The Further Observations of Lady Whistledown (Lady W 1) (15 page)

“I’d love to,” he answered promptly. Anything to gain access to this Durham character. “I like a good play.”

Liza chuckled, her eyes crinkling. “Oh, I know how you love the theater. I watched you sleep though
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
just last month. Then you snored ever so gently through
Lord Kipperton’s Last Request,
and that was a murder mystery with a smashing good ending. Try to stay awake this time, will you?”

He managed a mechanical smile, which she returned with such a bright, laughing look that he took an involuntary step forward. But she waved her hand and then dropped the curtain back over the window. The carriage jerked to a roll and moved down the street before Royce could compose his mind enough to speak.

What was there to say, anyway? Until he met this Durham fellow himself, Royce had nothing more than an uneasy feeling to use as a warning for Liza. And she was far too pragmatic to pay attention to such flimsy reasoning.

He remained standing on the walk in front of his lodgings for a long while, mulling this over. The wind whistled against the shutters of the row of neat houses behind him, bending the branches of the trees that dotted the avenue and swirling a scattering of snow across the frozen stones. There were a lot of things that bothered him about this Durham fellow, not the least was the claim he’d hold over Liza if they married. Chances were high that he wouldn’t welcome his wife’s friendship with Royce.

Royce hunched his shoulders against the cold. Bloody hell, what would he do without Liza in his life? It seemed as if he’d always had her to talk to, to confide in, to tease and laugh with…once she married, that would all come to an end. So would the easy camaraderie they shared.

Oh, they might remain acquaintances, and perhaps could engage in a serious conversation now and again, but the freedom that surrounded their current friendship would be lost forever. It was strange, but his whole life already seemed duller, less satisfying.

How long he stood there, staring down the street at the place he’d last seen Liza’s coach, he didn’t know. But his feet and face were numb before he made his way indoors. His housekeeper clucked noisily at his frozen state and bustled him into the parlor where she ordered a pot of tea and called for a footman to remove Royce’s new boots. In an amazingly short time, he found himself sitting before a brightly burning fire, his feet in a pair of slippers, a cup of steaming tea liberally laced with brandy in his hand.

His mind thawed along with his toes. He had to find Lady Birlington and see what she knew about this upstart who was threatening the calm order of Royce’s life. And then, armed with what he discovered, he’d go to the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, and confront Liza. Oh yes, a day of reckoning was about to arrive for the mysterious Lord Durham, and Royce would be there to witness the man’s fall.

Chapter 2

Speaking of Miss Pritchard, This Author would be remiss if it were not mentioned that she wore the following colors last week, all in the same ensemble:

Red

Blue

Green

Yellow

Lavender

Pink (of a pale shade, it should be noted)

This Author searched for an accent of orange, but none was to found.

L
ADY
W
HISTLEDOWN
’
S
S
OCIETY
P
APERS
,
26 J
ANUARY
1814

L
iza entered the sitting room and smiled at the small brown monkey. George hopped up and down on his perch, screeching a welcome.

“Happy to see me, are you?” Liza stripped off her gloves and tossed them on a side table. “How are you doing this morning? Still sneezing?”

Poor George had a wretched cold, the product, no doubt, of the chilly weather and a sad tendency to take off his hat at every opportunity. He chattered loudly, making such a comical face that Liza laughed. He was very small, barely the length of her hand in height. She suspected he was the runt of his family, for she’d never seen a smaller monkey, and in the days following George’s appearance in the
ton,
quite a few replicas had turned up. “Though none was as smart or well behaved as you, were they?”

George hopped in agreement. Liza opened a small drawer in the table where his perch rested and pulled out a packet of dried figs. He took the fig she offered, then swung up to his perch and nibbled his treat, his eyes fixed on her questioningly.

“It’s a wretched morning. Far too cold, and I scuffed my new boot on the stoop.” She held out her boot so George could see. He stared at it with polite interest, busily chewing the whole while.

Liza chucked him under the chin and then pulled the pins from her turban and tossed it onto the arm of the settee. Sighing, she dropped into a large winged chair and snuggled against the cushioned back. It was her favorite chair, purchased at an estate auction on a whim. She bought most of her furniture that way—a piece here and a piece there—which was why so little of it matched. But each chair and settee was unique and overwhelmingly comfortable. And that was the only thing that mattered.

She raked a hand through her hair, certain the turban had sadly flattened her curls, and wondered what was bothering Royce. Probably a woman of some sort—it always was. The man was a positive menace with all those women languishing after him. It was a wonder someone hadn’t just shot him and put him out of their misery.

Liza pushed off her shoes and rested her feet on a low yellow and orange footstool. Her house was snug and warm even in this horrendously chilly weather, the fire was snapping merrily, her seat was cozy and comfortable, and there was sweet little George, looking on with an expression of contentment. Liza looked around her and realized that though she had every reason to be happy, she wasn’t. She’d been aware for several weeks now that something was missing in her life—something big.

George finished his fig and inched to the edge of his perch where he could see Liza. He tilted his head to one side and chattered a question.

“No, no. Just a case of the winter doldrums, but…” She sighed. “I don’t know. I just feel…lost. And then today, talking to Royce…I don’t know, but it made me lower than before.” He
had
seemed genuinely concerned about Durham, and had even made her feel…cosseted. It hadn’t lasted, of course. He’d said Meg saw her as a sister and for an instant, she’d been tempted to ask him if
he
thought of her as a sister. But she’d decided not to—she was already blue enough, thank you. There was no need for her to torture herself senseless.

The really sad thing was that as special as Royce had made her feel when he’d helped her into the carriage and questioned her about Durham, she was sure it was nothing compared to the attentions Royce showered on the women he was interested in. Of course, he was careful not to pay too much attention to any woman, at least not in public. But in private…She sighed restlessly, wiggling her toes in the warmth.

What did she expect, after all? She was too old to believe in fairy tales. “Love,” she scoffed to George, who looked properly disgusted with the topic. Liza’d never been in love. In fact, she wasn’t even sure she was capable of the emotion.

Her heart tightened, and tears sprang to her eyes.
That
was why she was depressed; she’d waited for years to experience “the grand passion,” but it never happened. Which was a great pity, for Liza was certain that being in love was the most wonderful feeling on the face of the earth. She knew just how it would feel—the giddiness, the excitement, the overwhelming emotion. She knew because she’d seen Meg fall in love with Shelbourne. Fall in love, and
stay
in love, which was even better.

But somehow, though Liza waited year after year, that most elusive of all sentiments had evaded her. She hadn’t really thought of it, for she’d been busy living her life. But then, on her last birthday, she’d suddenly realized that perhaps she was not meant to fall wildly and completely in love. Ever.

The sad truth was that she was far too pragmatic for such emotion. And so she’d revised her thinking. She’d find the perfect man, marry him, and
then
she’d fall in love. Oh, it might not be the kind of love she’d originally dreamed of—passionate and astounding. It would be the more stable sort of love—one that would last a lifetime.

So far, Lord Durham seemed the most likely candidate. He was the most solid, honest, capable, correct, and forthright man of Liza’s acquaintance. He wasn’t bad-looking, either, providing one didn’t seat him too closely to Royce. No one, not even the darkly handsome St. John men or the fascinating Bridgerton brothers, could compare to Sir Royce Pemberley. At least, not in Liza’s eyes.

But Lord Durham had one advantage that Royce would never have—Durham was genuinely interested in Liza. All she had to do was make certain that he fit in well with the Shelbournes, and the deal would be struck. After all, Meg and Royce were her family, and she valued their opinion over all others.

Which was why she’d asked Meg to invite Lord Durham to the theater tomorrow evening. Things were progressing nicely, Liza thought, trying to talk her reluctant heart into feeling at least a little more sprightly.

A discreet knock sounded, and Poole, her butler, appeared. “Lord Durham, miss.”

Liza waited, but her heart gave no excited leap. Perhaps she just needed to give it some more time. She sat up and looked for her shoes. “Send him in.”

“Yes, miss.” The butler hesitated. A long silence ensued, and Liza finally realized he wasn’t moving toward the door.

She stopped looking for her shoes. “Yes?”

“I beg your pardon, but, ah…you might want to look into the mirror, miss. Your hair…” He gave a discreet cough.

“Mussed it, did I? It’s that damned turban.”

“Shall I have Lord Durham wait a few moments before sending him in?”

“Lord, no. It’s rude to leave him kicking his heels in the morning room. Just bring him here. I’ll fix my hair in a trice.”

“Very well, miss.” Poole bowed and withdrew.

Liza fished her shoes out from beneath the footstool and put them back on her feet. That done, she smoothed her dress and then crossed to the mirror that graced the wall over the mantel. She chuckled when she saw herself. Little brown curl-horns stuck out all over her head. She looked like a cross between Medusa and a devil. No wonder Poole had stared.

Still chuckling, she raked her fingers through her hair, managing to dispel some of the horned curls into smoothish bumps instead. “There,” she said, turning to George. “What do you think?”

George cocked his head to one side and screwed up his face.

“I know it doesn’t look good. But at least admit it looks better than before.”

Before George could answer, the door opened and Poole announced quietly, “Lord Durham.” He bowed and retreated, shutting the door behind him.

George bared his teeth at the newcomer. Then jumped off his perch and sat beneath it, his rump prominently displayed.

Durham, who had been eagerly striding across the room, slowed to a halt and frowned. “That creature doesn’t like me.”

“He’s just in a bit of a temper. How are you today, Lord Durham?”

He reluctantly turned his attention from the monkey, his round face folding into a smile. “I’m better now that I’ve seen you and—” His smile froze when his gaze fell on her hair. “I—I see you’ve been sleeping.”

She put a self-conscious hand to her crumpled curls. “I’m sorry. I was wearing a turban earlier.”

“A turban? You are far too young for such a thing,” he said gravely. “And far too pretty, as well.”

Liza decided she liked being complimented. It gave one a feeling of well-being not unlike a good hot cup of chocolate. “Thank you.” She took her seat and gestured to the empty one opposite hers.

He took the chair with a pompous sort of dignity. “I’m glad I caught you at home this morning. I was afraid you might be out running errands.”

“I just returned.” Liza eyed him speculatively. Of average height and build, he was an attractive enough man. He had brown hair and dark brown eyes and walked with a certain air of authority that she rather admired. She liked a man who knew who he was and what he wanted. Unfortunately, Durham’s confidence was accompanied by a slight sense of arrogance and a touch of stodgery; both characteristics Liza would make sure were dispelled once they were married.

If
she decided to marry him, she told herself. And only
if
. She wasn’t desperate by any means, and she did not want to make a mistake.

He offered her a ponderous smile. “My mother sends her compliments.”

“How lovely of her. Please tell her that I hope to have the opportunity to meet her sometime soon.” Liza knew a good deal about Durham’s mother. He mentioned her frequently. “How
is
your mother? I daresay she misses you dreadfully.”

“Oh yes. Since my father’s death, she looks to me for everything. Not that I complain, quite the opposite. I think you will find my mother is everything amiable.” Durham gave Liza a look full of meaning. “I told her it wouldn’t be long before I returned. And that I might have a surprise for her.”

For an instant, Liza couldn’t move. It was as if her mind, on understanding the not-so-subtle intention of Lord Durham’s words, had retreated into the very back of her head and refused to emerge.

But Durham didn’t need any encouragement. He smiled and said archly, “I don’t mean to be forward, Miss Pritchard, but I have been rather plain in my intentions. I hope you don’t think I’m being overeager if I give my poor mother a hint as to why her only son remains in London after so many weeks. Would you mind?”

A hot blush crept up Liza’s neck. Yes, she would mind. Though she shouldn’t. After all, this was the man she might marry.
Might
marry, she reminded herself.