The Willful Widow (23 page)
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The Willful Widow
by Evelyn Richardson
Meanwhile, preparing for bed, Lady Diana was also in a reflective mood. Who would have thought she could have spent an entire afternoon and evening in the company of Justin St. Clair without ripping at him? In fact, somewhat to her dismay, she had quite enjoyed herself—a lowering thought especially as she had been so determined to have nothing to do with him. However, when she came to know him, he was not truly as arrogant and irreverent as it first appeared. She supposed that being possessed of an intelligent and inquiring mind amid a family of dullards had led him to expect very little from mankind in general—an expectation that would have all too frequently been further borne out by contact with the majority of the members of the
ton.
There was no doubt he was a clever man. Why, he had never once looked at her blankly as nearly everyone, with the exception of Aunt Seraphina, was inclined to do. And he had been an intent and most sympathetic listener, grasping immediately all that she was trying to accomplish without even once suggesting, as so many had, that such things were far beyond the scope of the female mind. He had entered so wholeheartedly into her schemes and her worries that for the first time she felt she had a friend, Aunt Seraphina again excepted, of course.
Diana stretched luxuriously in front of the fire and then climbed into bed. Yes, all in all, it had been a most pleasant day indeed. It had been thoroughly delightful, though highly unusual, to share thoughts with someone else as she made the rounds of the estate and ate her evening meal. Hitherto 213
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she had avoided companionship except on the rarest of occasions because for the most part other people only interfered with whatever task she had set herself or, worse still, they inhibited her thinking. Oddly enough, having St. Clair along had expanded it. Discussing things with him had helped her to see other aspects that had previously escaped her. It was a novel experience. Her father, on the rare occasion when he exerted himself, was a brilliant conversationalist, but the topics that he could be convinced to discuss were limited to classical antiquity. Any other question, no matter how pressing, had been beneath his notice. And Ferdie confined his very limited powers to fashion, the turf, and gaming—not necessarily in that order. While it was true that Reginald shared some of her interests, he was more prone to pontification than true discussion; but in any case, his observations were never what one would deem enlightening.
All of a sudden the solitude that she had sought so desperately at Buckland seemed far less enticing than it had when she had left Brook Street, and the days ahead appeared rather empty. In actuality, there was not all that much left to do that could not be accomplished by leaving instructions with the Tottingtons, who were more than capable of executing them precisely as she wished. Perhaps she would return to Brook Street in a day or so. After all, it would not be polite to leave Aunt Seraphina there alone much longer. However, an unpleasant little voice in Diana's head would intrude, warning her that it was not for nothing that Justin St. Clair had a reputation among the ladies. Undoubtedly, a 214
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diplomat such as he was a master at telling each and every one exactly the words they wished to hear. Diana did her best to silence the uncomfortable voice, for she did not wish to believe such things of him. Surely no one could be so duplicitous and not betray it somehow? And whenever he spoke, he had always looked directly at her, the gray eyes steady and calm, twinkling occasionally when he roasted her, but always clear and honest. There had not been the slightest indication in his manner that he was offering her Spanish coin. Yes he was glib, and there was often an ironic note that crept into his voice, but surely he was in earnest when he spoke. There had been an intentness in his gaze as he listened to her story, followed by a warmth of approval that surely could not have been feigned.
Don't be such a goose, Diana, she admonished herself severely as she rolled over and thumped the pillow into what she hoped was a shape more conducive to sleep. It is merely that you want to believe him. What experience do you have of men such as he? Just because you could run rings around Ferdie and Reginald does not necessarily mean that you are up to snuff where a man like St. Clair is involved. Why if Princess Bagration had a tendre for him, he is undoubtedly a master in the art of dalliance, for no one as worldly as she would take just anyone for a lover. Just because it doesn't feel like a flirtation to you, doesn't mean it isn't. He has merely adapted his style to suit yours because he wishes to distract you from Reginald. Therein lies his skill—he is able to give each woman what she wants and thus make her think that she holds some particular charm for him. 215
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She fluffed the pillow again and lay staring blindly at the ceiling, hoping desperately that for once her natural wariness was misplaced. She had enjoyed herself so very much today, riding along in such a companionable fashion, exchanging opinions on everything from crop rotation to the probable length of time it would take before there was again a market on the Continent for British goods.
Then there was the way he had looked at her as he helped her down from Ajax. Diana didn't want to think of that. Somehow the feelings it recalled were too unsettling. She tried to push the memory from her mind, but she could not forget the strength of his hands at her waist and the vision of the powerful shoulders as he swung her from the saddle as though she were a featherweight, or the warmth of his hands through the fabric of her habit as he stood gazing down at her. Their firmness had felt oddly comforting, almost caressing, and there had been an arrested expression at the back of his eyes as if he were seeing her for the first time. For a moment Diana had experienced a feeling of closeness as she had never felt before. It was as though they were the only two people in the world. The sensation lasted only a moment, but it had left her as shaky and breathless as though she had run a great distance. She had felt the blood rush to her face, her heart beat uncomfortably, and she could not seem to get enough air. How strange. She had never had such a thing happen before, and she was quite sure she did not wish to again. It had been most unnerving to discover that someone could have such an effect on her. Why, she was no better than couples she had seen stealing kisses on 216
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country lanes or in darkened rooms at routs and balls. Heretofore she had proudly considered herself above such things—after all, Ferdie had never had such an effect on her, and he had certainly been an attractive gentleman for all his other faults. This was entirely too disturbing, and to think it had been inspired by St. Clair, who was no doubt accustomed to evoking such responses with every woman, was a lowering idea indeed.
On second thought, perhaps she should not return to town. Best to remain at Buckland a few days and recover her equanimity. No, that would never do. That was to give in to this sudden and, she hoped momentary, weakness. She would return to Brook Street, her objectivity restored and discover for herself whether or not St. Clair was being aboveboard with her or simply playing a very deep game. After all, Aunt Seraphina appeared to like him and to trust his judgment, and certainly she was nobody's fool. Diana sighed. Life had been so much simpler and calmer before Justin St. Clair had come into her life. How she wished he would go away again. No she did not. While it was true that her existence had been more serene, it had also been rather routine—empty even. In any event, there had not been a dull moment since he had appeared. Courage, Diana, she rallied herself. And somewhat comforted, she at last fell into a restless sleep.
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Acting immediately on his inspiration, Justin began scouring London for the perfect puppy the very next day. He set the inimitable Preston to making inquiries and was highly pleased when his henchman was able to report in the space of a few days that he had discovered what he believed to be just the thing at the Sun in Barnes, where the landlord's terrier had given birth to a litter of puppies several weeks before.
"But you must go and see for yourself, sir, as they are all of them to be recommended, and as this is to be a present, you would naturally wish to choose it yourself." Justin shot his servant a suspicious look, but Preston's customarily impassive countenance was even more wooden than usual. "Very well. As always, you are in the right of it. If you will be so good as to get my hat and gloves, I shall be on my way," he replied, resigned to an expedition that was likely to prove tedious in the extreme.
Had he glanced in the looking glass in front of him, he would have seen what his ordinarily sharp eyes had failed to detect before—the knowing look and sly smile that betrayed themselves on Preston's face the minute he turned away from his master. He's catched at last, the faithful retainer exulted to himself. Diamonds and kickshaws are one thing, but puppies? Puppies for a lady are a different matter altogether. This is serious enough to bear some watching. Preston was not alone in this opinion. A good deal later, Lord Beardsley, strolling along Piccadilly on yet another foray 218
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to Hatchard's, was astonished to look up and see his friend skillfully maneuvering his curricle through the press of traffic with a small white dog sitting obediently by his side. He waited until Justin was forced to halt behind a knot of carriages before hailing his friend. "Competing with Poodle Byng are you, Justin?" Alan could not suppress the grin on his face.
"Nothing of the sort, my lad. This dog represents a most arduous expedition and the successful completion of a serious quest on behalf of a lady."
"Never tell me that opera dancers have begun to prefer dogs to diamonds?" Even Alan, lost as he often was in the obscuring fogs of physics and astronomy, had heard of Suzette de Charenton.
"Not opera dancers, you nodcock, Lady Diana," Justin exclaimed in disgust at his friend's unusual obtuseness, forgetting entirely that just because that particular lady was rapidly becoming an obsession with him did not mean she was equally obtrusive into the thoughts of others.
"Oh. I thought it was the birds she was so taken with," Alan responded blankly, his mind wholly occupied with the vision of the
ton's
most accomplished lover, whose generosity toward his mistresses was legendary, making a present to a woman of a puppy. Alan looked thoughtful.
"She is," his friend responded impatiently, "but she also wants a puppy."
"She does? Did she ask you for one? She certainly hasn't mentioned such a thing to me."
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"Of course not!" For reasons he could not fathom, Justin was unaccountably annoyed—annoyed that Alan should question his judgment, annoyed that Alan should question Justin's familiarity with the lady, and thoroughly annoyed that for some unknown reason Alan seemed to expect he should be as privy to the lady's wishes and desires as Justin was.
"But she does," Justin continued, failing entirely to mask the belligerence of his tone.
"Oh, then I expect you're in the right of it." The studied casualness of Lord Beardsley's voice was not lost on Justin, but the penetrating glance he directed at his old schoolmate failed to enlighten him. His lordship's stolid countenance remained as impassive as ever, giving no clue as to what he might be thinking.
Before Justin could probe further, a break appeared in the snarl of carriages, his horses strained at their bits, eager to take advantage of the situation, and Justin was forced to oblige them by moving along.
Alan, however, remained as though rooted to the pavement. Not usually perceptive where human beings were concerned, he had been struck by the change in his friend's demeanor. It was difficult to pinpoint, especially for someone who was inclined to make the heavens rather than his fellows the subject of his observations, but it seemed to him that the sardonic expression that customarily inhabited St. Clair's features was not so pronounced this time. The cynical note was absent from his voice, and the slightly contemptuous look in his eyes had been replaced by something else. What was it? Alan racked his brains. When 220
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Justin had mentioned Lady Diana's name, there had been a warmth in his tone that Lord Beardsley had never heard before. This was something indeed, for St. Clair rarely mentioned his fellow creatures with any degree of approval. Yet, he had sounded admiring, almost reverent, if the truth were told, when he spoke of her. And the look he had given Alan when he had had the temerity to speak of the lady's tastes, why, it had been downright fierce. It was almost as though Justin were daring him to say anything that was not entirely adulatory of the lady.
As if I would, as if I could, Alan muttered to himself indignantly as he remembered back to the surprise with which Justin had greeted the news that he had escorted Lady Diana to Greenwich, and the faintly condescending air with which he had listened to Alan's own appreciative description of Diana's manifold and unique charm. Something must have happened to change all this.
Suddenly the marquess, who had never evinced the least interest in the thoughts and feelings of his fellow human beings, was consumed with curiosity about Justin's. Was it possible that he had developed a tendre for her?
That was quite unlike the Justin St. Clair he knew. Alan had been privy to his friend's youthful escapades from the serving wench at a favorite tavern near the university to the wife of one of the masters, and even he, removed as he had been from it all, had heard of St. Clair's exploits among the more dashing matrons of the
ton;
but he had never known him to evince the least interest in any of these women. When taxed with his many conquests by envious comrades, Justin 221