Regency: Courtship And Candlelight: One Final Season

Three years on he was more mature, cynical and tried and tested by life than he had once been, but she was three years lovelier, three years away from the eighteen-year-old débutante she’d been then. Then she’d been a girl close to being unformed compared with the gorgeous creature she was now, all rich curves and slender, elegant limbs that carried the usual Alstone height with a panache all her own. He forced himself to remember she was also haughty and cold as he finally made himself step away from the unattainable siren she really was.

What she really was just now, he observed rather ruefully, was an offended goddess who considered herself slighted by some mere mortal who’d dared turn his back on her extraordinary beauty. He caught the hint of suppressed fury in her indigo gaze, the tightening of her lush lips into a line and then a brief pout that warned him his danger wasn’t over, as if he didn’t already know it from his dratted body’s reaction to her proximity. He so desperately wanted to kiss those rosy, lushly discontented lips of hers that he had to clear away an imaginary frog from his throat to manufacture an excuse not to offer her his crooked elbow for a precious moment of respite from her touch.

It was either that or stalk off and abandon her to the giggles of the avidly watching gossips and seek less incendiary company. Even to avenge himself for all those broken nights and wasted days, he couldn’t do it to her. She still had no idea what she did to a man, he decided. High time she wed some unfortunate idiot, who could then spend his time rescuing her from her own folly and leave Edmund to find his sweet, nebulous viscountess and an easier life. The sooner the better, he assured himself and finally decided he was cool enough to offer Miss Alstone that arm and escort her into the supper room after all.

What a fool he’d been to be so full of misplaced confidence she meant nothing to him any more that he’d written his initials on the supper dance to prove he was cured. Evidently something about her called to him on a deeper level than he’d realised, but there was still time left this Season to effect a complete cure. Legions of débutantes would soon arrive and might even be lovely and amenable enough to put Kate Alstone out of his head entirely. He frowned as an inner voice informed him that rumours of such a fabulous paragon would have reached him by now, if such a creature existed outside the covers of a highly coloured novel.

Such an impossibly ideal girl would cause riots if she so much as set foot in the capital, but instinct informed him lugubriously that he’d still prefer the woman at his side to such an exquisite creature. No, he told himself doggedly, he’d choose his kind, pleasingly pretty and so far purely mythical wife, and just managed not to pull his arm away before Kate could settle her hand gingerly into the crook of his elbow, as if he might bite her if she didn’t keep a strict eye on him.

Suddenly Edmund’s sense of the ridiculous reawakened and he made up his mind to distract himself with the heady task of confusing the lovely Miss Alstone, whilst searching for his true quarry. It would do the redhaired witch good, he assured the doubter within. He wouldn’t be cruel, heaven forbid, but someone should make her realise she existed in the same world as the rest of faulty humanity, not on a higher plane where everything was ordered to her convenience.

Chapter Three

‘How is everyone at Wychwood, Miss Alstone?’ he asked in a tone even he knew was insufferably indifferent to her answer, although he liked the Earl of Carnwood and his spectacularly lovely wife. Now he came to think of it, if Miss Kate Alstone resembled her fiery sister as strongly in character as she did in outward beauty, he couldn’t walk away from her to wed a less unique woman. Thank you for not being made in your elder sister’s extraordinary image, he silently praised the beauty at his side, but even he wasn’t yet a bitter enough man to say it out loud.

‘All very well,’ she replied stiffly, as if she could read his thoughts, and he made himself look into her intriguing indigo eyes to make sure he was mistaken.

No, he informed himself sternly, he refused to cave at the hint of wistfulness in her gaze, the faint droop of discontent and perhaps a hint of longing in the curve of her rosy-lipped mouth. It was an illusion, he reminded himself. She might look as if she longed for a tithe of her sister’s passionate and mutually loving marriage for herself, but she didn’t have the least intention of following Miranda Alstone’s stormy path through life. After enduring her chilly lack of attention for a whole Season, he’d concluded Kate had no heart to lose. Trust her to decide to feel piqued that she’d finally lost his adoration tonight, just when he was starting his hunt for a very different female.

‘My sister is expecting to present Lord Carnwood with another pledge of her affection very shortly,’ she added to her terse assessment, again with that hint of wistful longing in her voice he wished she’d learn to conceal a little better.

To anyone else he supposed it might seem a tone of rueful irony, a discreet nod towards the fact that her sister and brother-in-law were deeply in love and therefore made insufferable company for a rational human being. Too many months spent learning her moods and interests from avid observation, he thought crossly. What an irony if she so longed to carry brats of her own that she was prepared to take him as her husband after all, just when he’d realised he couldn’t tolerate such a marriage to a wife he’d once longed to adore until his dying day. Compassion threatened as he wondered why she thought it safe to love her children and not her husband, who could be her equal and her passion. No, Carnwood and his countess were unique and he was done with dreams; Kate was not the wife for him.

‘Ah, well,’ he replied carelessly, ‘your brother-in-law is sadly in need of an heir.’

‘Kit will feel the need for whomever my sister presents him with, my lord. Not even the most cynical and uncaring spectator could deny that.’

Now he’d really offended her, just as he’d intended to. What a shame, then, that the fleeting vulnerability of hurt he glimpsed in her eyes, the not-quite-hidden wince as he pretended indifference to two people he liked and envied, pained him as well. Better this way, he reminded himself and smiled encouragingly at a certain Miss Transome he’d been introduced to earlier and her hovering swain. With any luck, they would join them at supper and break up any suggestion of a tête-à-tête between himself and the beauty at his side before too many people recalled that he’d once been mad, deluded and desperate for her.

‘La, my dear Miss Alstone,’ Miss Transome spouted so fulsomely so that Edmund almost regretted encouraging her, even to save himself an intimate supper with a woman he couldn’t have and didn’t want. ‘How finely you two do dance together. It quite put us off our own feeble attempts, did it not, Mr Cromer?’

‘Yes, quite,’ poor Cromer replied as if his throat was parched after all the monosyllabic replies he’d made this evening to his voluble companion. ‘Get supper for the ladies, eh, Shuttleworth?’ he managed in a magnificent feat of oratory.

‘Quite,’ he replied, apeing his old school friend’s sparse conversational style and they resorted to the groaning supper table to procure enough refreshments to silence even Miss Transome for a few idyllic moments.

Edmund decided both he and his taciturn friend had been rash to attend a party so obviously organised for the benefit of single ladies who’d survived too many Seasons unwed, before fresh débutantes arrived to outdo and outflank them. It was perhaps the last chance for such ladies to catch the eye of a potential husband before open season was declared on them. One glance at their hostess for the evening and her superannuated eldest daughter should have any sane bachelor saying a hasty farewell and dashing off to his club in order to survive and fight another day. He, of course, had a reason to attend any party where he might meet his elusive future viscountess, but what on earth had led Cromer to risk it?

‘She’s m’aunt,’ Cromer explained obscurely and Ed mund must have looked almost as puzzled as he felt, because his friend added a brief explanation. ‘Lady Finchley, she’s m’aunt.’

‘That accounts for it then,’ he conceded.

‘Your excuse?’ Cromer asked morosely.

‘Idiocy,’ Edmund replied, borrowing some of his friend’s abruptness.

‘Must be,’ Cromer commiserated as they turned back with their booty. ‘Though the Alstone icicle’s a beauty,’ he conceded generously.

‘Aye, but is she worth enduring the frostbite for, I wonder?’ Edmund asked in a thoughtful undertone as he watched her nod regally to an acquaintance.

‘M’father wants me to wed. Always liked Amelia Transome, but the thing is that she will talk. Much better tempered than my cousin Finchley, though,’ Cromer risked waxing lyrical.

Scanning the room and finally spotting Miss Finchley seated at a flimsy table with a widower of at least five and forty, who still looked hunted and not very willing, Edmund sympathised. Miss Transome was open and amiable, but the thought of being fluttered at over the breakfast table for the rest of his life must make the strongest man hesitate. Neither female bore the slightest resemblance to his dream wife, so he turned his attention back to Kate Alstone with a sneaking feeling of relief that he didn’t stand in Cromer’s shoes and could at least please himself whom he brought to supper, so long as she wasn’t the woman who pleased him all the way to the altar.

‘Oh, how perfectly lovely,’ Miss Transome gushed at the loaded plates.

‘Quite,’ Kate said with much less enthusiasm, and Edmund wondered if she’d been talked into a headache by Miss Transome’s busy tongue and dreaded carrying the burden of conversation with her on his own.

Kate nibbled unenthusiastically at her supper, despite poor Lady Finchley having pushed out every boat she could launch in the hope of netting her daughter a husband at long last by hiring an excellent chef. To be fair, the headache she felt tightening her hairpins and nagging at her temples had nothing to do with Miss Transome’s prattle, so the blame for that must lie at Lord Shuttleworth’s door. Wretched man, she decided, as she surreptitiously surveyed him with a disillusioned gaze.

Once upon a time he would have fallen at her daintily shod feet given the slightest hint of encouragement, but now that she’d finally steeled herself to accept a husband, he certainly wouldn’t be one of her suitors.

She hoped she was too proud to wilfully mistake his indifference to her tonight for a fleeting headache or a black mood on his part. There was too much distance about him to lay his behaviour at such a random and socially convenient cause and gaily expect tomorrow to bring amendment. He no longer desired her, now she finally wanted to become a wife and mother, and it was the frustration of it all that had caused her headache. It wasn’t as if she cared for him, other than as she might for any man she’d once known and come to value for his integrity and the dry sense of humour that had once lurked under his youthful enthusiasm.

Now it was gone, she decided guiltily that she’d always secretly revelled in Edmund’s apparent obsession with her and the certainty that he’d always long for her, even if he couldn’t have her. Had it been a guilty pleasure she knew she ought not to feel to know one person on this earth probably still thought of her as uniquely desirable? She really hoped not, since that would make her a tease or a shrew, then and now. And he certainly didn’t want her now, so why did it feel as if someone had taken away the most promising treat she’d ever pretended she didn’t really want in the first place?

So all in all it was little wonder that she was nursing the beginnings of a fine headache and an inexcusable grievance against Edmund Worth, just because he no longer felt inclined to make a fool of himself over the Honourable Katherine Alstone. Now that there was no chance of him offering for her ever again, she supposed she could acknowledge in her own head that it would have been wrong to accept him anyway, when he so obviously wanted to love his wife and she certainly didn’t want to love her husband. However, she wondered uneasily if she would have found it so wrong to accept him on such terms if he hadn’t made it so very clear they were no longer on offer.

Kate surreptitiously scanned the room under cover of Miss Transome’s interminable prattle for any likely bachelors, now the most promising one of all was struck off her list. Not one of those present made the idea of sharing the intimacy required to bring her children into the world seem anything other than a nightmare. There would be other balls and routs, of course; ones where the gentlemen were both more plentiful and a little more willing to be charmed, although the other ladies would also be both more sparkling and more innocent, if also more tongue-tied.

Most eligible gentlemen had spurned Lady Finchley’s rout for their clubs, which severely limited her choices. Sensible gentlemen, she decided, as she noted her fellow quizzes dotted about the supper room, trying their best to be all the things their desperate mamas bade them be. Miss Transome was projecting vivacity with such determination Kate wondered if she might sprout wings and fly up to the ceiling and circle about them all, still twittering frantically as she did so. Nearby, Miss Wetherby had cornered the market in pale and interesting and was reclining gracefully on a fragile chair that looked to be her only support in a failing world. And just what was Miss Alstone doing? Wilting too, Kate decided crossly; she was drooping like a wallflower and refusing to even try to be civil to those about her, just because she’d been disappointed in hope, if not in love.

‘Do you attend Mrs Flamington’s ridotto, sir?’ Miss Transome asked Mr Cromer with apparently artless curiosity, and Kate could have told her just from reading Mr Cromer’s hunted expression that it was unlikely.

‘No,’ he managed reluctantly, before courting even more silence by popping a bite of lobster patty into his mouth and consuming it very slowly as if to stop his reckless tongue committing him to something the rest of him didn’t agree with.

‘Are you planning to be there, Lord Shuttleworth?’ the lady asked earnestly.

Yes, how about you? Kate asked him with silent malice as she watched him swallow his chicken puff with gallant determination and even manage not to cough while he did so. Seeming to read her very thoughts, he cast her a repressive look and Miss Transome a warm smile that probably gave her far more encouragement than he ever dreamt it would, if the flush of sudden colour in her cheeks and the pleased sparkle in her eyes was anything to go by.

Kate sympathised with the foolishly romantic nature concealed under all the fluff and froth, even as she had to fight a primitive urge to ruthlessly crush any hopes of capturing Shuttleworth’s interest that might be stirring in Miss Transome’s receptive breast. He wasn’t hers to be possessive about, and had made that abundantly clear tonight. If he wanted to land himself with a wife who’d foolishly long for his love and affection for the rest of their days together, then that was his problem. Except that some annoying part of her argued it was hers as well, however hard Kate tried to ignore it.

‘I fear I’m otherwise engaged that day,’ he said with apparent regret.

‘Yes,’ Kate said with a hint of malice, ‘Lady Tedinton has a waltzing party, has she not?’

When she’d heard rumours that a lady with a Frenchified name, who might or might not be Selene, Lady Tedinton, had shared a lot more than a mere friendship with young Lord Shuttleworth while they were both in Bath one spring, Kate had dismissed them as mere gossip, even if the thought of him sharing that exotically beautiful lady’s bed had pained her with surprising sharpness while she did so. An honourable young gentleman like Shuttleworth wouldn’t cuckold a man of Tedinton’s venerable years and genial temper, she’d assured herself, even if her ladyship was twenty or thirty years younger than her lord and reported to hold to a conveniently elastic interpretation of her marriage vows. Since neither had confirmed or denied the rumour, it had flourished on and off and Lady Tedinton was even said to preen to her friends for having fascinated such a potent young lord.

Now Kate was nowhere near so certain Edmund would refuse the invitation in the lovely Lady Tedinton’s somnolently knowing sloe eyes and could see how his leanly handsome face and fine form would appeal to a jaded wife of her ladyship’s sybaritic nature. In that lady’s position, with a much older husband preoccupied with affairs of state and his estates, as well as his children from his first marriage, would she be tempted to dally with a vigorous young gentleman who’d be sure to make her a passionate and considerate lover? She hoped not, but eyeing Viscount Shuttleworth surreptitiously now, Kate knew she’d find him nigh irresistible if she stood in Lady Tedinton’s expensive Parisian shoes, even if she wouldn’t much like the fit of them.

Anyway, it certainly wasn’t jealousy that pricked at her as Edmund explained himself to Miss Transome far more warmly than he’d spoken to her all evening. It was merely pique that one who had once seemed to adore her had returned to town looking as if he couldn’t imagine what madness had come over him to have ever thought her the centre of his universe.

‘I am engaged on business that day, Miss Transome, but most of my acquaintance seem set on going to the ridotto, so you certainly won’t lack for companionship if you intend to go yourself.’

If only because Mrs Flamington was rumoured to possess a very pretty daughter it would abound in eager young gentlemen, Kate thought cynically, then ordered herself not to be such a sharp-nosed nag and to sympathise a little more with her new friend when she was only intent on the same outcome as herself. In fact, she informed herself ruefully, she and Miss Transome were sisters in adversity.

‘And you, Miss Alstone,’ Lord Shuttleworth asked at last, as if she were only a polite afterthought, ‘are you bound for Hill Street or Cavendish Square that day?’

‘Neither, Lord Shuttleworth,’ she replied uninformatively.

‘How unfortunate for your admirers.’

‘I dare say they will endure it.’

‘Ah, but endurance and enjoyment are so distant, Miss Alstone, that I wonder you don’t at least try to pity your disappointed admirers a little more,’ he taunted her, and drew Miss Transome’s attention by doing so, which felt far worse to Kate than enduring his contempt unnoticed.

‘I intend to enjoy my visit to an old friend who is currently bereaved and therefore does not seek out such bright company, but I wish both hostesses and their guests well in my absence of course, my lord,’ Kate managed coolly.

‘Beautifully put,’ he acknowledged with a fencer’s bow and Kate felt tears prick her eyes at the thought that where once upon a time they’d almost been friends, now they were very much more like bitter enemies.

The air of chilly politeness between herself and Lord Shuttleworth hadn’t escaped the notice of the gossipmongers and Kate felt every speculative gaze and insincere enquiry after her health like little darts. Longing to be securely among family and friends once again, Kate realised how privileged she was to have escaped the attention of the more vicious gossips until now.

‘I knew you were feeling low for all you denied it, my love,’ Eiliane scolded gently as they rode home in the carriage at long last. ‘So why on earth did you insist on staying so late at that very dull party?’

‘Because to leave early would have provided even more food for the gossips,’ Kate admitted wearily and silently thanked her friend for not rubbing her nose in tonight’s many humiliations, especially after their earlier discussion. A conversation that now seemed so arrogant and misguided on her side she could hardly bear to recall it with hindsight and squirmed in her comfortable seat. If he’d managed nothing else tonight, Lord Shuttleworth had taught her how little she mattered in the great scheme of things and most especially how little she meant to him.

‘Oh, don’t concern yourself about them,’ Lady Pemberley said cheerfully, ‘they’re so hungry for some thing juicy to chew over after so many months away from the capital that if they can’t find a real scandal they’ll make one up out of nothing. Give them a few days for a real one to erupt and they will soon be distracted from trying to make trouble where it doesn’t already exist.’

‘And it’s not exactly a scandal if a gentleman who once admired me no longer does so,’ Kate replied rather hollowly, not sure if she was reassuring Eiliane or herself.

‘Of course not, but don’t forget most of the younger ladies present tonight have been found wanting in comparison to you over the last few Seasons, my dear, and feel a little pity for their plight. Many of them will never climb off the shelf fate has left them on so pitilessly, the poor dears.’

‘I’m not sure I will now and I do feel for them, even if I can’t admit they were ever measured by my low standard and found wanting. I never intended to set myself A1 at Lloyd’s and everyone else at nought, Eiliane.’

‘Ah, but that’s the problem. Not only are you beautiful, graceful, well born and surrounded by people who love you, but you’re also astonishingly unaware of how unique and lovely you are. No wonder half the ladies of the ton secretly envy you and the other half want you to fall flat on your very pretty nose, Kate dear. If I didn’t love you so much, I might dislike you myself for being so unreasonably beautiful.’

‘How can anyone possibly be so appallingly mistaken, let alone you, Eiliane? I’m the least perfect person you’ll ever encounter, even if you live to be a hundred, and I’m certainly not beautiful.’

‘I know none of us are perfect this side of heaven, but you really are fortune’s favourite, my love, even if it doesn’t feel like it just now,’ Eiliane replied with that depth of understanding that always floored Kate at unexpected moments. As Lady Rhys and now the Marchioness of Pemberley, her friend had set up so many humane schemes for rescuing the poor, the unfortunate and even the plain criminal, that Kate could only wonder at her energy and try to respect her judgement.

‘It certainly doesn’t,’ she admitted as she stepped out of the carriage, glad of the comfort Eiliane had managed to bring into her husband’s lofty town mansion as they were welcomed home after a trying evening. ‘Although I do feel blessed to exchange Lady Finchley’s ballroom for your fine residence, Madam Marchioness,’ she managed to tease her friend and hostess lightly.

‘It’s nice enough now, I suppose,’ Lady Pemberley conceded rather absently as she set eyes on her new lord, gracefully sauntering out of his library as if he hadn’t galloped his poor horse back to his London home almost mercilessly, then waited with restless impatience for his lady’s return once he finally got here.

‘I thought you were meant to be away for a whole week,’ Eiliane chided, eyeing her tall, upright and still very handsome lord as if checking him for any sign of damage.

‘I soon got my business over and done, so there seemed no point lingering to me when I could be more comfortable at home,’ he replied, gazing at his lady as if he’d not set eyes on her for a month.

Watching them with exasperated affection and faintly amused by their refusal to admit they were happy as larks together, Kate left them to it and went up to bed, allowing her maid to fuss over her with such unusual docility that the girl finally asked if her mistress was sickening for something.

‘No, it’s just the headache,’ she explained as patiently as she could.

‘Oh, then you’re not in love, Miss Kate?’

‘Certainly not. I can imagine nothing worse,’ she replied with such revulsion even Eiliane might have believed her, if she wasn’t otherwise occupied.