Lady Myddelton's Lover (4 page)

              They managed to disengage from the delights of the flesh to dress as best they could and leave the drawing room before dinner. Her skin felt sensitive and flushed beneath her silk combinations, and she turned this way and that in front of the mirrored doors of her closet, moving her fingers to the pink scrapes on her neck from Richard’s beard. These were the most conspicuous of marks he left on her body, others being in more intimate, squirmy places she was shocked to think about. She laughed inwardly—she should be far beyond shock after this afternoon. The corners of her lips curved in an amusement she could not entirely contain, and as Victorine stepped into the room, her freshly pressed dinner gown hung carefully over her arms, Aline had to avert her eyes to hide her feelings from her lady’s maid.

             
As she dressed, she suddenly felt powerful and sensual, the tight lacing of her S-corset accentuating the curve of her waist and the thrust of her bosom and backside. The beaded and sequined overdress clicked delicately as Victorine lowered the emerald satin gown over her head and fastened the tapes at her back. Aline adjusted the fringe of silver and black beads spilling over her bodice from the décolleté neckline, shuffling her feet to disentangle them from the sweeping train covered with lacquered black sequins and bugle beads that Victorine bent to straighten and lay flat. The color of the gown heightened her eyes and her complexion, lending a rich, almost blazing luster to the redness of her hair. She twined a curl about a finger, wishing she could leave her hair down for the night.

             
Silly
, she mocked her reflection; she was no longer a girl. Moreover, whatever would people say?

             
She sat to allow Victorine to dress her hair, her lids drooping beneath the very soothing sensation of having her hair brushed and combed, and twisted and pinned. She reached automatically for the rats of hair inside of the silver box on her dressing table, but paused, her fingers hovering over the bundles of old hair used to give body to her coiffures. Victorine waited expectantly.

             
“My lady?”

             
“No,” Aline closed the lid. “No rats tonight, Victorine.”

             
“But my lady, your hair will not ‘poof’.” Her lady’s maid looked offended by the breach in fashion.

             
“I don’t need my hair to ‘poof’ tonight,” She said firmly. “Something simple I think—a Psyche knot.”

             
“Yes, my lady,” Victorine said, though she looked disapproving.

             
She fastened a pair of diamond earrings to her lobes as Victorine placed the finishing touches on her hair and slid a comb with an aigrette feather into the low Psyche knot. Her lady’s maid clasped the catch on the diamond necklace about her neck, and Aline rose from the chair, collecting her fan and chain Dorothy bag from the table. Victorine fetched her opera cape and Aline looped the toggle closure around her neck, the black silk velvet swirling about her shoulders. She paused at the door and looked back at her lady’s maid, who fussed with her discarded clothing.

             
“You needn’t wait up for me tonight, Victorine,”

             
“Oh, of course, my lady,” Victorine replied with a curtsey, her expression enigmatic.

             
Aline stepped into the hall as Richard was opening his bedroom door, his evening dress of black trousers and tail coat, white waistcoat and shirt, high collar and white dress tie lending his lean frame the smartest touch of elegance. She caught of glimpse of Truscott over his shoulder, as the butler-cum-valet followed with a brush, his pleased expression in stark contrast to the studied patience creasing Richard’s face as he allowed Truscott to brush the shoulders of the coat free of lint and straighten his cuffs.

             
He looked questioning at her attire. “I thought we were dining in?”

             
“It’s the Season,” Aline explained with a slight frown of puzzlement. “We cannot miss Mrs. Pat’s first night in
Hedda Gabler
at The Court.”

             
“Ah…I see,” Richard said, raising an arm to allow Truscott to adjust his cuff link.

             
“There, my lord,” Truscott beamed. “You look very good. Don’t you agree, my lady?”

             
“Yes,” Aline said softly, forcing herself to focus on the butler so as not to betray a hint of the excitement coursing through her veins. “You have done very well with his lordship.”

             
“Thank you,” Truscott bowed and withdrew back into the room, no doubt to putter about, visibly pleased to have another gentleman to valet.

             
“You look very good as well,” Richard lifted her hand to his lips.

             
His eyes were bright with hunger and she lowered her eyes, lifting her skirt with the hand holding her fan and bag and turning away. “We should be off, my lord, or we will miss the first intermission.”

             
“Richard,” He held her hand fast, forcing her to raise her eyes to his face. “Say it, Aline.”

             
Aline narrowed her eyes a fraction, a lump of stubbornness forming in her throat.

             
“We should be off, Richard,” She forced his name past her obstinate lips. “Come,”

             
He looked sharply at her, but released her hand much to her relief. He began to close the door to his bedroom behind him when Truscott exclaimed. Richard turned to the butler, releasing the doorknob when Truscott pushed through the door carrying a heavy black cloak and an opera hat in his arms.

             
“You cannot leave without these, my lord,” The butler shook his head in disapproval.

             
“More rules?” Richard asked flatly.

             
But he took the cloak and hat from the butler, tossing the green silk lined cloak carelessly about his shoulders and cocking the hat over his head. When Truscott extended a walking stick to him, she merely raised a brow at Richard’s aggravated look. The earl was finally dressed to the butler’s satisfaction, and Aline hurriedly placed her arm into the hand Richard extended as he moved them swiftly down the hallway and the staircase, and through the entrance hall, where James the footman opened the front door. 

A sporty black brougham awaited them at the kerb, and the coachman switched the reins to both hands to lift his hat to her as Richard opened the carriage door and assisted her step inside. She settled into the plush interior, catching up the train of her gown out of the door with her feet, and fidgeting with her fan, whipping it open and closed as Richard entered into the carriage and settled beside her in a gust of cold night air and his warm, spicy scent. The carriage door closed, engulfing the interior in darkness, and the brougham rocked to a start.

              Aline reached up and flicked on the small electric lamp affixed to the roof of the brougham, feeling a sudden chill in the air that did not come from outside. She swallowed. Richard looked dangerous and lethal, and the bump of their knees as the carriage whisked across streets of varying quality made the roomy interior feel very, very crowded.

             
Richard scowled at the crush of people, moving outside to their carriages and motorcars at a snail’s pace, who buffeted his every step in the foyer. He kept his eye on Aline’s slender white shoulders, making them a beacon he pushed after. His already grim expression grew grimmer when she lifted a hand to signal the umpteenth lady or gentleman she spotted in the crowd. He caught her hand before she disappeared, grateful to the crowd for at least this concession to impropriety. She curled her fingers around his and squeezed reassuringly as they wove between knots of chatting groups, dodging wild gestures and sudden movements until he stood before a statuesque woman of an indeterminate age, and a distinguished, white haired fellow who popped his monocle into one now grotesquely magnified blue eye and stared at him. The look he then turned to Aline was warm and a trifle more than paternal than his benign lift of her hand to shake. She smiled widely and gestured for Richard to approach.

             
“Sir Carleton, Lady Marlowe, may I present you to the Earl of Myddelton?”

             
Lady Marlowe greeted him politely, her tight-lipped smile not quiet reaching her eyes.

             
He repeated the worthless words as she turned away, toying with the strand of pearls at her throat, obviously bored with his presence. He turned his attention to Sir Carleton, who caught his monocle in his palm and gave his head the barest inclination of acknowledgement with a murmured “Your lordship.”

             
“Sir Carleton is my—well, our—neighbor in Kent,” Aline continued with a little laugh. “I have come to rely upon him utterly regarding matters of the estate.”

             
“Fie on your modesty, my dear!” Sir Carleton exclaimed jovially. “You will find Lady Myddelton an excellent steward of Myddelton Park during your protracted absence.”

             
Richard smiled cannily at the baronet’s pointed barb. “I am quite of the same mind, Sir Carleton. Aline had wired or written me more than once concerning decisions at the Park, but frequently solved the issues before I could respond.”

             
Something dark flashed behind Sir Carleton’s beady blue eyes. “Quite so, quite so. It was an honor to do what little I could for Lady Myddelton as her husband’s oldest friend.”

             
“And his dearest,” Aline touched the hand he patted on her arm.

             
Richard raised a brow briefly at their hands before noticing the thinning crowd in the foyer. He signaled for one of the theatre attendants wandering through the foyer to fetch the carriage, and returned his attention to Aline.

             
“Hadn’t we better go, Aline?”

             
“Go where?” Sir Carleton interrupted. “Surely not to dine
á deux
on this beautiful London night!”

             
“I wouldn’t want to take you from your own guests, Sir Carleton,” Richard said quickly, settling Aline’s cape about her. He briefly allowed his hands to linger possessively over her shoulders, his own breath hitching in reaction to her shaky exhale.

             
He frowned when she pulled away and stood beside Sir Carleton, her beautiful face suddenly acquiring a doll-like quality that actually frightened him. It was the exact expression he witnessed on the pale, porcelain smooth faces of the titled women watching
Hedda Gabler
from their expensive theatre boxes. Women like the thoroughly jaded Lady Marlowe, who drifted away to catch the attention of a fur clad young woman clutching the arm of a red-faced choleric he pegged instantly as a miserly, short-tempered “gentleman” who beat his wife and his horses on a regular basis. Men of his ilk usually died off in Australia from dominion’s low tolerance for cruel and supercilious men. He looked at Sir Carleton, forcibly restraining himself from as he tucked Aline’s arm into his own with a deeply doting look into her eyes.

             
Richard blazed with jealousy and frustration, and uncurled his fists before his inner restraint snapped and he either wiped the small, smug smile curving the baronet’s thin lips or took Aline on the floor in front of the man.
Mine
, he shouted mentally, not realizing he had taken a step forward until the baronet retreated a half step, pausing with a look of agitation. He stopped when he caught a glimpse of Aline’s anxious face…and his irrational suddenly struck him as disturbing to her sensitive notions of propriety. His anger fell from him like a burst balloon, replaced by a sounder and clarified mind. He glanced thoughtfully at Aline before addressing Sir Carleton.

             
“We would be delighted to dine with you,” he said, smiling wryly, almost happily at the baronet.

              The baronet chose the very conspicuous Savoy in which to dine. Richard handed his hat and cloak to the wrap attendant just inside the hotel lobby, as Sir Carleton assisted Aline with her cloak, and collected their tickets. Her hair shone brilliantly beneath the elegant electric lighting, which caught and refracted against her beaded gown in a dazzling display. Her hand was small and sturdy as she swept up her train and permitted Sir Carleton to escort her down the crimson carpeted steps to the dining room, Richard trailing—though not so unhappily—behind them. Male and female guests, attired in the requisite black tails and diamonds, respectively, dined at the score of square and round-shaped tables of the principle dining room, whose green carpet reminded him of the rolling hills of Apollo Bay.

             
Immediately upon entering the dining room, a young mustached man Richard assumed to be the restaurant manager (a Monsieur Soi formerly of The Palace Hotel in St. Moritz, he was to later discover) greeted Sir Carleton in soft, respectful tones, expressed his continued admiration of Aline and his pleasure in meeting the new Earl of Myddelton. M. Soi led them to a table placed at a comfortable distance from the entrance, which also gave their party a very good view of the room. Aline shot him a wary look as he held her seat for her, remaining stiff and visibly suspicious of the placement of his hands until she saw him take his own seat across from her.

             
Richard picked up the gilt-edged menu at his cover, a bit taken aback by its being written entirely in French.
What the devil was a “Diablotin Cancalaise”?

             
He looked up when Aline set her menu aside, placing a hand on Sir Carleton’s arm with a smile. “You are such a renowned gourmand, I fear Lord Myddelton and I must depend entirely upon your more discerning judgment concerning our menu.”

             
“I wouldn’t say renowned, my dear” Sir Carleton cleared his throat, adjusting his cuffs. “However, I did have a menu in mind for dinner—that is unless you mind, my lord?”

             
“I too defer to your expertise,” Richard lifted his shoulders.

             
The baronet signaled for M. Soi, who hovered at a discreet distance while they spoke. As Sir Carleton launched into a volley of French, complete with broad, Gallic gestures Richard had neither the patience nor desire to comprehend, turning to cast a searching glance at Aline. She toyed with the beaded tassels hanging from her bodice, managing to avoid his eyes as she studied the restaurant dining room and its inhabitants. He followed the sweep of her gaze, noticing the many diners who began to rise from their tables and drift towards the arched entrance of Winter Garden, where couples danced to the music of the regimental band playing behind a crystal screen in the corner.

The waiter who approached to fill their glasses with Pommery champagne and wine momentarily distracted him, and he missed the sudden appearance of an adenoidal young man in a black military uniform with two death’s heads on his collar patches, his puffed chest slung with medals. He promptly identified himself as Prince Ludwig von Mackensen with a click of his heels, and asked Aline to dance. She accepted with alacrity, much to Richard’s disbelief, and he could only watch as the German officer helped her from her seat and thrust his elbow at her to take. She swept her skirt in her hand and followed Prince von Mackensen to the Winter Garden, where the officer led her into a waltz.

He reached for his glass of champagne and took a drink, unconsciously turning to Sir Carleton, who too watched them leave with a heavy glower. His expression smoothed when he noticed Richard looking at him, but the continuous smoothing of his mustache betrayed his agitation. Richard lifted his champagne coupe mockingly and finished the last of the slightly sweet, bubbly liquid.

“Champagne,” Sir Carleton said abruptly, holding his own coupe in his hand. “Is an elegant drink, meant to be sipped slowly and its taste savored, not tossed back like a high ball.”

He demonstrated this, closing his eyes to sip the Pommery and, well, savor its flavor. He opened his eyes and set the now half-empty coupe on the snowy white tablecloth with a flourish.

“Pardon my crudity,” Richard raised a brow at his empty glass. “But you haven’t time to waste ‘sipping’ and ‘savoring’ drinks on a cattle station.”

“Speaking of cattle—”

“Were we?” Richard set the glass on the table and leaned back in his seat. “I thought we were discussing my inelegant manner of drinking champagne.”

Sir Carleton’s answering smile was studiously polite and he paused as the waiter returned to their table with a plate of very thin slices of blini and a mound of sterlet caviar. Richard glanced briefly at the baronet, and followed his action of spooning the golden caviar into the blini and rolling into a tube before eating. The taste was decadent and unique, though he quickly determined it had a limited appeal to him.

“I am going to come down to your level, my lord, and speak frankly,” Sir Carleton continued, preparing another folded blini of caviar.

Richard gestured for the baronet to speak. “I’m listening,”

“What are your intentions towards Lady Myddelton?”

“I mean to marry her.” Richard stated baldly.

Sir Carleton looked a trifle dazed at his response. He then shook his head. “Damn, you are uncommonly blunt. I don’t know what to make of you.”

“Have you any objections?”

“Yes,” The baronet said testily. “I hope to wed her myself. It would have been improper to court a recent widow, and I have waited these two years quite patiently.”

“Isn’t it for the lady to decide whom she wants?”

“And you are sure she chooses you, eh?” Sir Carleton scoffed. “I know men of your ilk, so sure of their physical appeal and great charm; however, it is gentlemen like me, who give a woman of Lady Myddelton’s type the stability and protection needed to guide her in life.”

“Bollocks,” Richard leaned forward in his seat, ignoring the baronet’s splutter of outrage. “Aline is more than capable of making her own decisions, and she needs someone who understands this.”

“You are correct, Lord Myddelton,” Aline interrupted, standing at her chair, resting a hand lightly on its back. “And I decide to escort myself home.”