happy.

Lord Bonnington walked away from her and looked out one of the arching windows that faced into the garden, so Bea followed. She still could hardly believe that he hadn't shown her the faintest interest. Perhaps—perhaps it had been too dim in the corridor. Perhaps he hadn't seen the expression in her eyes.

It had rained all day. A silver layer of mist crept over the garden, drifting down to a blocky structure that Bea knew was the rose arbor.

“I gather you think that Lady Rawlings should marry Mr. Fairfax-Lacy,” Lord Bonnington said abruptly, looking at the garden, and not at her.

“I—”

“And you brought me here to give them breathing space.”

Bea swallowed. She could hardly say that she'd brought him to the library in a weak effort to make Stephen Fairfax-Lacy jealous. Or to prove that she was still desirable.

“I do think that Lady Rawlings would be happier if she were married,” she said, steadying her voice.