Fortune's Lady (10 page)

“I stand corrected, Lady Althea, and offer you my humblest apologies for completely underestimating you.”

Althea heard his words, but mostly she was struck by the discovery that when he smiled, the Marquess of Harwood was a singularly attractive man. The smile softened his haughty features and warmed the cynical glint in his cool gray eyes, revealing an unexpected intimacy in his otherwise distant expression.

“Underestimating
me or
misunderstanding
me, my lord?”

Gareth shook his head ruefully. Lord, the woman was quick. Her eyes were still wary. Obviously she had as little reason to trust as he did.
“Misunderstanding
you, is what I mean. You see, I have never known a woman who did not wish to use her beauty to its best advantage to establish control over men and their fortunes. And though I scorn those men who care only for a lovely face and nothing for the person beneath it, I pity them, poor fools, for falling into the traps that are set for them by the females of this world.”

In his eagerness to explain himself, he allowed his expression to betray far more than he had intended. There was no mistaking the bitterness in his voice. At some point in his life, the Marquess of Harwood had been badly mistreated by someone. “Females, my lord, or one female in particular?” Althea had no idea where this bold curiosity came from. Ordinarily the most reserved of mortals, she protected her personal thoughts and feelings with a quiet, impenetrable dignity, and she respected that in others. But there was something about this man that seemed to reach out to her. She recognized his coldness and his cynicism as being much like her own, shields against the petty inquisitiveness and spiteful gossip that was the lifeblood of the
ton.
She too was an unwilling participant in the fashionable world, and aloofness and indifference were the only protection she had.

Gareth looked up in surprise. Her blue eyes were softer now, alight with sympathy and understanding. Compelled by an insatiable urge to confide in her, he nodded slowly. “One female in particular. Someone who at her very first ball in her very first Season attracted the attention of a wealthy, impressionable young man and eventually, through her selfishness and extravagance, ruined him. He was an amiable young fellow, from an ancient and highly respected family, sociable, with excellent manners, but very little as far as intelligence goes. She was a girl of modest family and fortune, but she soon saw that he was utterly infatuated with her and she married him promptly, in a wedding designed to establish her firmly in the very exclusive circles to which she aspired.

“Once she became the young man’s wife she ignored him completely as she devoted her energies to creating herself an image as a leader of fashion. Her taste was exquisite and extravagant, and it was not long before she was spending far beyond her means. Her husband’s fortune was substantial, but it did not compare to the limitless wealth of those to whom she compared herself, and she soon found herself in dun territory to such a degree that she was forced to confess all to her husband.

“He was a heedless young man himself who had never spared a thought for where his fortune came from. He had never been forced to consider it before, but now he was, and it alarmed him. However, he could deny her nothing, so instead of telling her that he could ill afford her expensive habits, he struggled to procure the means to support them the only way he knew how—by mortgaging the family estates.

“Now the moment of confession had forced the young wife to use all her charms on her husband with the expected results; she soon found herself pregnant. The husband was genuinely pleased at the prospect as well as relieved by the thought that motherhood might curtail her thoughtlessly expensive existence and her restless desire to become the high priestess of fashion. However, it did not. Her confinement only brought discontent and a renewed resolve to reign supreme in the Upper Ten Thousand.”

“The moment the baby was born, she handed it over to the nurse and returned to her life in London, leaving her husband behind in the country with no one but a squalling infant and a houseful of servants to keep him company. Restless and bored himself, and dimly aware that the world considered him to be the foolish dupe of his wife, he too returned to the metropolis and sought excitement at the gaming tables of White’s.

“Not being particularly clever, he arose a loser far more often than he arose a winner, and thus was eventually forced to seek out less exclusive but more risky games of chance in the gambling hells of St. James and Pall Mall, where the company was less nice and he almost never won.

“Preoccupied with their own pursuits, both parents left their son to be raised by a series of servants and tutors until he was old enough to be sent to school where, unaccustomed to having any friends, he was lost and lonely. Not knowing what to do with himself or how to behave, he devoted himself to his studies and strengthened his resolve never to be a guileless fool like his father.

“Gradually he discovered among the boys a few like-minded lads and he developed some tentative friendships. But all his lonely hours of observation from outside of the group had brought him to the conclusion that he wanted a life where he could do something of value, not bungle through an empty, pointless existence like his parents. So after finishing university, and unaware of the family’s precarious financial situation, he asked his father to buy him a commission in the Royal Horse Guards and left for the Peninsula, putting as much distance between himself and a father who paid more attention to games of chance than to his son and a mother who disliked him for being the constant reminder that she was no longer young.

“It was only a few years after his departure for the Peninsula that his father died and the young captain was called to take up his duties as head of the family. It was not until that moment that he became aware of their dire financial situation.

“Not only was the estate heavily mortgaged, but his father had been in debt to every tradesman in London as well as in the country. His mother, who put the entire blame upon his father, refused to accept the unhappy reality that her son was left to repair their fortunes as best he could, and the stringent economies he was forced to practice only brought bitter recriminations from a woman who considered the luxuries of the latest in fashionable attire to be her prerogative. There was no way to recoup their finances with the income from the estate, so he was forced to look to some other way to earn money.

“He sold his commission and with what he raised from that, set out to win as steadily as his father had lost at the gambling tables on the
ton.
But in the meantime, in order to survive and keep his estate from falling into utter and irreparable ruin, he was forced to remove himself and his mother from their mansion in Berkeley Square in order to derive some income from renting it out. They eventually took up residence in some rooms in Hanover Square, where it was slowly born in on him what his father’s existence must have been tike—one long, continuous effort to satisfy the demands of a woman whose entire life was devoted to proving herself to be more fashionable than her acquaintances.

“The gambling fever that had gripped his father had been a weak man’s response to these incessant demands.” Gareth paused to smile ironically. “At first, the son’s response to these dire financial straits appeared to be no different than his father’s. He used the proceeds from the sale of his commission to set up a faro bank and then, when the worst of the debts had been paid with the winnings from that, he devoted himself to the gaming table. In fact, at this point, the only ostensible difference between father and son was that the son arose a winner as consistently as his father had been a loser, but that was to change. Instead of pouring all his winnings into games of chance, the son set about repaying debts and restoring the family estate.

“Eventually the debts were paid and repairs begun on the estate, while the unhappy widow continued to accuse her son of stealing from her nonexistent widow’s jointure. But I have said far more than I should have. I am sure it is a common enough tale.” Gareth broke off abruptly and stared unseeingly at the cards in front of him.

Appalled by his story, Althea sat silent as she struggled to reconcile the image of the fluffy-haired, charming Marchioness of Harwood with the determinedly selfish woman of her son’s tale.

Absorbed in his own bitter thoughts, Gareth seemed to forget his visitor for a moment. Then he looked up, his lips twisting into a self-mocking smile. “Forgive me, I cannot think why I told you all this.”

“Because I asked you.” Althea laid a sympathetic hand on his arm. “Do not apologize. I am glad you did. It makes you... Well, I am flattered that you trusted me with your confidence.”

“It makes me what?”

She flushed self-consciously. “Well, ordinarily you seem so self-assured, so unruffled by anything, so scornful of the rest of us poor mortals.” Althea paused as she cast about for just the right words. “Well, it makes you human after all,” she concluded smiling shyly at him, and he could not help smiling back.

“All too human, I am afraid. If I were not, I should be able to ignore it all and keep myself from being annoyed and angry.”

Althea nodded. “But she seems so charming, so ...”

He stiffened, and the gray eyes that had been warm with the intimacy of shared experience grew dark and cold as slate.

“I mean”—Althea hastened to retrieve herself—”at least she
seems
to be charming and interested in one. My mother does not even pretend to be concerned with anyone but herself.”

“Perhaps she is the more honest of the two.”

It was a concession. The bleak, angry lines of his face softened a little, but Althea could see that her remark had cost her his openness and some of his trust. He looked so aloof and alone that her heart ached for him as she thought of the little boy abandoned and ignored, now grown up who, despite his years and sophistication, still suffered from that abandonment.

She rose and held out her hand. “I have taken enough of your time, my lord. I thank you for taking an interest in me and helping me.”

Gareth had been annoyed at her for not understanding him completely, for doubting him even the slightest bit. Her remark about his mother’s charm had hurt him, for he had felt just the slightest bit betrayed by her inability to recognize the utter falseness that lay beneath it. This had made him draw back from her. But now that she sensed that withdrawal, now that she was leaving, he wanted her to stay, though he could not let himself admit it. Nor could he admit to himself how desperately he wanted her to be on his side, utterly and completely. “It was an honor to be of service to you. Lady Althea.”

The formality of his words chilled her. She longed to retrieve the intimacy of a few minutes before, but she did not know how. “I cannot begin to say how much ... Well, thank you,” she muttered awkwardly as she rose, nodded to her maid, gathered her bonnet, gloves, and spencer, and hurried from the room.

Althea descended the stairs with unladylike haste, not even pausing to acknowledge Ibthorp who had hastened ahead to open the door for her. She did not slow her pace until she reached the street, where she paused, drew a few deep breaths, and tried to collect her thoughts as best she could.

Her seemingly innocuous remark concerning his mother’s charm had destroyed the fragile bond they shared, and it hurt her more than she cared to admit to acknowledge it. Somehow, she was going to have to overcome that unfortunate remark and prove to him that he could trust her with his confidence, though how she was going to do so she could not imagine.

Chapter 12

The opportunity to repair her relationship with the Marquess of Harwood presented itself sooner than Althea could have hoped and oddly enough, it was engineered by the cause of the rift in the first place—the Marchioness of Harwood herself.

On the pretext of introducing her granddaughter to the grandson of an old acquaintance, the Dowager Duchess of Clarendon was leading Althea in the direction of the card room at the Countess of Hartington’s opulent mansion in Berkeley Square when they found themselves face-to-face with Gareth’s mother.

“How delightful to encounter the two of you without a card table separating us. So much more conducive to conversation, do you not agree? Do let us take a seat in that alcove and have a comfortable coze.” And without giving Althea or her grandmother a moment to think, the marchioness slipped between the two of them, linked arms with both of them, bestowed a charming smile on each one, and led them to a group of delicate gilt chairs conveniently arranged in a corner for those who wished to watch the dancing or exchange the latest
on dits.

“Now”—the marchioness gracefully deposited herself on the middle chair and waved to them to take the ones on either side of her—”do tell me, Lady Althea, how you are enjoying your introduction to the
ton.
I already know that it is enjoying its introduction to you very much, for one hears your name on everyone’s lips. But I know that it can be just the tiniest bit overwhelming.

The lot of an incomparable is a difficult one. There are so many people waiting to catch you in a faux pas, so many people who make spiteful remarks. The world is a very jealous place where someone as lovely as you is concerned.”

The smile she directed at Althea was so warm and sympathetic that Althea could not help smiling in return. “Indeed it is, my lady. And to tell the truth, I am longing to return to the peace and quiet of the country.”

“Oh no!” The marchioness raised a dainty hand to her mouth in horror. “You may believe that, but you must
never
admit to such a thing in public, my dear, no matter how strongly you feel, or you will become a laughingstock. No one, no matter how much they may criticize the metropolis for being a vain and frivolous place, wishes to be thought ridiculous. Why, that is even worse than being labeled a bluestocking!”

Privately, Althea thought she would rather be labeled a bluestocking than an incomparable. No one would waste a second thought on a bluestocking, but everyone’s attention was focused on an incomparable.