Jo Beverley - [Malloren 03] (30 page)

“I have discovered that I am not of a patient disposition!”

Elf would have invaded Fort’s entertainment if she’d believed for a moment that she could get away with it, but she had no intention of making a fool of herself.

Again.

Instead, she dispatched to his house a gaudy handkerchief of red silk trimmed with gold-and-black lace.

Lord Coalport was clearly delighted to be asked to Walgrave House, and to hear Lord Walgrave ask for his daughter’s hand. To Fort’s irritation, he did not immediately grant it.

He received Coalport in the library on the ground floor, where a narrow bed sat behind a screen. Fort was settled comfortably in a chair, his leg supported on a cushioned bench. It was a significant improvement, but he felt for all the world like a victim of the gout.

Coalport was not a likely candidate for gout. His build was trim and healthy, his actions brisk, and Fort doubted that he ever overindulged in anything. Not a bad stable for a wife.

“You see, my lord,” said Coalport, crossing one leg over the other, “I’ve promised my wife that our little Lydia will have her say on the matter. Now, I’m sure it’s just a matter of you courting her a little, for you’re a fine, handsome man, particularly now you’ve put off your blacks. But I can’t settle the details before you have her interest.”

“But I am tied to a chair most of the time, Coalport.”

“Aye well, there’s no hurry.” Coalport leaned forward and patted Fort’s hand. “I assure you, Walgrave, she’ll not go to another before you have your chance. There are others interested, I’ll not deny it. Doubtless you’d not believe it if I were to try, for she’s quite the prettiest lady on the town this decade. But you have my favor, and will have your chance.”

Fort felt like cursing the doting father for he was now in a fix. He could hardly go after another woman who would agree more speedily, and yet he was in no shape to court anyone.

“I confess to some urgency,” he said, hoping he looked like a love-struck fool. “Soon all the world will be leaving London, and your estates are far removed from mine.”

Coalport nodded, much struck by that. “True enough, my lord. True enough. My wife does talk of leaving within the fortnight.” He scratched beneath his neat gray wig. “I could have you over to the house, for you could sit there as well as here, but I tell you, Walgrave, it would look a little too particular if your first venture out were to call upon Lydia. I’ll not have her pressured.”

“Then perhaps I had better take up some general social moves,” said Fort, forcing a smile. “I am much improved. Not up to dancing, of course, but as you say, I can sit as well in company as alone.”

“That’s it, my lord! And if you tell me where you plan to be, I’ll see that Lydia attends if it be suitable.”

“Thank you, my lord. I think we will soon find everything just as we would wish.”

Coalport grasped his hand and shook it. “I believe it will be so, Walgrave. Indeed I do. And there isn’t a girl in the world to match my Lydia.”

And so that night, despite hating to appear such a figure, Fort ordered his sedan chair, and had himself carried into the gaming room at White’s, where he hobbled to a chair.

He was immediately surrounded by friends and the
merely curious, telling the approved tale of a madman down at the wharf who had fired into a crowd and unfortunately hit him. In fact, soon he was having a grand time and silently blaming Elf Malloren for keeping him trapped in his house for a fortnight.

Until Rothgar turned up.

Fort eyed him, both wary and cool. It was, after all, the first time they had met since that encounter at Sappho’s.

The marquess’s brows rose slightly, then he strolled over to Fort. “I am delighted to see you about again, Walgrave.”

“It is a relief to me, too,” Fort said. “I feel more in control of my life.”

“I rejoice.”

“In fact,” said Fort, suddenly determined to seal the matter, “I’m thinking of marriage.”

“Indeed.” Rothgar flicked open a gold snuffbox one-handed and presented it.

Fort took a small pinch. “Nothing is settled of course,” he said and inhaled, letting the powder create its own moment of well-being. “But the young lady’s
father
gives me reason to hope.”

Rothgar did not so much as pause in his own use of the snuff, and took the time to wipe his fingers on his silk handkerchief. Then he smiled approvingly. “Accept my felicitations in advance of the happy event.”

With that he bowed and moved away leaving Fort prey to sudden doubts. He should have realized that Rothgar wouldn’t want another alliance between their families, even when Fort and Elf had enjoyed the privileges of the wedded state.

By escaping Elf, Fort could be doing just as Rothgar wished.

For a moment, the old urge returned, the urge to do anything that would make life difficult for Rothgar. He pushed it aside and concentrated on cards. He’d given up judging his every act by its effect on the Mallorens.

The next morning, Elf was poring over financial statements when Rothgar strolled into her study. Rather than change her boudoir into a place of business she had taken over a spare room for an office and it had now become one of her favorite places.

“ ‘All work and no play . . . ,” ’ her brother remarked. “The same applies to Jill as Jack, I think.”

Elf smiled up at him. “Perhaps this is play.”

“You are distressingly like Bryght, aren’t you?”

“I suppose we are all a mix of the same ingredients. Did you know that if we were to buy—”

“No,” he said, raising his hand. “I have no interest in it. Explain it to Bryght. I think you should be out in society.”

“It’s so dull. People never talk of interesting things.”

“Like trade and profit,” he said dryly. “Walgrave is breathing fresh air again.”

Elf put down her pen and paid attention.

“I encountered him at White’s last night.”

“I’d hardly describe that as fresh air.”

“I assume he passed through the streets to get there.”

“Was he walking?”

“With a cane, and with some difficulty. He let his chairmen carry him almost up to the table.”

Butterflies had suddenly taken up residence in Elf’s stomach. No, not butterflies—wasps. Buzzing there, and likely to sting her. The time had come to act.

But she might see him.

At last, she might see him.

“How did he look?” she asked.

“Well, all in all. Rather less under a cloud.”

“That’s good. I wonder . . .” She wondered where else he might turn up, but didn’t want to say it. Heaven knows but she had no pride left over this with her family. They all knew her desperate need. Still, she didn’t want to say it.

“I believe he might be attending Lord Coalport’s picnic at his Chelsea villa.”

“A
picnic
? White’s I can believe, but an alfresco meal
probably largely attended by ladies? Can a pistol ball in the leg change a man that much?”

“Perhaps he is just craving fresh air.” With that, Rothgar left, and Elf sat chewing her lower lip.

Since her brother had come specifically to tell her about the picnic, he doubtless had made inquiries and thought Fort would be there. That didn’t necessarily mean that Rothgar thought she should attend.

So should she?

She looked down at the neat columns of figures that told the story of income and expense in a certain warehouse for upholstery fabrics. Life could be seen as neat columns, too. If she didn’t attempt to see Fort, she might as well just admit that she lacked the courage to pursue her aim.

She’d have to leave him be.

It was tempting, for that’s what a lady was supposed to do, what she had been trained to do. She should sit at home demurely and make him woo her. A lady’s rights lay solely in the acceptance or rejection of an offer.

She didn’t think Fort would woo her, though. Even if he wanted her.

He
must
want her. Surely he must be drawn to her as she was to him. And the problems were her fault for so mishandling that intimacy. So she must put it right.

Immediately she knew she’d reached the correct, the only decision. As they were all discovering, she was a complete Malloren. She could not help but try to steer the ship of fate.

She pushed back from the desk and stood, then frowned at an inkstain on her finger. Lud. Perhaps lemon juice would help.

As it turned out, Chastity knew of her brother’s intention to attend the picnic.

“It’s not so strange,” Chastity said. “He attended such affairs at home before—”

“Before he killed his father.”

Elf had been astonished to find that the whole family knew Fort had shot his father, and everyone had assumed that she knew, too. She had been involved with Princess Augusta, however, and had missed some important meetings.

After the death, Chastity and her sister, Verity, had spent a great deal of time with Fort. They had done everything they could to persuade him that it had been a necessary act to protect the innocent, not a heinous sin.

They hadn’t succeeded, but Chastity had always believed he’d see it that way in time.

Elf knew—or hoped at least—that their disastrous talk in the dark cellar had helped to crack the shell of guilt and anger around him, and started the healing. If so, it had been worth it, even if it had cost her any chance of love.

More than possession, she wanted him free to be himself.

“So?” prompted Chastity, pulling Elf out of her thoughts. “You want to attend this picnic?”

“Quite desperately. But is it wise?”

“I honestly don’t know. He doesn’t speak of you. But he still has some poems, a fan, a toy, and a horribly gaudy handkerchief. And it was only a few days ago that he let a maid throw out the remains of some roses.”

Elf couldn’t suppress a smile. That did sound hopeful. “Then by all means, let us go. At the very least, I will see him.”

She hurried to her room, glad she’d taken the trouble to order some gowns to her new taste. She was still rather unsure of herself in this regard, but at least neither the mantua maker nor Chantal had blanched at her ideas.

Two gowns had arrived so far, and the amber one might be ideal. The striped taffeta had caught her eye and she had felt sure it would harmonize with her difficult hair rather than fighting it. With rust-brown trimming and rich cream lace, she thought the effect strong but pleasing.

And Chantal did not protest when ordered to produce it.

However, remembering the way Fort had looked at her scarlet and gold and called it “appalling,” Elf could easily have been persuaded back into the safety of paler shades.

Waiting for Chantal to bring the gown, she paced the room restlessly. Half of her wanted to cancel her plans, to put off this meeting till another day. But her need to be with him again, even among a crowd, overwhelmed even her terror of having him look coldly at her or even turn his back.

He had kept her gifts.

She hugged that thought to her as Chantal returned with the outfit and began to help Elf into it.

She remembered, so long ago, telling Chastity that men often needed a bridge to cross the gulfs they themselves created. She’d been talking then of Cyn and Rothgar, who had created a chasm over the issue of whether Cyn should be allowed to join the army. It might apply to Fort too, though, mightn’t it?

Elf didn’t look in the mirror until the gown was fastened, then she turned to the glass. She released her held breath and smiled. “It does look well, Chantal, doesn’t it?”

The amber-and-brown silk created a rich effect that might have been a little strong for her pale skin except for the cream lace at neck and sleeves. “In fact,” said Elf, turning this way and that to check the line of the gown over her wide hoops, “my hair
is
pale amber! That sounds so much better than sandy.”

“Yes, milady. The whole is good. It is . . . interesting.”

“Interesting?” Elf echoed with a wry smile. “Is not that what they say of ladies of a certain age?” But with sudden confidence, she knew she looked well.

Looking back at the mirror she could see that the gown did as she’d intended. It expressed Elf Malloren. It reflected the way she felt about herself these days—a woman, confident and moving beyond the tighter
expectations of society. A person excited by the prospect of interesting things to do with her life.

“What hat do you wish to wear, milady?”

“Oh, the large leghorn to shade my face, I think.”

As Elf waited for Chantal to find the straw hat, she continued to look at herself in the mirror. It was not vanity, just a satisfaction with a job well done.

One among many.

The burned-out piece of land down near the port had been purchased by the family and she had already met with the architect who was to build almshouses there. Dibby Cutlow and others like her would have a good place to live out their lives, but would not have to leave the area in which they felt comfortable.

In the future, other similar places would be constructed around London. Too often, the old were forgotten.

She was still considering ways to spread information about means to delay childbearing until the right time.

She placed her hands on her flat abdomen. At least the prospect of inconvenient motherhood no longer troubled her. She’d had her courses. She didn’t carry a child. Her sensible part had rejoiced, but a tiny rebellious corner of her mind had wept. She could not be sure of winning Fort, and a child of his would have been something of him to cherish.

It would have tied him to you,
said stern honesty.

“Yes, that too,” Elf whispered to the woman in the mirror.

Then Chantal returned with the straw hat, deftly tying amber grosgrain ribbon around the crown. She brushed Elf’s curls, added a delicious lacy cap, then set the hat on top, tying a big bow beneath the chin.

“Charming, milady!” declared Chantal in what seemed to be honest approval.

Elf left the room hoping the maid was right.

Elf and Chastity took the boat upriver to Chelsea. Elf soon realized that this wasn’t wise, for the boat held far too many memories for such a day.

Fort
had
been upset to hear Bryght had shot the bridge and put her in danger.

It was from this boat she’d watched him fall, and known he was wounded.

It was from here that she’d ordered the execution of a man.

Despite these thoughts, she managed a flow of light chatter throughout the journey.

The boat conveyed them to Lord Coalport’s boathouse—a miniature cottage, complete with deep thatched roof. From there they climbed the steps to his pretty garden, which was in full summer bloom. Elf told herself that it was nothing like arriving at Vauxhall for a midsummer masquerade.

It was daytime, for a start, and an ideal one for a picnic. They were blessed by a cloudless sky, but also by a light breeze to cut the heat. Tables of food and drink sat beneath shady trees, and ladies and gentlemen strolled paths and lawns, chatting. To one side, a small orchestra played peaceful, soothing music.

A perfect English summer day.

As they went in search of their host and hostess, however, Chastity swatted with one hand. “Wasps. That’s always a problem with picnics.”

Elf sighed, seeing it as an unfortunate omen.

She wore amber jewelry with her outfit, and the large
pendant around her neck contained a winged insect trapped there through the ages. It was similar to the effect created by the wasp engraved in the topaz.

Were she and Fort both trapped in a situation they could neither enjoy nor fully escape?

Her Malloren soul said there was always an escape for the brave. But did courage always bring victory?

They headed toward the house, where Elf saw Lord Coalport standing by his wife’s chair near the terrace steps.

She suddenly stopped dead.

Chastity turned back. “What’s wrong?” She followed Elf’s eyes. “Oh, there’s Fort. What has you so shocked? You expected to encounter him here. Is it that he’s in colors again? I must have forgotten to mention it.”

Certainly it was a small surprise to see Fort in blue silk, but that wasn’t what had frozen Elf to the spot. Couldn’t Chastity see? Sitting beside him was London’s latest darling—Lord Coalport’s daughter, Lydia.

The girl had arrived in town in the spring and created a sensation. Pictures of her had appeared in the print shops—not scandalous pictures, but idealized ones of angelic beauty. Soon her every appearance and the details of every gown were in the newspapers. At one point the Horse Guards in the Mall had been called out to intervene to control the crowds of people wanting to catch a glimpse of her.

Elf had not paid the girl much attention, for she’d seen such beauties come and go. But that did not deny the fact that Lady Lydia possessed extraordinary beauty. Glossy dark curls, a perfect heart-shaped face, huge eyes of an almost violet color . . .

Even this catalog of perfections did not do her justice, for it was all put together perfectly and accompanied by grace and a charming youthful modesty.

Lady Lydia, in an exquisite blue-and-lilac dress and a hat that appeared to be composed entirely of lace and flowers, sat beside Fort smiling up at him as if he were
a god come to life. He was smiling back at her as if she were the most fascinating person he had ever met.

Charming though she was, the girl could hardly put together two coherent sentences, so what had him so absorbed?

As if that wasn’t obvious. Elf wanted nothing so much as to flee back to the boat and go home.

Such a retreat was unthinkable, however, so Elf drew upon years of social training and smiled and chattered as she continued toward her host. Lord Coalport greeted them affably, so Elf supposed she was saying and doing all the right things.

She could hardly tell when she was so rattled by fear and anger.

She would have to go over and talk to Fort. What had possessed her to come here with his sister? Otherwise she could have ignored his existence.

Of course, she’d never intended to ignore his existence. She’d come here to woo him, damn his black heart.

Unless the girl moved—a likely event, to be sure!—she would have to talk to Lady Lydia. It would be a remarkably one-sided conversation, she thought with appropriate waspishness.

She saw no point in putting it off. As soon as they could move on from the Coalports, Elf summoned every scrap of Malloren spirit, and went over to smile and chatter at Fort and his lovely companion.

“I’m pleased to see you recovering, Walgrave.”

Perhaps, just perhaps, he had a little trouble meeting her eyes. “Thank you, Lady Elf. Are you acquainted with Lady Lydia?”

Elf smiled at the girl. “A little. What a lovely property your family has here.”

The girl blushed as if she’d been paid an outrageous compliment. “Yes, it is, isn’t it?”

“Especially now the city grows so hot and dusty.”

“Oh yes, it is, isn’t it?”

Elf couldn’t help herself. She flashed Fort a look of disbelief.

He met it with a look of his own, a challenging one.

Then she understood.

This was a direct move to counter her persistent stinging of him. Dear God, had she pushed him into peril again?

With a resolute breath, she sat on the bench beside Lydia, leaving Chastity to talk to Fort. He gave her a thoughtful look, as if wondering about her intentions, but then turned to talk to his sister.

Elf smiled at her rival. “This has been your first visit to London, hasn’t it, Lady Lydia?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“And have you enjoyed it?”

The girl looked around. “Everyone has been most kind.”

Elf’s competitive instincts abruptly became protective. Gemini, but the child should still be in the schoolroom! “Perhaps a little overwhelming?” she suggested gently.

Lydia turned back, a spark of relief in her huge eyes making her even more breathtaking. “Oh, yes! Overwhelming expresses it perfectly. Everyone
has
been most kind, such flattering attention, but”—color rushed into her cheeks—“I will be glad to be home again.”

Elf reached over and squeezed Lydia’s hand. She couldn’t imagine what it must be like to be just seventeen and cause a crowd to gather even when walking down the street. “Next time you come to town, you will be more at ease, I promise.”

“I suppose so.” But Lydia looked down and fiddled with the trimming of her lovely dress.

“You do not want to return?”

The girl glanced up as if considering the wisdom of a frank answer. She was not at all stupid, Elf realized, just very young and appropriately shy. “I suppose it will be different if I return to London as a married lady.”

Elf’s mouth dried. “Is that likely?”

Lydia blushed. “A number of gentlemen have
expressed their admiration.” But her glance slid betrayingly to Fort.

Pain around Elf’s heart made it hard to breathe. She’d expected to find Lydia a pretty bird-wit quite unworthy of Fort, but she was charming, innocent, and honest. Too young, though. Surely too young. What were her parents thinking of?

When she spoke, she felt only an honest desire to help.

“There can be no hurry, surely. If I were you, I would enjoy the single state a little longer. I assure you, you will not lack for offers in a year or two.”

And Lydia laughed, doing so as charmingly as she did everything else. “That’s what my mother says. But having begged to be brought to London . . . And . . .” Lydia glanced again at Fort, who appeared to have all his attention on Chastity and a gentleman who had joined them.

Clearly it had to be spoken of openly. “Lord Walgrave is a handsome man,” Elf said.

“Yes, he is.” But Lydia did not speak like an infatuated girl. It was a simple statement of fact.

“And one of the most eligible men around.”

“Indeed.”

“He can be a pleasant companion.”

“Oh yes. He teases me and makes me laugh.”

Elf wanted to burst into tears. Just briefly in the cellar he’d teased her, and when they’d been shouting for help it had come to laughter, but teasing was a side of Fort she’d never really known.

Yet it seemed it came naturally to him with Lydia.

She knew she should wave the white flag, should surrender the field of battle. This was what she wanted for him, wasn’t it, someone who could make him joyous in season? But in her opinion, Lydia was still too young for marriage, too young to know her mind.

She smiled at the girl who might steal the man she loved, and spoke as honestly as she could. “Let me give you some advice, my dear, unasked for as it is. You are
very young. Do not rush into marriage for any reason other than the deepest devotion. But if you feel that devotion for Lord Walgrave, accept him now. I doubt he will still be available next year.”

Lydia considered her, then said, “Thank you, Lady Elf. I think that is sound advice.”

Elf had the horrible feeling that the girl could read the situation too well by far. No, not stupid. A treasure in fact, and if Fort could win her, she should wish him all success.

She had done what she could and with the best of intentions, and so she excused herself and rose to mingle with the other guests, chatting to this group and that. They were all old friends and acquaintances and put no strain on her.

The strain came entirely from the man sitting in the shady spot with a treasure by his hand, ready to be claimed. But really, she thought—despite her charitable intentions—could he seriously want to share the marriage bed with a delightful infant?

Why, thought Fort, had he believed he could marry a mere child?

Oh, she was beautiful almost beyond belief, and charming with it. But if he did marry her, he didn’t think he’d be able to touch her for years. And even having let years go by, he couldn’t imagine ever enjoying with Lydia the sort of wild loving he’d explored with Elf Malloren.

Elf looked well. Perhaps a little less animated than usual, but it seemed more a matter of calm than subdued spirits. He tried to resist, but couldn’t help stealing glances at her as she walked around chatting to this person and that.

She was wearing a different style of gown, he realized. No, not the style, the color. A stronger color, but one that suited her.

Then he had to suppress a laugh.

Waspish colors.

Gads, but she’d be the death of him if he wasn’t careful.

He’d seen her as soon as she entered the garden, as if drawn by a sixth sense. He’d promptly turned to Lydia and concentrated on her as if she were his sole hope of salvation.

Which perhaps she was.

What ease she had in this world . . . Dammit, he was looking at Elf again.

Unlike Lydia, who seemed scared to leave his side.

But that was unfair. Lydia was being kind to an invalid. Elf was eight years older, and had been raised by Rothgar to fill the position of hostess to him. She was up to anything. Lydia could be the same in time.

Or could she? He dragged his attention back to the girl, who was talking to a young friend. Suddenly they giggled over something, hands over pretty mouths.

A child.

But children grow.

Elf had been a child once. A hellion, he’d heard. She had a twin brother, after all, and from things Chastity had said it appeared that the two of them had shared adventures from birth.

At age eight, Cyn and Elf had climbed down the ivy on the north wall of Rothgar Abbey and been whipped by Rothgar for the crime. He was sure Lydia had never contemplated such a rash act, and equally sure that her doting parents had never needed strict discipline.

This should be to her credit.

He remembered “Lisette” talking about using his pistols. Yes, he believed Elf Malloren could load and fire a pistol. He was equally sure Lydia would be horrified at the mere idea. It shouldn’t matter. His wife would never need to protect herself.

Yet the contrasts between the two women troubled him. Elf seemed like a fine sword—flexible steel, ready for action, and potentially lethal.

Lydia made him think of a silk cushion—pretty, comfortable, and ready to conform to his every need.

Any man of sense would prefer the cushion to the sword.

“Do you not like Lady Elfled, my lord?” Lydia’s voice demanded his attention.

He looked back at her. “Like? Why do you ask?”

“You were frowning at her.”

He made himself smile. “Perhaps the sun was in my eyes. Lady Elf is sister to my sister’s husband. We are family in a way.”

It was clear Lydia saw the evasion in this—he’d been pleased to discover that she wasn’t dim-witted—but she did not pursue it. “We had a charming conversation.”

“Conversation is one of Lady Elf’s chief skills.”

“I wish it were one of mine,” said Lydia with a rueful smile that could take any man’s breath away.

Gads, but she was astonishingly beautiful. There wouldn’t be her like in a decade. Why did he have any doubts? She would mature, and she could be taught to be stronger, taught to be sharper-tongued, taught to enjoy lovemaking in all its forms . . .

“You are a delightful companion,” he assured her and raised her hand for a flirtatious kiss. “A chattering woman soon drives a man to drink.”

He thought about kissing her lips. Lydia’s pretty, full, soft mouth should be tempting him. Instead, however, he could only think that she’d be shocked, hesitant, and quivering, and that it would be a devil of a bore to have to coax her into relaxing. He wished he were mobile enough to draw the girl into a secluded spot and test the theory.

What if she turned out to be the sort who wanted the lights out, who was repulsed by intimate experiments?

He’d set up a mistress. It was the accepted solution.

He was looking at Elf again, remembering Lisette. Damn, but he wished Lisette had been real. He could even forgive her for wearing him down to tears if he could have her as his mistress. Trouble was, he’d not want to drag himself away to spend duty time with his lovely, quivering wife . . .

“I think I bore you.”

He snapped his attention back to Lydia, fearing he was actually flushing with guilt. “Not at all.”