Anne Barbour (19 page)

“Perhaps not, but it is certainly unrealistic,” replied Thorne in a bored tone.

Hester rose. “I do believe I pity you. Lord Bythorne. To be so heartless—totally devoid of passion, either socially or personally, is a great tragedy.”

Thorne, too, stood, and moved to stand before her. Lifting his hand, he ran a finger along her cheek. “Oh, not totally devoid, I think,” he said lazily, an unholy light flaming at the back of his dark gaze. He shifted his hand to cup the back of her head, but she stepped back abruptly.

“Goodness, the evening has quite fled, my lord. I must look in on Chloe, and then I believe I shall retire. I have enjoyed our conversation, and now I shall bid you good night.”

With a rustle of her skirts, she turned and left the room, leaving Thorne with his hand still upraised. It felt, he mused regretfully, oddly empty.

Chapter Thirteen

It might have been expected that soon after John Wery’s declaration to Lord Bythorne, an Interesting Announcement would have been issued to society at large via the
Morning Post
. Such, however, was not the case. When Thorne informed Chloe of John’s stated intentions, her reaction was a wide, indignant stare.

“But, Uncle, of course I am not going to marry him! Have I not told you so over and over?”

“But—but, what about his dramatic rescue? The other night he was your champion on a white charger.”

Chloe’s cheeks flushed with pink. “Oh yes, I admire him tremendously for what he did. My opinion of him is much improved. Even if I thought him the most perfect of men, however, I have no intention of marrying.”

“Oh, my God!” The cry came from Thorne’s heart. What the devil was he to do now? “Hester!” He fairly bellowed her name.

“Miss Blayne is away from home, sir,” said Hobart, materializing at his elbow. “She and Lady Lavinia were to meet Lady Bracken at the Egyptian Hall—to view the current exhibition—of items from the South Seas, I believe. Lady Lavinia said they would be home in time for dinner.”

Thorne was forced to curb his impatience. Why the devil had Hester picked this afternoon to jaunter about town looking at old bones? She had come to Bythorne House to help him get Chloe buckled. Why was she not here in his hour of need?

Not that she’d been around much of late at all. Not since their little tête-à-tête in his study the other evening. Her attitude toward him had been chill to the point of glacial, in fact. How was he to know she would take snuff at a little harmless flirtation? She had virtually asked for it with that gratuitous puffery about his lack of passion.

Love! He snorted to himself. He might have known a female whose head was so permanently planted in the clouds would view the institution of marriage through a pink haze.

He simply had to stop indulging in late-night chats before the fire in intimate little chambers with Miss Prunes and Prisms. The thought left him feeling strangely forlorn. He pondered their conversation. It certainly had held no hint of dalliance—which was unusual of itself. Normally, he had only one thing in mind when he sat down for an amiable coze with a female. Yet, he had enjoyed simply talking with her—talking almost as he would to a friend. Though, to be truthful, not many men of his acquaintance could discourse as interestingly on as many subjects as Hester, a fact that would ordinarily have sent him fleeing a woman’s company. He had never met anyone quite like her, he admitted to himself. He was forced to admit her presence had wrought a change in him.

He now found himself looking at his world with new eyes. The old apple woman on the corner, for example. With the kind of education available now only to privileged males, might she have grown up to make a dramatic contribution to, say, the medical knowledge of the day?

He had been born to a life of wealth and privilege—but hundreds of thousands had not. What might some of them have become had they been blessed with his opportunities?

Even among the women of his own class, were there some who might have qualified as crafty financiers—as cabinet ministers? He laughed softly as he thought of Gussie meting out justice from the bench. And he thought of Hester. A picture of her garbed in parliamentary robes rose before him. Hmmm, perhaps not so hard to imagine, after all.

Still ... He sighed. It was just too bad she was so damned straitlaced.

* * * *

It was too bad Lord Bythorne was such an incorrigible rake, thought Hester for the hundredth time as she wandered through the chambers of the Egyptian Hall. Ordinarily, she would have been engrossed very quickly in the displays of ancient artifacts about her, but today she seemed unable to marshal her thoughts into a proper channel. Despite her best efforts, they tended to drift back to the moment a few nights ago when she had swept out of Thorne’s study.

She hadn’t wanted to. At least she was honest enough to admit that. Her knees had turned to soup the moment he had touched her cheek, and it was all she could do not to lean into the embrace she was sure would have followed. Dear God, what was the matter with her? She had had plenty of experience in turning aside unwanted masculine attention. She knew it was not her fatal desirability that encouraged men to take liberties, it was her outspoken feminism. For some men that was a signal—nay, an open invitation for any sort of presumption. Apparently, my lord Bythorne was among their number. Or, perhaps it was simply that he was congenitally unable to confront any female without making an attempt on her virtue.

She sighed. How very tiresome, to be sure, for she had been enjoying their discussion. He had showed a side that she had not thought existed. The man could actually be sensitive to the misery of others, it appeared. Could there be some hope for him? She rather thought not, if he could not rid himself of his unfortunate propensity to molest every woman that crossed his path.

Well, she would soon be removed from that path. John had requested permission to court Chloe, and after his heroic performance at the carriage wreck, there seemed little doubt that Chloe would now welcome his suit. The betrothal would probably be announced within a few weeks and Hester Blayne, feminist, could return to her home, her writings, her speeches, and the purposeful routine of her life.

She would, she told herself, be glad to settle down again in the quiet backwater that was Overcross. Not that she hadn’t enjoyed her little fling in the metropolis, but—the thought bubbled to the surface at last from where it had lain waiting to be noticed—she had become entirely too fond of Thorne’s company of late. It was one thing to acknowledge his carnal attraction for her. She could deal with that. But when mere conversation with him could fizz through her veins tike champagne, then it was time to sound the retreat. Nothing could be more disastrous than to form a real attachment to a man whose sole purpose in life was, apparently, the seduction of as many women as he could schedule into his hedonistic life.

Not, of course, that she had anything to worry about in that direction. His feeble attempts at flirtation had been no more than an automatic reflex—a response to a challenge, for, of course, rejection was not to be countenanced. The Earl of Bythorne, in the unlikely event that he should turn his thoughts to marriage, would set his sights much higher than her unseductive self. To the desirable Lady Barbara Freemantle, in fact.

Clutching these and other equally salutary thoughts to her bosom, Hester returned her attention to the Ancient World. Later, she and Lady Bracken and Lady Lavinia refreshed themselves with tea and cakes in a nearby pastry shop. Thus, the afternoon was far advanced when the little party returned to Curzon Street. There they were greeted by a scene of rampant disharmony. Even as they entered the front door, they could hear the sound of voices raised in the music room, just at the top of the flight of stairs to the first floor.

“I won’t!” came an all-too-familiar cry, and the three ladies exchanged glances of consternation before hurrying up the steps. They entered the music room to find Chloe seated on a piano stool, weeping copiously into a lace-edged handkerchief. Above her, like a swollen thundercloud brimful of lightning, loomed Thorne.

“Chloe,” he was expostulating, “Wery will no doubt be appearing on our doorstep at any moment, and when he does, by God, I expect you to—”

“Thorne!” exclaimed Hester. “Chloe! What in the world is to do?”

“Good God!” chimed in Lady Bracken. “You sound like a pair of Billingsgates. I shouldn’t wonder the whole neighborhood isn’t a party to your row.”

Lady Lavinia said nothing, but gasped audibly at the scene before her.

Chloe, upon observing Hester’s entrance, leaped to her feet and ran to fling herself on her preceptress. “Oh, Hester!” she cried. “I’m so glad you are home. Oh, dear heaven, was anyone ever so beset as I?”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” snorted Thorne. “If ever I saw a Tragedy Jill.” He turned to Hester. “Where the devil have you been?”

Hester stiffened in umbrage, but Thorne immediately lifted a hand in apology.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just that I’ve been so bedeviled—” He drew a long breath as Hester disengaged Chloe from her bosom and led her to a chair by the window. “I told my totty-headed ward,” he continued, “of John Wery’s intention to ask for her hand and she—she refuses,” he concluded in disbelief.

“Oh dear,” said Lady Lavinia, and all three ladies swung to gaze at Chloe in varying attitudes of incredulity.

“Good God, gel!” exclaimed Lady Bracken. “What nonsense is this?”

Chloe broke into a fresh paroxysm, sinking to her knees and burying her face in Hester’s skirt. Looking over her head, Hester met Thorne’s gaze and she jerked her head almost imperceptibly toward the door. He opened his mouth as though to protest, but immediately clamped his lips shut.

“Come, Gussie,” he said instead, interrupting that lady mid-tirade. “Aunt Lavinia,” he added, gesturing both ladies toward the door. Gussie was still talking when he led them from the room.

Hester bent over Chloe. “There, there, my dear. It’s all right. They’re all gone and now we can have a comfortable coze.” She drew a clean handkerchief from her reticule and began mopping her protégé’s cheeks. Within a few moments, Chloe had stopped crying, although she occasionally erupted into spasmodic hiccups.

“What am I going to do now, Hester?” she asked dolefully. “I did just as you suggested. I’ve gone along with Uncle Thorne’s wishes, and I’ve talked feminism to John and babbled on about jewelry and London town houses and here I am, on the verge of betrothal. Oh, Hester!” Her eyes welled again. “I just can’t bear it.”

“Well,” Hester replied in a prosaic tone, “there’s nothing that says you have to—bear it, that is. If you really feel you cannot marry Mr. Wery, all you have to do is tell him so.”

Chloe swiveled around, her tears forgotten, to stare wide-eyed at Hester. “B-but, what about Uncle Thorne? And Aunt Gussie? And how am I to tell John—?”

“I think you may safely leave your uncle and aunt to me,” said Hester briskly. “As for John, you must simply say, straightly and forthrightly, ‘I am sensible to the honor you have bestowed upon me, Mr. Wery, but I am afraid we would not suit.’  If necessary, repeat the phrase until the gentleman fully understands that you’re not going to marry him.”

“You make it all sound so easy.”

“Well, and it is. You must merely maintain your dignity throughout.”

Chloe fell silent for a moment, twisting her handkerchief in her lap. When she lifted her head at last, she bent a coaxing smile on Hester. “Could you not talk to John for me?” she asked. “I know it’s perfectly chickenhearted of me, but, oh, Hester, I just do not know how to face him—to break his heart in such a manner and still keep my—my dignity.”

“Oh, no,” replied Hester promptly. “That would not do at all, I’m afraid. It would be most unbecoming in you. If you’re going to break his heart, my dear, you must do it to his face.”

Chloe cast her eyes down again. “I suppose you’re right. Oh, how could Uncle Thorne have led him to believe his suit would be acceptable?”

Hester smiled. “Perhaps because he so dearly wished it to be so. And, you must admit, Chloe, you gave us all reason to believe your feelings toward Mr. Wery had undergone a profound change.”

Chloe’s startled glance flew to Hester’s face. “Oh, but they have! I admire him tremendously. But”—she blushed to the roots of her hair.  “--that does not mean that I am in love with him—or that I wish to marry him. I would think Uncle Thorne, above all people, would understand that,” she concluded bitterly. “He apparently thinks the world of Lady Barbara, but I don’t see him down on his knees before her proposing marriage.”

“That’s true,” replied Hester a trifle unsteadily. “But, men, as you have perceived by now, are not blessed with a great deal of empathy.”

Chloe said nothing, but heaved a profound sigh, and the two ladies remained in unspoken communion for a few moments.

“Well, then,” said Hester at last. “Perhaps you had better repair to your room. Mr. Wery may be upon us soon, and we do not want him to discover you in such a lachrymose state.”

Chloe pulled herself up from her knees with yet another soul-wrenching sigh and allowed herself to be led into the hall and up the stairs. Having deposited her into Pinkham’s waiting hands, Hester returned downstairs, to find Thorne and his aunts awaiting her in the drawing room in a state of high indignation.

“Well, have you managed to talk some sense into the little twit?” were Thorne’s first, unpromising words.

“No,” snapped Hester. “I feel I will be doing well at this point to talk some sense into you.”

“But, Hester,” put in Gussie, “you’re the only one she will listen to, and if you cannot convince her to receive Mr. Wery’s attentions, what are we to do?”

“Please, let us sit down for a moment,” said Hester with an admirable assumption of calm. “There is really no reason for despair.”

Lady Lavinia twittered distressfully, but seated herself as requested, and after another few moments of expostulation Thorne and Gussie did likewise. Hester took a deep breath.

“I have suggested to Chloe that, since she still feels adamant on the subject of matrimony, she will simply have to refuse Mr. Wery when he comes calling.”