The Wolfe Wager (19 page)

“A minute, my lady.” He handed her the reins for both horses.

“Yes,” she whispered as she had in the Square, glad she had to say no more. Even one more word might reveal the wondrous tumult within her.

With the ease of one of the lads she could see standing by the river, he jumped over the stone wall and scampered down the bank toward the Serpentine. She walked the horses closer to the wall and saw a group of children who were clumped on the bank like reeds. A woman, who was as thin as a hen’s head and was presumably their governess, was wringing her hands with dismay as a child tossed a rock and cried out in frustration when it vanished.

Vanessa guessed the children were trying to play ducks and drakes. Their lack of success was visible in their stiff motions. Resting her arms on the wall, she smiled as Lord Brickendon knelt to speak to the youngsters. The resonance of his voice rolled over her and through her, as enticing as the secrets in his dark eyes.

The viscount’s hands were gentle as he assisted the littlest boy to take the proper stance to dance the stone across the water. The stone dropped with a tired plunk, but Lord Brickendon gave the child no chance to pout. Picking up another pebble, he patiently showed the little boy what he must do. The youngster crowed with delight when the stone skipped four times before disappearing into the ripples.

“Your turn,” she heard Lord Brickendon say.

The child gave him a dubious look, but found another flat rock. He pulled back his arm, then paused, looking at the tall man. Lord Brickendon posed him correctly again.

Vanessa held her breath as the child sent the rock skimming across the water. It struck and bounced twice. She applauded wildly, not caring about the curious stares of those riding past.

The viscount tapped the child on the shoulder. When the little boy looked at him in confusion, Lord Brickendon pointed to where Vanessa stood. He bent to whisper to the youngster, who giggled, then bowed deeply to her.

“Bravo!” she called, acknowledging his bow with her own curtsy as Lord Brickendon turned to help the next child.

She had forgotten such innocent delight existed. In her headlong rush to find Corey and the mad swirl of the Season, she had not stopped to think of a child’s battle to accomplish the mundane. Not mundane, she corrected herself instantly, but the singular satisfaction of achieving one’s heart’s desire, even if the heart forgot with the passage of time. Watching the viscount, who had given his hat to the bewildered governess, she recalled how Papa had spent hours teaching her to balance a gun and fire it, how he had sat with her by a pond as she struggled to put a worm on the hook, how he had cheered when she managed to sail the small sailboat through the waves beyond Wolfe Abbey. Never had he belittled her mistakes. Instead he had lauded her progress.

When each one of the children had succeeded, she heard Lord Brickendon say to the bare-bones woman, “I bid you good day, madam.”

The woman stumbled over her attempt to thank him. He smiled as he took his beaver and set it on his sable hair. Tipping it to her, he climbed the bank and over the wall.

“You said you preferred sport you can master.” Vanessa laughed. “Is this your favorite?”

He caught her hand between his and brought her a half step closer. No frivolity filled his eyes, for they were dark with stronger emotions. “Ducks and drakes,” he said so softly she had to lean even nearer, “is easier to master than a woman’s capricious heart, but sometimes the enjoyment gained from a sport comes from the attempt to conquer it.”

“Is that what you wish?” She spoke no louder than he, for she wanted no passerby to overhear. “To conquer a woman’s heart?”

“No, for something so precious must be freely given, or it is never truly won.” He drew her hand to the ruffles on his shirt and pressed her fingers over the steady thump of his heart. She was glad he could not feel hers as it raced like an unbroken horse.

Suddenly he released her as, looking past her, he snarled, “Blast!”

Vanessa whirled, uncertain what she might see, angry that whatever it was had disturbed the perfection of Lord Brickendon’s touch. When she saw Eveline and Lord Greybrooke race past, she sighed. She could not stand alone with the viscount nor could she allow her friend to be unchaperoned.

Thanking him for his assistance when he set her in the saddle, Vanessa slapped the reins against her horse’s neck. The horse leapt forward, and she heard shouts as other riders scattered. In seconds, she had caught up with Eveline and Edward. Laughter brightened their faces as they tried—at the same time—to tell her about their mock wager.

Lord Brickendon said, “You should have more sense than to race along Rotten Row. I vow you nearly upset a dowager from her mount.”

“Oh, dear.” Eveline tried to look woeful, but failed, for her eyes sparkled. “What can you expect from a Clarke?”

“Do cut line!” Vanessa edged her horse between Eveline’s and the earl’s. Even knowing that her fury came from having that sweet moment interrupted, she could not still her lips. “Eveline, you are nothing like your mother. You have prided yourself on being a diamond of birth. All your life you have struggled against the preconceptions of those who would cast you in the mold of your mother. Do you intend now to give them the satisfaction of being right?”

Eveline’s shoulders sagged. “You are right, Vanessa. Forgive me, Edward.”

The earl grasped her hand. “Oh, my dearest, forgive me. Never would I intentionally besmirch your name which is as beautiful on the ears as you are on the eyes.”

“It was my fault. I was thoughtless.”

Vanessa moved her horse away from them as they continued to try to take full blame for the incident. Lord Brickendon asked, “Are calf-lovers always so sickening sweet to each other?”

“I pray not.”

“And I pray you are right.” He smiled and tipped back the brim of her tall hat. “If you ever chance to see me so syrupy, I beg you to give me a nob. That blow might put some sense in my skull.”

Her fingers refused to be halted from curving along his rough cheek. Her craving to touch him was becoming an obsession. His hand covered hers, then drew it away. She swallowed her protest as he slowly slid off her glove. He brought her hand toward his lips. She held her breath, waiting for the powerful pleasure of his kiss. It became a gasp as he pressed his mouth to her palm, setting every inch of it afire with sensations that had no name.

As he lifted his head, she was caught again by his enchanting gaze. She waited for him to speak of the passions flashing there, but he handed her the glove and said, “We should ride on, my lady.”

“But—” she choked, unwilling to let the magic slip away again.

“Edward and Miss Clarke are going to watch the parade by the barracks. We should join them.”

Vanessa feared he was looking for an excuse to flee the delight. Mortification burned away her happiness. She had been so forward even as her words pretended she cared nothing for his touch. Had she mistaken the fervor in his kiss? No, she could not be so terribly wrong. Or could she? Trying to understand, but having no clue to his thoughts, she rode in self-conscious silence to where Eveline and Lord Greybrooke were watching the marching soldiers.

“Bring that Corsican monster to Tyburn!” called someone from the crowd gathered along the road. “We’ll find a scragging-post to stretch his neck!”

Cheers met the brave words, but Vanessa noticed none of them. Horror clamped its suffocating hold around her as she stared at the uniforms. The blue was too familiar.

“Are you all right, my lady?” she heard Lord Brickendon ask.

“Don’t you see?” she whispered, tears burning her throat. “Captain Hudson was leading some of the troops.” She pressed her bottom lip between her teeth before choking, “Can that mean anything but that he will be leaving to fight the filthy frogs soon? Oh, I wonder if Aunt Carolyn knows.”

“He must have told her. I know Hudson. He’s too much of a gentleman to leave without presenting his suit.”

Too late, she could comprehend the captain’s suppressed fury at the theater. “You don’t understand! Aunt Carolyn will never accept his offer of marriage until I have found a husband.” She swallowed roughly. “I have stood in the way of Aunt Carolyn’s happiness too long. I shall never allow my aunt to suffer as I have since my brother left for France, thinking I meant the words I spoke to him in anger.”

“What words?”

Tears flooded her eyes as she confessed her greatest shame. “I told Corey that if he went, knowing how he was breaking Papa’s heart, I hoped I never would see him again. And I haven’t!”

“So what will you do?”

She shook her head as she whispered, “I don’t know.”

Chapter Twelve

A shout resounded through the quiet halls. Pott grabbed his coat off the back of his chair in the kitchen and leapt to his feet.

“Lord have mercy!” gasped Mrs. Crumb, the housekeeper. “What can that be?”

Pott struggled to find his left sleeve. “’Tis his lordship.”

“Is he dying?”

The valet raced up the stairs. He panted as he reached the top. A man of his age and bulk should not be running like this. Lurching along the hall, he poked his bald head cautiously into his master’s bedchamber. “My lord?”

He got no answer. He stared at the collar and cravat that had been tossed on the dark green rug to lie like a broken bird. A single shoe was half hidden beneath the gold curtains of the bed. He shivered. Perhaps Mrs. Crumb was correct. His lordship would not have left his private chamber in such a higgledy-piggledy state unless he was fighting for his last breath against an intruder.

“Pott!”

The valet flinched at the shout. “My lord, I am here. Where are you?”

Lord Brickendon stormed out of his dressing room, and the valet stared at him in disbelief. As disheveled as his chamber, the viscount had one shirttail hanging out of his breeches. His bare feet struck the carpet with such fury that Pott was sure Mrs. Crumb was ready to pray for their master’s soul to be guided safely to heaven.

“When was this delivered?”

Pott squinted to try to make out what the viscount was holding in his clenched fist. It was a slip of paper, but beyond that he was not sure. Guessing, he said, “The invitation for Lady Mansfield’s party—”

“Not that! This! From Franklin!”

The valet backpedaled as the irate viscount shoved a sheet of ivory paper in his face. He wrung his hands, uncertain how to deal with this raging boar. The viscount was usually calm, and Pott had been grateful for the serenity in the house since Lord Brickendon’s mother’s death last year. Now the viscount was raving as wildly as she had during her last fever.

With care, he took the page from the viscount’s hand and peered at it. He could read, but slowly. Too slowly for his lordship, he discovered, when the viscount grabbed it back.

Lord Brickendon snarled, “Listen to this:

In light of recent events, I would like to ask you and Swinton to accept the withdrawal of my withdrawal from our wager. I intend to announce I am the winner before the end of the next fortnight. Buy a toast to me and my bride with the pound I wagered. I shall soon be your well-inlaid friend, the husband of Lady Vanessa Wolfe
.”

His black eyes were as furious as his voice as he looked at his valet. “It is signed Sir Wilbur Franklin. Blast it!”

“But I thought both the baronet and Mr. Swinton had been trounced. Didn’t you say last week that you considered this wager a pound it?”

“I
had
thought it was a sure thing.” Ross glowered at his valet. The man had misplaced every reasonable thought. Could Pott not see the truth? His hands clenched. He should have guessed Vanessa would do something so idiotic when she had been so upset at the Park. But this? Blast that woman’s stubbornness! “Lady Mansfield’s party is this evening?”

Pott nodded, his collection of chins bobbing. “But, my lord, the hour is so late. If you had returned from Whitehall in midafternoon, I could have had a reply delivered to Lady Mansfield. You can’t be considering attending the party when you haven’t responded to the invitation.”

“Blast convention! Get my best frock coat. I shall show that pluckless block that he cannot change the rules of this wager.” He kicked aside his shoes and pointed toward the dressing room. “Hop to it, man! I shall not lose this wager now.”

The ballroom in Lady Carolyn Mansfield’s house had been roused from its usual duskiness to glitter like a dowager wearing all her family’s gems. Fresh flowers admired themselves in the mirrors ringing the room between the paintings Lord Mansfield had collected during his travels before he settled himself with his young bride on Grosvenor Square. Soft music provided a melodious backdrop to conversation in the crowded room.

As Vanessa stood next to her aunt and welcomed each guest, she pretended she did not overhear the comments about Sir Wilbur Franklin’s presence at the party. Eavesdropping was a deplorable habit, she wanted to remind herself, but she guessed the guests yearned for her to hear, so they could judge if she was agreeable to the baronet courting her again. That Lord Brickendon, who had been seen in her company recently, had made no appearance added to the gabble.

Vanessa wondered why the viscount had not replied to her aunt’s invitation. He had said little during the ride back from the Park two days before. When he had not called the next day, she had guessed—had hoped—other obligations had demanded his attention. She had thought he would send his regrets if he could not attend tonight. There had been no answer.

Misery weighted her shoulders and seared her eyes, but she must not let anyone know. So she smiled a greeting to each guest and accepted their
bon mots
on her gown. Madame deBerg had outdone herself with the
appliquéd
sleeves, which reached no lower than the high bodice, and the matching silver ribbons along the frills on the skirt and woven in her hair. A single strand of pearls, a gift from her father on her sixteenth birthday, accented her white silk gown.

When Eveline rushed across the crowded room, she took Vanessa’s hands and drew her to one side. “I must tell you. I cannot bear to wait another minute.”