Anne Barbour (21 page)

“I have no desire to ruin either of us. I will allow you the privilege of sending the announcement to the Morning Post that ‘the Countess of Bellewood has decided that the betrothal of herself to the Viscount Chelmsford is at an end’, or however it is they phrase these things.”

Clea’s face twisted in sudden fury. “You pig! I know what brought about this sudden reversal of your affection. It was the Burnside chit, was it not? Friendship, indeed. I can just imagine what was going on while you were sneaking off with her to the Park and whispering to her in corners. If you think...”

For an instant, Jonathan knew a blind urge to strike her.

“That will do, Clea,” he growled. “You will not speak Lady Talitha’s name. I think we have nothing further to say to each other. Good night, Lady Bellewood.”

He turned on his heel and moved quickly down the stairs, leaving Clea to screech after him.

“You will be sorry for this night’s work, Lord Chelmsford. I shall make you rue the moment you met Lady Talitha Burnside!”

In a few moments, Jonathan rounded the corner of St Paul’s Church, where he found his carriage awaiting him. Inside, as he had hoped, waited Tally. She had removed her wig and wiped off her wrinkles, and as she sat curled in a corner, huddled in the frayed old shawl, she looked like an abandoned waif.

Jonathan signaled the coachman and climbed hurriedly into the vehicle as it lumbered on its way. He said not a word as he turned to Tally and, in an instinctive move, gathered her into his arms.

* * * *

When Tally had hurtled back across Covent Garden Square and into the sanctuary of Jonathan’s carriage, she had been trembling so violently that her fingers could barely work the door latch.

When at long last she had regained some measure of composure, she straightened and attempted to remove at least some of Granny Posey’s more unattractive features. She realized with a start that this would undoubtedly be the last time she performed such an operation, because, career or no, she was never, ever going to set foot in the streets of London by herself in wig and shawl. Much as she hated to admit it, Jonathan was right. The city was fraught with peril for an unprotected woman, no matter how poor and stricken in years.

Her musings took her down the familiar path that led inevitably to Jonathan. She lifted a hand to her cheek, recalling the warmth of his breath as he whispered to her. Even in her terror, she had been intensely aware of his closeness, of his mouth brushing her skin.

She wondered uneasily what his mood would be when he returned to the carriage. Would he castigate her again for her foolhardiness? The blood rushed to her cheeks as she recalled what had happened the last time he had done that. She relived the bliss she had felt in the strength of his arms, and the soft fire of his lips against hers. She reprimanded herself for her wayward thoughts, but to no avail. What was worse, she wanted it all to happen again! She wished for nothing more in the world than to find herself enfolded in the safety and warmth of his embrace, her mouth firmly pressed against his.

When Jonathan at last entered the carriage, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to move into his open arms and to lift her face for his kiss.

His lips were as warm and the sensation as dizzying as she remembered. Her arms went around his neck, and her fingers twined themselves in his dark hair. A low moan escaped her as he drew back from her for a moment, only to bend his head again to hers in a deeper, more demanding kiss.

“Tally, oh, my darling Tally,” Jonathan whispered hoarsely, and he drew her even closer to him, as though he would caress her very soul. His hands savored the curve of her back and waist, and he was aware of her full breasts pressing against the pounding of his heart.

It was not until his mouth began a path down her throat and along the threadbare collar of her bodice that Tally came to herself with a horrified start.

“Jonathan! No—I—we cannot....” She pushed against him, and, even though he released her at once, his ragged breathing told her that he had been as disturbed as she. He cupped her chin in his hand and looked at her searchingly.

“Tally, are you all right? You weren’t hurt back there, were you?”

Tally retreated to a safe distance and waited for the pounding of her heart to subside.

“No, of course not. I was frightened out of my wits, though. Oh, Jonathan, how did you know I was in trouble? How did you find me?”

The recital of the events which had led to the near-disaster on the steps of the Opera House did not take long. When Jonathan finished, he gripped Tally’s hand and said in a light tone that did little to mask the intensity of his feelings, “And so, my dear, I find myself
sans fiancée
.”

Unthinking, Tally reached for Jonathan’s hand.

“I am so very sorry. This must all have come as a terrible blow to you.”

To discover that my goddess has feet of clay? Well, I suppose it might have, had I not also discovered that I fell out of love with the beauteous Lady Belle some time ago—starting from the time, in fact, when a certain talented and utterly adorable artist came into my life. Oh, Tally…” He gathered her to him again, and his voice roughened. “I do love you so very much. Do you...?”

Their lips met again in a kiss of stabbing sweetness. When she drew back at last, she smiled shyly, her heart in her eyes. “Does that answer your question, my lord?”

Jonathan traced the curve of her cheek with his finger-tip, causing a shudder to pass through Tally’s body.

“Yes, minx, but I want to hear you say it.”

“I love you, Jonathan Ware. I have for some time now, and I suppose I shall keep on doing so until I am a very old lady. Truly an old lady, that is, not one in a wig and funny shoes.”

“Thank God you will never have to wear that outfit again, my dearest love.”

“No,” said Tally in a small voice. “Much as I hate to admit it, you were right, Jonathan. If, in my future artistic endeavors, I am required to depict any more scenes from London’s underworld, I shall find some other method of doing so.”

He smiled warmly at her.

“I sincerely hope you will confine your future artistic endeavors to charming watercolors of the English countryside—and, of course, portraits of our children, and the odd caricature of my assorted aunts.”

Tally raised her eyes to Jonathan’s in a swift, questioning glance. “Ch-children?”

Once more, Jonathan’s mouth came down on hers, and when he spoke again, it was to murmur roughly, “I was thinking of ten or twelve to start.”

Tally laughed tremulously. “I hope you have a very long portrait gallery in your home. I promise to keep my caricaturing to my professional life.”

Jonathan’s hand, in the act of stroking Tally’s hair, stilled. “Your professional life?”

“Why, yes, Mr. Mapes has spoken to me about a series of sketches he’s been thinking about. Something about medical and scientific quackery, I think he said.”

Jonathan’s dark brows drew together in a baffled frown. “Surely you don’t intend to continue drawing on a professional basis once we are married!”

At this, Tally sat bolt upright. “But, of course I do. Why ever would I not?”

“Because you won’t need to anymore. I mean, I can understand why, as a single young woman without close loved ones, you had a desire to use your talent to become independent. But, now you won’t have to earn your own way.”

Tally’s fists curled into tight little balls. Was this the man to whom she had given her heart? Was this her friend and confidant?

Suddenly, the wonderful moments of the last few minutes seemed to crumble about her like a precariously stacked house of cards, and a knot began to twist in the pit of her stomach.

“I cannot believe you are saying these things,” she said softly. “You of all people. I thought you understood. You certainly don’t write because you need the money to stay alive. Surely you must know that I feel the same.”

“But you are a...”

“Jonathan,” she said in a quiet, ominous voice, “if you are going to remind me that I am a female, I think I shall never speak to you again.”

“Very well,” he replied stiffly. “But you must admit that it does make a difference. You will be a married lady, after all, and...”

“And a married lady, of course,” said Tally tightly, “must busy herself with her wifely duties, her mind occupied solely with choosing just the right furnishings, and—and nannies for the children she is expected to produce. Haven’t you any idea how much my drawing means to me?”

“Tally, You’re not being fair.”

“At this point,” Tally shot back, now totally oblivious to the voice of reason within that told her she was being a perfect ninnyhammer, “nothing would prevail upon me to become a married lady. Now, if you will excuse me, it is time I returned home.”

She flung open the door of the carriage, which had stopped its motion some time ago upon completing the short drive from St Paul’s Church to Half Moon Street, and leaped out onto the street, leaving Jonathan to stare after her in dismay.

Chapter Eighteen

The days that followed were the longest that Tally had ever known. Over and over she relived the scene in the carriage, and over and over she vowed that she never wanted to see the Viscount Chelmsford again as long as she lived. Evidently, she thought morosely, he felt the same way. Why had he not come to see her?

Tally strived valiantly to maintain her righteous fury. Unfortunately, there were many times she did a complete about-face, cursing herself for her ungovernable tongue. The man she thought the most wonderful in the world, and the most unattainable had miraculously declared his love for her. And what did she do? She had raged at him like a termagant, thrusting her own views at him without a thought to his feelings.

Her internal arguments swung between those two extremes, until by the end of the week, she felt herself to be a vacillating widgeon, unable to make up her mind or to take a stand on whether or not the sun would rise tomorrow at its accustomed time.

And where was Jonathan?

She finished the last batch of illustrations for
Town Bronze
. Regretfully, since she was unable to find her sketch pad when she returned to look for it early the morning after her eventful night in Covent Garden, she was forced to rely on memory for her final drawing. She sent them all by messenger to George Mapes. She received in return a note of congratulations, and she visited the portly publisher to receive more expressions of good will, as well as a substantial check. Mapes went into some detail on plans for another book, this one a series of satirical verse based loosely on the Mother Goose rhymes which had so enlivened the London political scene more than a generation ago.

Tally listened to the publisher’s glowing description of the book as a worthy successor to
Town Bronze
with little enthusiasm, and heard his panegyric on that wildly successful endeavor with such a gloomy expression on her face that Mapes took care to impress upon her that the names of Dash and Mouse were on the lips of every soul in London who possessed the ability to read.

Tally had no need of the publisher’s assurances of this fact. When the last installment of the book appeared in the booksellers” shops, the doings of Clifford and Clive were discussed in the streets of commerce, the halls of Westminster, and the drawing rooms of the West End as often as those of Wellington, Castlereagh, and even the Prince Regent. Speculation grew ever more outrageous as to the author and the illustrator of the caustic burlesque.

Despite her heartache, Tally could not help feeling a spurt of exhilaration at having been a part of the novel’s success. Once, when her dinner partners on both left and right spoke of nothing but
Town Bronze,
mirthfully discussing the personages exposed in its pages, she had experienced an almost overwhelming urge to reveal her part in the book’s creation. For once, good sense prevailed, and she held her tongue firmly between her teeth.

For Tally had found that she was enjoying her new-found popularity. She was invited everywhere and was assured by more than one hostess that her sparkling presence was necessary to any function to ensure its success. She had been told much the same thing by more than one aspiring buck, as well, a circumstance in which she took a certain grim satisfaction on those occasions when she and Jonathan appeared at the same rout or ball.

Not that the viscount gave the merest sign that he took notice of the crush of beaux that always seemed to surround the charming Lady Talitha. In fact, except for the smallest of bows, he scarcely acknowledged her presence at these functions.

“Whatever has happened between you and Jonathan?” asked Cat one morning as she sat in Tally’s dressing room admiring a new bonnet purchased the day before at Estelle’s Millinery Shop. “I have not seen him here this age.”

Tally dropped her eyes. “Now that the book has been completed, there is no reason for him to come to the house anymore.”

Cat sighed. “I was hoping—now that Clea has broken off her engagement to him...” She eyed Tally speculatively. “I wonder why the betrothal ended with such a snap.”

Tally yawned. “I have no idea.” She cast about frantically for a topic with which to change the subject. “Have you any plans for today, Cat? I thought perhaps we might visit the botanical gardens. I have never seen them, and I’d love to do some sketching there.”

“Oh, Tally, that’s a splendid idea, but I’m afraid I can’t. My great-aunt Haverstoke has summoned me today, and she lives out near Richmond. I can’t imagine what she wants, except to scold me for not having been near her for months. But let’s do that tomorrow. You’re more than welcome to come with me today,” Cat added, “but I must tell you, she will prose on for hours, and end up giving us a perfectly inedible tea.”

“Thank you.” Tally laughed. “It sounds a treat, but I think I’ll decline. I’ll see you at dinner, or are you and Richard going to enjoy another cozy meal
a deux
upstairs?” She laughed at Cat’s rosy blush.

“You know we only do that when you have plans to dine out,” she replied with great dignity. “I shall bid you good day, Lady Talitha.”