Where Destiny Plays, page 14
“We don’t have the reputation in the field. You’ll want to get your funds from a collector or noted gentleman scholar.”
“Uncle Arthur has an interest in the Near East and other things exotic.”
The corner of Papa’s mouth quirked upward. “Yes, yes he does. Always has. And now that he’s quite settled in the railway business, perhaps he’d like to dabble in archaeology. But I think you’ll help him best by establishing your reputation first.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“And now you’re going to university, dear,” Mama began, “it is time you referred to your ‘uncles’ by their proper titles. You should call them ‘Lord Petersham’ and ‘Mr. Phillips’ except when in the most intimate of settings.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“We simply want to send you out into the world as prepared as you can be.” Papa chewed thoughtfully on his mutton. “In fact it would behoove you to get in the good graces of someone like Lady Foxley-Graham.”
William almost dropped his fork. Lady Foxley-Graham was quite possibly the most beautiful woman in the world. Not that Mama or Aunt Sophia or Helena weren’t beautiful. They were…but Lady Foxley-Graham had a charm that was positively bewitching. After Helena’s wedding, William had spent quite a few nights pleasuring himself to the memory of her smile as she placed her hand in his at their first meeting.
Papa turned to Mama. “What do you think, Anna? She chaperoned Nicholas during the Season last year.”
“Yes, Geoffrey, but Nicholas was older and already embarking upon a career as a doctor. I believe the idea was to help him find a suitable doctor’s wife amongst the girls still on the shelf.”
Papa grinned. “And look how that turned out.”
Mama giggled.
Were his parents daft? Lady Foxley-Graham had been more than a mere chaperon to Nicholas; she had been his lover! Helena had told him that while she taught William all about necking during Christmastime. Helena practically worshiped the viscountess and said Nicholas was a wonderful lover because of the lady’s instructions. And then Nicholas taught Helena how to kiss and then she taught him—
Why it was as if he had learned how to kiss from the very lady herself!
William’s trousers suddenly became uncomfortably tight.
Luckily dinner wouldn’t be finished for a spell. And Mama was already asking Molly and Lilly what they learned from their tutor that day.
If he could be chaperoned by Lady Foxley-Graham it would be a dream come true.
He would continue with that thought in his bed later that night.
* * * * *
Lavinia lay on the morning room couch in far too comfortable a position. She should have just stayed in bed really. She could read the damn newspaper and drink her blasted tea in her bedroom just as well.
But the light was better for reading in the morning room and being in bed alone was simply too depressing.
Her perusal of the “Imperial Parliament” columns finished, she flipped through the pages of the Morning Post, ignoring sporting news then skimming the foreign briefs before poring over the notes in the “Fashionable World.” She stopped cold on page six.
There at the top of the far left column was the notice of the Royal Academy Banquet held Saturday night at Burlington House, the event that signaled the opening of the London Season. The president of the art academy, Sir Frederick Leighton, had given the opening toast. The Prince and Princess of Wales had been there. The Prime Minister, Mr. Gladstone, fresh from winning the election for the Liberals, “was received with great cheering” before giving a speech.
The art academy’s affair was, in fact, well attended by everyone who was anyone. Well, men of importance at least. And their wives would have been in attendance at the Royal Academy’s Private View the previous afternoon, hobnobbing with the royal family.
But not her. No. She even grabbed Friday’s Post to peruse the list of those in attendance at the Private View and, no indeed, Viscountess Foxley-Graham was not among them.
Lavinia sighed and threw the Post on the carpet. The Season of 1880 was destined to be the worst ever.
It was her first Season alone. She simply could not remember a time when she wasn’t shepherding a young man through the rules and vicissitudes of Society. She hadn’t prepared this year. She had been too immersed in her failed fantasy of Nicholas to have found another. His last letter had said he hoped she had a grand time this year but that as his wife was due to give birth in June, he would be infrequently in London. He would let her know if he felt compelled to be there for a Parliamentary matter. They could have tea.
And probably end up in bed.
At least it would take her mind off Arthur. Except she’d probably close her eyes and fantasize about him while Nicholas lay between her legs.
A knock resounded politely on the morning room door.
“What is it, Sims?”
The butler entered and shifted uncomfortably in the doorway. “Flowers, my lady.”
“Oh?” She lifted her head. “Can you bring them in here?”
Sims glanced behind him. “No, my lady. While it would not be too impossible a task, it might require more of the staff.”
How very odd. “Shall I visit the flowers then?”
“That might be the better approach at the moment, my lady.”
Lavinia got up and followed Sims to the foyer. It was an astonishing sight. The space was filled with basket upon basket of roses, pink and white, red and yellow, evoking a memory of a line of a poem recited by a lover: Each morn a thousand roses brings.
“Sims?” She looked helplessly at the butler.
“This note came with a solitary rose, my lady.”
Sims handed her the note and a lavender rose—her rose. The note held but one word, a word that set her heart pounding uncontrollably and a smile to tug on her lips.
Arthur.
* * * * *
Lavinia tried not to sag against the wall of Lord and Lady Wrexham’s ballroom but between enervation and boredom, sagging came naturally.
She kept her eye on the interstices of the gilt-topped columns separating the entrance lobby from the ballroom, watching to see who arrived and with whom. Charlotte, the Countess of Banbury, had a similar idea but had positioned herself closer to the receiving area, holding court with the matrons of Society and their various charges, offering thin smiles and the occasional wave of her fan. The matrons would be gossiping in the abstract about which young girl should marry which older man, and there would be plenty of “oh, no, my dear, the marquess prefers a more buxom sort” or “he’s a dour man and needs the mitigation of a gentle soul”.
What all the biddies did not seem to understand was a proper match could not be made in the abstract. One needed to actively nurture and promote connections and to best do so, one needed to know the parties involved on a far deeper level than mere casual acquaintance.
Charlotte understood this and was, therefore, greatly sought out for her advice. Lavinia understood this but was always so difficult to pin down as she found it far more productive to be in the thick of things, matchmaking face-to-face.
Except this Season. Instead of being caught up in a whirlwind of introductions and character assessments, she stood against a wall, her only company a potted palm.
And then he walked into the ballroom.
The Earl of Petersham was eye-catchingly handsome in a pale-green and gold waistcoat and matching tie under his evening jacket. The green would pick up the color in his eyes, the gold, in his hair. Of course it was done deliberately. Lady Richmond understood how handsome her son was and, for the first time in over twenty years, she would get to show him off.
It was simply maddening.
He searched the room, sidetracked momentarily by greetings or small talk. He would nod politely, perhaps offer a slight smile, say a few words but his attention would not loiter. Once relieved of social obligation, his gaze would wander.
Lavinia shrank back to hide behind a frond. Still somehow he found her from across the room.
His gaze was penetrating, piercing her heart, scorching her core. She looked away but could not do so for long. He said a few words to his mother, patted her hand, then left her side. He was before her too quickly.
“Lavinia.”
She offered her hand instinctively. He took it and kissed her fingers. The moment he did so the world melted away.
“Lord Petersham,” she managed through her rapidly pumping pulse, “how very wonderful to see you.”
“The pleasure is all mine.” Somehow the vague pleasantry seemed lewd.
The marchioness appeared at his side. “Lady Foxley-Graham.”
She nodded. “Lady Richmond.”
“I’m very glad to see you. I’m sure you know some of the young ladies on Arthur’s dance card. Perhaps you can offer a word or two of advice on their prospects?”
Lavinia tamped down her seething jealousy. “I’d be delighted, my lady.”
Arthur gave her a suspicious look as a sly smile curled his lips. “Perhaps we can discuss my prospects while we enjoy a waltz, my lady.”
She wanted nothing more than to be in his arms. But it would be cruel to her heart. Best she stayed against the wall.
“Yes, Arthur, what a wonderful idea,” Lady Richmond chimed. “Lady Foxley-Graham, it seems the next dance is about to begin.”
Arthur held out his hand and against her better judgment, Lavinia took it.
His carriage was strong, guiding her through the waltz, commanding her body to move as he wished but not necessarily as she wanted. He noticed.
“Your heart is not in the dance, I fear.”
“How did you know, my lord?”
He leaned in. “Because I know how your body responds when it takes pleasure willingly.”
He was cruel. “Perhaps I should leave you to find a willing partner.”
“Perhaps we should get a breath of fresh air.”
Before she knew it he was whirling her toward the French doors leading out to the terrace. He broke the waltz stance and took her arm. He smiled and nodded pleasantly to passing guests as he led her outside into the cool night.
They did not dawdle on the terrace. Instead he kept going, over the flagstones to the lawn, by which point he was no longer leading her but dragging her. A folly loomed ahead, a diminutive classical temple, the entrance lit by lanterns lining the path.
He steered her around to the back where it was dark, the garden wall only a few feet away. He trapped her against the temple, his hands flat against the concrete and stone on either side of her shoulders.
“I sent you flowers.”
“I received them. Did I not send a thank you note?”
“You did. It was very formal.”
“How else should I respond when an unwanted suitor sends me a foyerful of roses?”
“Unwanted?”
She strained against the tears threatening to fall.
“Lavinia, please let me endure this Season. Let me humor my mother. I will find a way for us to be together.” His voice held frustration and need. He released her from the cage of his arms and turned away.
The cold concrete chilled her to the bone. “Seeing you smiling while you dance with other women, chatting in the refreshment room.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “It will kill me.”
He spun around and faced her. “This kills me as well. I’m on display, an object, like some painting at the Academy a buyer inspects to see if it pleases.” He ran his hand over the back of his neck. “I burn for you.”
“Then burn for me, my lord.”
“What will it take?”
“Arthur, it’s hopeless. You need to accept that I cannot give you what you need. I cannot provide you with an heir. If that is what you require, then you must look for it elsewhere.”
“You’re not too old, Lavinia.”
“But I am!” She exhaled in exasperation. “Even if I were able to carry your child, what if it were not a boy? I assure you, my lord, I really will be too old after that.” She steepled her fingers and pressed them to her lips, trying to calm herself. “Arthur, I’ve come to terms with not ever having children and now I do not want them. You must understand this.”
His silence was oppressive until he slapped the wall of the folly. “I do understand. Unfortunately, I understand all too well. When one makes such a decision, eventually the decision becomes a fact beyond which one cannot imagine any other future.”
She stared at him. He understood. He really understood. “Who was she?”
He sucked in air, exhaling through pursed lips. “Lady Henrietta Langley, the daughter of the Earl of Bloxholme. Henny.” He smiled. “We were to have lots of children. Well, one only imagines such things when one is young.” His inhale shuddered. “She miscarried just before she died. It was how I found out she was carrying my child.”
Lavinia’s heart clenched. A horror much like her own. “Arthur, darling, I had no idea.”
She reached out her hand and he took it, his gaze cast to the ground.
“Her death left a hole in my heart. I was simply not motivated to marry and have children. I could only imagine such a future with Henny because I was in love with her and that was what she wanted.”
Lavinia squeezed his hand.
“I cannot see myself marrying a woman simply for the sake of producing an heir. I fear I would grow to resent the child. My father was a stranger to me for most of my life. I do not want to be such a father.”
She had never seen him so melancholy. In the moonlight, the mood suited him. It softened his features to their true handsome aspect. And made her want to divulge her secrets as he had divulged his.
She inhaled her courage. “His name was Julius Christopher—”
Arthur furrowed his brow.
“You’ll recognize the name as being your sister’s lover last Season. He’s extraordinarily charismatic and I do not begrudge Sophia for falling under his spell.” She relaxed her hold on his hand and threaded her fingers through his. “My husband was so much older than I. I was twenty when we married. He was fifty-five. It was an arranged marriage; there was no real love between us. No animosity either. Just a mutual understanding of the way things were.”
Arthur drew closer.
“My husband became ill and we sent for the doctor. It was Julius who came to call. He was young, ambitious, and unmarried. I was young and unsatisfied. We began our affair soon after. Julius was a remarkable lover—creative, potent, seductive. I fell hard for him.”
She leaned into Arthur as he grazed her cheek with the backs of his fingers.
“I had never become pregnant in the five years of my marriage with my husband. Of course, he was practically impotent and often uninterested. We assumed—as is always the case—that the problem lay with me. He had been married before and his first wife was also thought to have been barren. When Julius and I began our affair we were careful. Eventually we became careless, conveniently forgetting that infertility can be the problem of the male and not just the female.”
His thumb delicately caressed the hollow of her palm.
“I became pregnant with Julius’ child. I could have kept it. I was married, young, expected to have children. But Julius was so unlike my husband physically that the child might have resembled him and drawn gossip.”
Lavinia looked away. She couldn’t tell Arthur the truth. She just couldn’t. He had a similar experience. He would attempt heroics. Another day when he had forgotten her in the arms of a younger woman she would confess all. Just not now.
“Four months into the pregnancy I miscarried, discharging blood and gore, vomiting from the nausea. I fell into a fever. Julius, as our family doctor, was at my side, probably too often. When it was finished he told me the bad news. I had lost my child and he wasn’t sure I would be able to carry another.”
“Oh, darling.”
“The guilt was unbearable. I had failed as a wife and I had failed as a woman. I distanced myself from him, from my husband, from everybody. Three years later, my husband died. I was left a wealthy widow. Julius and I found ourselves back in each other’s arms. He was a vastly successful doctor by then.” She drew in a bolstering breath. “And then he confessed. He had felt relief I had miscarried. The scandal of a bastard would have held him back and he could not have lived with that. He apologized, hindsight showing he could have had me as wife with his very own son at his side. Still he felt no regret. Julius had become a hard man, his ambition focused, singular.” She looked at Arthur, banking back tears. “When one thinks one can never have children, one becomes accustomed to the idea. Eventually I realized I like my life without them.” She closed her eyes as exhaustion overtook her.
“I would never force the issue, Lavinia. I only know I want you.”
“Arthur, it is different for a man. You may have children—provided you are capable of course—until you are in old age. Men don’t make a decision not to have children. They either do or they do not. And they are no less a man for either choice. Society tells me I am less of a woman for mine. What would Society say about you if you made the choice to be with such as I?”
“Society would say I must be profoundly in love with you and they would be correct.”
He was so close the heat of his body warmed the bare skin of her décolletage. He rested his hands on her shoulders then skimmed down her arms to her waist. He pulled her against him with a jolt, letting her know he meant it, before covering her mouth with his.
It was a kiss like no other. Honest, brutal, the physical deepness approximating the emotional depth. He was slow, deliberate, forceful, and unyielding. He held her to him with an assuring strength yet with an acquiescence of her freedom to leave.
But she wanted to stay. She could think of nothing more she wanted than Arthur Harwell, the Earl of Petersham. She kissed him back hungrily, letting him know of her desire. He urged her against the folly, grinding his crotch against her. She cared not if the peach silk of her dress would be stained green by the moss on the wall. She wanted him.
She cupped his groin. He wanted her just as much.
