Miss Richardson Comes Of Age (Zebra Regency Romance) (4 page)

“Is it really so very bad? I rather think he fancies himself in love with her.”

Her ladyship snorted again. “Love! What does a green boy know of love?”

Far too much—and far too little, Thorne thought ruefully. But he did not voice his opinion and only half listened as his aunt related what she knew of Luke’s troubled courtship. Unfortunately, Aunt Dorothy herself rarely went into Society. She therefore relied on others as her sources.

“—and then there was that business of his reciting some silly poem at the Oglethorpe do—” She finally caught his attention.

“He
what?
Poetry, you say?”

She repeated the tale of the scene in Oglethorpe’s drawing room.

“Oh, good grief.” He shut his eyes, but could not erase the image of Luke’s humiliation.

“She probably encouraged it, if you ask me!” his aunt said. “Such adoration would be a feather in the cap of any young woman. And that Richardson chit seems to like collecting feathers. Why, I am told she has had dozens of offers already.”

“You mean she has played this game with other young men?”

“Well, maybe not such
young
ones. Mrs. Ferris told me Miss Richardson quite shamelessly chased poor George—who has nearly thirty years—and at the Patterson ball she was seen
kissing
Lord Beelson.”

“I question her taste in partners, but a mere kiss is fairly innocent.”

Lady Conwick sniffed. “There may have been more.”

Thorne was all the more determined to protect his brother from a woman who readily displayed such questionable taste and shocking behavior.

Indeed, there
was
more as he heard when he dropped into his club later. The men there occupied themselves with tales of the Richardson woman’s indiscretions, speculating at length as to who had or had not enjoyed her favors.

Thorne was annoyed with himself for engaging in or merely listening to gossip as he had on this day. However, in a fight to protect a member of his family, he would use any weapon available. At the moment, information seemed his best weapon. Maybe he would be able to talk some sense into his lovestruck brother.

 

 

On his return from visiting his solicitor one afternoon a few days later, Thorne was surprised to find that a number of invitations had arrived for him. One was to a dinner party at the home of his old comrade-in-arms, Captain Frederick Hart, late of His Majesty’s army.

He knew Hart had sold his commission and married some two years and more ago, but the wedding was rather private and took place in the dead of winter when road conditions as well as distance from Lincolnshire to Somerset made travel unattractive. Thorne had had only occasional communication with Hart since the marriage, though the captain had visited Rolsbury Manor from time to time before that. Thorne admitted to some curiosity about the woman who had brought the elusive Frederick Hart up to scratch.

The first guest to arrive at the Hart dinner party, Rolsbury found himself in a modest house located in a respectable, but not fashionable, neighborhood. His early arrival was by design. Though he walked well enough, he felt awkward at having to use the walking stick and always strove to avoid “making an entrance.”

Hart and his wife received him in their drawing room. In appearance, at least, he thought them well matched. Hart’s sandy hair and freckles formed a contrast to his wife’s dark hair and pale complexion. After a bit, he thought them equally well matched in temperament as well.

In the course of initial conversations, he learned that the party was, indeed, rather a small one as promised on the invitation.

“There will eventually be but twelve of us,” his hostess said, “and I believe you will already know most of the gentlemen at least, my lord, for Frederick was insistent on seeing his fellow warriors.” Celia smiled up at her husband in a teasing manner that told Thorne much regarding his friend’s happiness.

“Really?” Thorne gave Frederick an inquiring look.

“Rhys and Berwyn will be here,” Frederick said.

Thorne addressed Celia. “I seem to recall that Berwyn is your brother, Mrs. Hart?”

“Yes, he is,” she replied. “And
his
wife Charlotte is the sister of Harriet, Countess of Wyndham. Are you acquainted with the Wyndhams, sir?”

“I met
him
several years ago and sat in the same chamber with him during that unseemly trial of the queen—but to answer your question, no, madam, I am not.”

“Well, I am sure you will find them agreeable company. And I do think we may drop the formality between us, Lord Rolsbury. As you are one of Frederick’s oldest and dearest friends—or so he tells me—I insist you call me ‘Celia’ as
my
friends do.”

“Your wish is my command, Mrs.—uh, Celia. I am ‘Thorne’ to family and friends.”

“Thorne
is a very interesting name,” she said. “I do not ever remember knowing anyone of that name before.”

“It is a family name,” he explained. “The story is that my maternal grandfather would not sanction his daughter’s marriage until my father agreed to give their firstborn son the old man’s surname.” He shrugged. “And since my mother came to the marriage with a very considerable dowry ... well, you see the result—Thorne, it is.”

“Or ‘Thorny,’ if one is a former schoolmate.” Frederick grinned as he handed Thorne a glass of wine. “And believe me, my love, he earned that sobriquet.”

“Oh, I cannot believe that,” Celia said, but then she was immediately distracted by the arrival of additional guests, including the Berwyns and former cavalry captain Charles Rhys with his sister, Miss Helen Rhys.

Thorne found himself inordinately pleased to see his old friends again. His pleasure was enhanced with the arrival of the next guests, Lord and Lady Winters.

“Winters!” Thorne exclaimed, offering another old school chum his hand. “It has been years.”

“Yes, and I must say, Thorne, having heard you were in town, I had expected to see you before this.”

“I would have liked to oblige you in that, but I had certain other matters that required my attention first.”

Winters nodded, with a look of sympathy. “Luke.”

Thorne was uncomfortable at this reminder that his family name had been bandied about London drawing rooms so freely. “Yes. Luke,” he admitted, and then added, “but I am in town also because I felt it was time I took a more active interest in what you fellows are doing in Lords.”

Winters gave a visible start of surprise and clapped him on the shoulder. “Do not say you are really taking your seat in Parliament?”

“I think so. Yes.”

“Good. You know, you need to come to town more often instead of hiding away up north.”

“My brother said the same thing. He—and you—may be right.”

A lovely, auburn-haired woman approached and placed her hand on Winters’s arm in a familiar manner. Winters introduced his wife to Thorne and it was readily apparent that Winters, too, had made a fortunate choice in his bride.

“Lady Winters,” Thorne acknowledged the introduction.

“Lord Rolsbury. I have heard much about you and I am ever so happy finally to meet you.”

Thorne flashed his friend a mocking grimace. “My dear Lady Winters, I do hope you were not misled into believing all that your scapegrace spouse might have told you of me.”

She laughed. “Not
all
of it—but there was something about filling a certain headmaster’s office with crumpled papers? And putting vegetable dye in his fish tank? You must tell me the whole of those tales.”

“I shall be happy to do so, my lady. Those were, after all, two of Winters’s better—well, most successful—plots against that abominable man.”

“You must address me as ‘Letty,’ ” she said. “I mean to say, all of us here tonight are friends of long standing and we really cannot have you be the only one among us ‘my lording’ and ‘my ladying’ everyone.”

Thorne covered his surprise at this, for he knew Winters’s wife was the daughter of a duke and of course Winters himself would one day inherit a dukedom. Most women of such pedigree would be extraordinarily aware of their rank. Then he immediately chastised himself. Jonathan Castlemaine, Marquis of Winters, leading prankster in their school form, would hardly have chosen a wife with a puffed-up sense of pride.

Thorne was warmed by the reception his friends’ wives had given him. Truth to tell, he rather envied Hart and Winters, if first impressions of their ladies were anything by which to judge.

A few minutes later, Thorne stood conversing with the Rhys brother and sister and Berwyn. All four of them had been in Belgium just before Waterloo. Thorne remembered dancing with Helen Rhys at the ball given by the Duchess of Richmond on the eve of the great battle. Miss Rhys had been barely out of the schoolroom at the time. He wondered why she had not been snapped up on the marriage mart, for she was quite a lovely woman—tall, with silvery blond hair and blue eyes. His musings were interrupted as the butler intoned the names of the last arrivals.

“Lord and Lady Wyndham. Miss Richardson.”

Richardson? Thorne immediately stiffened but hoped he appeared casual as he turned to observe the newcomers and brace himself for the inevitable introductions.

“I see Celia chooses to ignore all that talk about Miss Richardson,” Helen Rhys observed quietly.

“My sister is nothing if not loyal to her friends,” Berwyn said. “She was even so as a child.”

“And that takes a certain degree of courage sometimes,” Charles Rhys said.

Yes, I suppose it does, Thorne thought, admiring Celia all the more as she greeted the newest guests. Lord Wyndham was a tall man—in his mid-thirties, Thorne surmised. Both he and his wife were attractive, well-dressed people with dark hair. The woman accompanying them—for this was no mere girl—came as a shock to Thorne.

She was breathtakingly beautiful. He had to admire Luke’s taste in appearances, at any rate. Annabelle Richardson was of medium height with a nicely proportioned figure. She possessed a crown of hair the color of dark honey and well-defined brows, darker than her hair. As Celia brought the three to meet him, he saw that she had brown eyes; a slightly upturned, straight nose; and a generous, kissable mouth. Now, where on earth had that thought come from?

Mesmerized by the woman who had captured his brother’s heart, Thorne paid scant attention to her companions, but as Celia made the introductions, he roused himself to be properly polite. He thought Miss Richardson seemed slightly nervous at meeting him.

“Lord Rolsbury,” she said when introductions were finished. She sounded very serious, but a distinct twinkle danced in her eyes. “Would that be the bravest of soldiers, the smartest of men, and the absolute paragon among older brothers?” She smiled at his mildly puzzled expression and hastily explained, “I am acquainted with your brother, you see, and he sings your praises.”

“Is that so?” He was surprised, especially as he recalled the scene in the library with Luke and the nearly monosyllabic conversations they had had since. “Family loyalty and all, you know.”

“More in the nature of hero worship, I should say.”

This line of discussion was cut off as Winters approached to tell Wyndham of Thorne’s plan to take his seat in Parliament. Thorne fully expected Lady Wyndham and Miss Richardson to excuse themselves when Lord Wyndham introduced the subject of child labor, a topic being bandied about the halls of Parliament these days. Instead, both women not only stayed, they also offered their own views which—in both cases—were more studied than sentimental.

“I say, Rolsbury,” Lord Wyndham said, “did you not touch on this topic in an article some months back in
The London Review?”

“Oh, of course!” Lady Wyndham said in a tone of discovery.
“That
is why the Rolsbury name is so familiar to me. You write for the
Review.”

“Only occasionally, madam.” He turned to Wyndham. “I am surprised you remembered that bit—it was, after all, but part of an article on labor problems we are having in the midlands.” In fact, he was rather surprised these people even knew of—or remembered reading—his writings, though he acknowledged a certain degree of pride that they did so.

“I read the article,” Lady Wyndham said. “You did, too, Annabelle. I remember your commenting on how well written it was.”

A sudden blush heightened Miss Richardson’s beauty. “I ... yes,” she said, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “I do recall having read it now, but I confess that I did not note the author at the time. I was touched by your description of women who work in the textile mills.”

This
was the female with whom brother Luke was enamored? Luke, who rarely voiced an idea that did not involve horses or hunting and sport—or some new sartorial splendor in waistcoats and cravats? And what did
she
see in Luke—other than a potential fortune?

Well, that alone would certainly be enough for most females.

However, later in the evening, he had to revise this view, too. When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after dinner, they found the women discussing—of all topics!—slavery in the former colonies.

Miss Rhys had apparently just read—and been greatly taken by—a sentimentalized account of how plantation owners provided for and took loving care of their slaves.

“I cannot approve the institution of slavery,” she said, “but such workers are not merely valuable property. In their simple innocence, they are naive and gullible and need to be taken care of by those who are better qualified to make responsible decisions for them.”

“Nonsense! Utter nonsense!” Annabelle Richardson said forcefully. “All people should be allowed to decide matters of their lives for themselves! And that goes for women in this country, too.”

Thorne found himself standing near Miss Richardson’s chair as she made this expostulation. “Are you likening the status of women in England to that of negro slaves in the Americas?” he asked.