The Devil and the Viscount, page 6
She turned her head and warmth filled her eyes. A smile curved her lips, a smile of loss and friendship and gratitude. His throat closed up. For the first time in years, he wanted to weep. He didn’t. He inclined his head in a slight bow, as one might give a stranger, and smiled back just because she was wonderful.
Then she turned away, the servant handed her into the carriage, and Rollo walked off.
Chapter Six
On Wednesday morning, Gina woke to the knowledge that she had not conceived a child with Rollo Darblay. Although this considerably simplified her life, she wept into her pillow for several minutes before she wiped her eyes and rose to deal with the day.
This began with a trip to the dressmaker, for Mrs. Fitzwilliam, having inspected her wardrobe, had pronounced that she did not have nearly enough gowns to last for two weeks in town, let alone for a month or more.
“I have five morning dresses, a riding habit, five evening gowns, and two ballgowns,” Gina had pointed out. “How is that not enough?”
“My dear, this is London. You cannot be seen wearing the same gown twice. At least not in the evenings, and probably not at Venetian breakfasts either. At least what you do have will not be spotted as provincial, for they are well made, and you do have excellent taste.”
Gina had given in, although London prices were mind-bogglingly higher than Manchester. Today, she was to have a fitting for the new evening gowns, and Mrs. Fitzwilliam had persuaded her of her need for a second riding habit, new walking dresses, and various sundries such as new hats, gloves, reticules, and dancing slippers. And an opera cloak.
Gina’s Puritan soul was appalled, although she did find the acquisition of beautiful new clothes as entertaining as most did. They had spent the last two days leaving cards at the homes of Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s acquaintances, and yesterday, they had received a few very fashionable morning callers, along with Lord Longton, whose eyes had gleamed approval at the sight of her.
To her relief, his lordship had attempted no lover-like gestures. She would need to get considerably more used to him before she could tolerate such advances. In fact, he had merely stayed the requisite half an hour and toddled off again.
Gina found Mrs. Fitzwilliam in the breakfast parlor, happily sorting through the morning’s post.
“Ah, there you are, Gina! Invitations are trickling in from the best people, and after this evening, I will expect a flood.”
“Why, what happens this evening?” Gina asked, loading her plate with eggs, ham, and a morsel of smoked fish.
“The opera!” Mrs. Fitzwilliam exclaimed. “Everyone will be there!”
Except for Lord Darblay, who couldn’t bear the screeching. The thought made her smile, even as she wondered what it would be like to meet him again. Would they still be friends? Would he ignore her? Flirt with her? Forget her?
She should certainly forget him, but her little plan of a stolen night of love to ease her ensuing life of duty was not bearing up well in her mind. Although she tried to concentrate on the present, she kept remembering some saying, some expression, or amusing moment she and Rollo had shared. She would find herself dwelling on their dances, kisses, and the ecstasy of her body that he had unlocked.
It was not so easy to move on. But then, it had only been a few days.
“Of course,” Gina said meekly.
“Then tomorrow, we have a Venetian breakfast at Mrs. Farrow’s, and Lady Rampton’s soiree in the evening. Lord Longton will be there, if you recall.
“I do.” And it would be all to the good to get to meet him. Really, it would. She could not marry a stranger.
“I’m afraid all my friends are a little old and stuffy,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam said apologetically, “but you will soon make your own friends among the younger set and be asked everywhere.”
“Despite my birth?”
“My dear, it will soon be forgotten in the respectability of my birth and your fortune.”
Which was mind-bogglingly honest, if nothing else.
The day duly passed in a welter of shopping, calls, and walking in the park. During the daily gathering in Hyde Park—“Everyone goes to be seen,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam assured her—she had the pleasure of observing the ton. Among the fashionable, the beautiful, and the fribbles, Gina most enjoyed the few eccentrics—the dashing lady who drove herself so skillfully in a high-perch phaeton, the gentleman in outrageous costume with a red handkerchief knotted about his throat instead of a cravat.
“Poet,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam commented, seeing the direction of her gaze. “He’s young and will grow out of it.”
“Oh, and ma’am, who is that?”
Another lady driving herself had caught Gina’s attention, but this woman was much more noticeable. Older and considerably plumper, dressed in shades of orange and purple, she genuinely startled the eye. Many people looked, but no one she passed seemed to see her, and where the younger lady driving herself had paused often to talk to acquaintances, even to take up a favored passenger for a turn, the lady in orange stopped for no one.
Mrs. Fitzwilliam sniffed. “That is Mrs. Snodgrass, reported to be the richest widow in London. From trade, you understand. She is not one of us, and you will not meet her.”
Gina cast her a sardonic glance. “I am not one of you.”
“By an accident of birth,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam said with dignity. “You are not vulgar.”
“She must be quite brave,” Gina said thoughtfully.
“Or thick-skinned.”
Despite Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s assurance, the bold, despised woman stuck in Gina’s mind. She was conscious of a fellow feeling for her. Mrs. Snodgrass had not, like Gina, a friend of the ton to guide her and lend her the trappings of acceptability. But even so, the woman was a reminder that Gina herself would never be accepted either, only tolerated with a veil of politeness.
She could imagine the whispers. “Poor old Longton, nothing for it but to marry so low for the money.”
But it was the life her father wanted for his children and grandchildren, and Gina was the means.
Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s cheerful young nephew, Mr. Godfrey Fitzwilliam—“call me Fitz!”—joined them for dinner in the evening, since he was to be their escort to the opera. Although he greeted Gina with perfect courtesy, she caught him observing her more than once, as though surprised she didn’t slurp her soup or eat her meat off the knife. However, once he relaxed, he proved himself entertaining company and was a very pleasant escort to Covent Garden.
At first, an evening at the opera seemed to be exactly the same exercise as walking or driving in Hyde Park at five of the clock. Mrs. Fitzwilliam scoured the other boxes, smiling and nodding to acquaintances, even chatting to the lady in the neighboring box. The noise was phenomenal, the various expensive perfumes of the patrons combined in the heat of the candles in a dizzying, headache-threatening kind of way.
Gina tried to focus on something, forcing herself to count the boxes in the same row as her own, until she came to one containing the colorful figure of Mrs. Snodgrass, the wealthy cit’s widow. This evening, she wore jonquil trimmed with deep blue, and a spectacular, jeweled turban. It was difficult to look away, and Gina could not help noticing that she was not alone. An almost invisible woman sat beside her, and two gentlemen appeared to be paying court to her.
“You’re dazzled by Mrs. Snodgrass?” Mr. Fitzwilliam murmured. “Aren’t we all?”
“The gentlemen with her appear to be.”
“Word is they’ll have to work hard before Darblay cuts in.”
The name hit her in the chest like a blow, making her ears sing. “Darblay?” she managed.
“The new viscount, Rollo. Friend of mine, actually. Best of good fellows, but finds himself in straitened circumstances, if you know what I mean.”
Yes, I know exactly what you mean. Rollo’s words on the subject of his prospective marriage partners came back to her. “Miss Gush and Mrs. Take-me-as-I-am… One is a trifle long in the tooth, and the other some screeching schoolgirl.” Gina felt sad for Mrs. Snodgrass all over again. And for him.
Mr. Fitzwilliam, who knew of her connection to Lord Longton, seemed to realize the too-close associations of what he had just said, for he looked appalled and broke into hurried speech once more. “Of course, she’ll be doing him a favor. The careful mamas all warn their daughters against Rolls.”
“Because of his character or his poverty?” Gina asked sardonically.
“Both, I should think.”
They were both saved further conversation by the rise of the stage curtain and a very pretty display of dancing. Not that anyone else seemed to see the need to stop talking. If anything, the hum rose in order to be heard over the music.
The first interval brought a stream of visitors to their box, and so many introductions that Gina had no hope of remembering them. Many were debutantes with their proud mamas or young matrons, and Mrs. Fitzwilliam was proved right that she did form the beginnings of several friendships. Gina wondered cynically if their warmth would outlast the revelation of her birth. But for the moment, at least, Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s respectability provided a cloak of protection.
At the second interval, Mrs. Fitzwilliam issued fresh instructions. “Godfrey, take Miss Wallace to visit your own friends—only the respectable ones, mind!—and be back before the second act.”
Obediently, they left her to pass along the milling corridor.
“At least it is cooler out here,” Gina said in some relief. “The singing is lovely, but the heat is becoming overwhelming.”
“We can just stroll around if you like. To be honest, most of the fellows I know are in the pit. Oh, there’s Holles, of course. Bit serious but amiable and already engaged to be married to a very sweet lady. We could drop in on them if you like.”
“If you think they would not mind.”
“They’ll be charmed,” he assured her, guiding her to the stairs.
“Evening, Fitz,” a good-looking young man greeted him in some surprise when they entered the box at last. “Opera’s not your usual fare, is it?”
“Nor yours,” Fitz retorted.
“True. You’re acquainted with Mrs. Dove, aren’t you? And Miss Dove, my betrothed?”
“Of course! How do you do, ma’am? Miss Dove?” He exchanged amiable bows with both ladies and presented Gina as his aunt’s protegee, before introducing her to Mr. Holles.
“So, you have just arrived in town?” Miss Dove said as Gina sat down beside her. “Do you find it completely overwhelming? I know I did.”
“There are so many people,” Gina blurted.
“I know. And even the ones you’re introduced to, you can’t remember their names! And there is no peace. Apart from the park.”
“Hyde Park? It does not seem so very peaceful to me.”
“Oh, it is in the morning. We usually take our dog for an early walk. You should join us sometime.”
“Thank you, I should like to. Would I need to bring my maid?”
Miss Dove frowned. “Perhaps. We never do, but then we have Pup, who is quite the scariest chaperone ever to grace the park. If you’re staying with Mrs. Fitzwilliam, I’ll send you a note one morning, shall I?”
“Yes, please do.”
Other people entered the box then, and she and Fitz left to make room. As they made their way along the corridor, she saw the unmistakable figure of Mrs. Snodgrass sailing in the opposite direction. She appeared to be in a hurry, wafting her fan almost dementedly. She stumbled and flung out one hand to the wall to stop herself from falling, and her reticule fell to the floor, spilling some of its contents.
To Gina’s amazement, a gentleman stepped over the items and kept walking, although he had to have seen. Without thought, Gina stepped closer and crouched down, gathering the fallen comb and coin purse back into the reticule. She rose and held it out to the lady, who looked both surprised and touched.
“Bless you, my dear, there was no need for that.”
“Well, I’m quicker on my feet than Mr. Fitzwilliam,” Gina said, knowing that beside her Fitz was blushing scarlet.
“Certainly quicker than me,” said Mrs. Snodgrass with a jolly laugh. “I’m too plump to bend these days!”
She may have been, but up close, she was also younger than Gina had originally thought. She was in her thirties rather than her forties, and her smile was actually quite pretty.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Snodgrass said and moved on.
Fitz all but dragged Gina in the opposite direction. “Sorry, I should have done that, not you.”
“Yes, you should,” Gina agreed. “But that man who simply stepped over the top was just plain rude.” It should have been some comfort that Rollo Darblay, whatever was said about him, would never be so ungentlemanly toward her.
*
Rollo Darblay, meantime, had been conscientiously reviewing his options. He would do nothing, of course, until he knew there had been no consequences to his encounter with Gina Wallace. But, encouraged by her bravery and by the morose sight of his mother drifting about the townhouse in deepest black, he paid a call on each of his potential brides.
He began with Miss Smythe, who was thrown into raptures by his arrival. She was just eighteen years old, and her undeniable beauty had raised her parents’ ambitions to the nobility. When Rollo had first seen her, she had reminded him of a slightly younger version of Maddy, his favorite ladybird, and it was for that reason he had imagined he might tolerate marriage to her.
She certainly greeted him with enthusiasm, jumping up from her chair and exclaiming, “My lord!” She hurried across the floor, hands held out to him before even her mother could get near him. “We had quite given you up!”
He took her hands and bowed over them. “I was out of town,” he said by way of explanation, although he owed her none. They had met only twice.
“Besides, his lordship is in mourning,” her mother scolded. “He can’t go dashing off to parties just to dance with you.” She curtseyed, which at least gave him an excuse to extract his hands from her daughter’s and bow.
But almost immediately, Miss Smythe grasped his arm, hugging it to her while she nearly danced across the room to the sofa, ejecting its current, affronted occupant with an imperious flick of her fingers.
Under this swain’s scowl, Rollo sought to hand her civilly onto one side of the sofa, but like a limpet, she clung to his arm, all but dragging him down with her. Rollo, who had no desire for tea, happily accepted a cup, just to free himself from her physical clutches. While he drank, she chattered away about what entertainments she had been to over the last few days and what lay in store.
Rollo felt his mind glaze over. In search of some occupation for it, he gazed around the room. Mrs. Smythe, proudly beamed upon them both, and the three angry young men, presumably Miss Smythe’s suitors, all glared at Rollo. Inappropriately, he felt his lips twitch and coughed to prevent the laughter from escaping.
He left after one cup of tea and, striding up the street, he felt rather like dusting himself off. Next, for comparison purposes, he knocked on the door of Mrs. Snodgrass’s large townhouse on the edges of Mayfair.
The butler showed him to the drawing room, which contained only two women. On one chair, the little dab of a female whose name he could not remember was plying needlework. Mrs. Snodgrass herself, resplendent in purple and orange, sat at a spindly-legged bureau, busily writing, though she stood when he was announced and walked forward to meet him.
“A pleasant surprise, my lord,” she said briskly. “A cup of tea, perhaps?”
“God, no,” Rollo said involuntarily, then at the gleam of laughter in his hostess’s eyes, he grinned. “Sorry. Don’t mean to be rude. I’ve just swilled enough to last me for a week.”
She indicated a chair, and he bowed to the other lady before sitting on the other end of the sofa from Mrs. Snodgrass. Fortunately, she seemed to feel no urge to clutch him.
“In that case, what can we do for you?” Mrs. Snodgrass asked briskly.
“Nothing,” Rollo replied. “Just paying a call to see how you go on.”
“Life in mourning is that dull?”
“Well, it is dull,” he agreed, “though worse for my sister. Beats me why women are expected to mourn more than men.”
“Because they have nothing else to do with their time, of course.”
“Hmm,” he said skeptically, glancing at her desk which was heaped with papers. “Anyway, the point is, of course, I didn’t call from boredom.”
“Perhaps you came to invite me to the opera?”
He shuddered. “Anything but that, ma’am. Happy to take you driving in the park if you can spare the time?”
“I prefer to drive myself,” she said bluntly. Rollo rather liked that about her. “I suppose mourning means you don’t attend balls.”
Apart from Maida. Don’t think about that. “Well, not to dance,” he said dubiously. “Though to be honest, I’m making it up as I go on. Never been in mourning before, and I’m not really one to follow the rules in any case.”
“No, I like that about you,” Mrs. Snodgrass said. She tapped one finger against her lips. “I suppose you might drop in at Lady Rampton’s soiree tomorrow evening?”
“I might,” he said dubiously. “She sent me a card, probably because I went once before. Horrible affair, I assure you. Fellows spouting poetry, and some screeching soprano—”
“I like poetry,” Mrs. Snodgrass interrupted.
“Do you? Well, if you mean to be there, I might make the effort.”
“Sadly,” she said, examining her fingernails, “I have not been invited.” She glanced up and met his gaze.
Rollo’s lips twitched. “You want me to take you? Judging Lady Rampton won’t cause a scene by refusing you entry if you’re on my arm?”
Mrs. Snodgrass smiled, and Rollo gave a crack of laughter. “I’ll do it.”
*
“You’re doing what?” his friend Montague demanded an hour later. He and Meade had turned up at Darblay House to keep Rollo company and entice him out for a quiet dinner at the club and were sprawled comfortably in Rollo’s dressing room.
