Barbara Metzger (25 page)

While she was out, she just might stop in at the shop of a chemist her maid knew who specialized in cosmetics. He and his wife were experts in face paint for the theater and for masquerades and for women who could not accept the passing years.

In the ordinary way of things, Lady Dorothy did not try to cover up her ugly pox scars. She was who she was, and that was that. She had long since accepted the hand that fate had dealt her, and was content. Her pride was in her accomplishments, not in her face. She was on this earth to improve the conditions of the less fortunate, not to fill the coffers of storekeepers in trying to improve her own appearance. Lady Dorothy had stopped chasing futile dreams ages ago, and had vowed never to turn into an indolent, vain, self-centered woman like her mother.

But Mr. Carswell was who he was, too, a useless, frippery fellow—who was also intelligent company, a joy to argue with, and as good looking as the devil himself. What could be the harm in spending a handful of coins—she had far more than any woman needed, even after her charitable donations—on bettering her looks, so he might not be seen with such an antidote?

Dorothy could see nothing wrong with her plan. But she saw a great deal wrong with her would-be sister-in-law, now that she was sitting down, looking up at Athena. Miss Renslow had spots of color on her cheeks, swollen lips, and a dazed look. “It will not do. You cannot have it both ways, you know.”

Athena barely knew her name. “Both…?”

“You cannot let him kiss you without marrying him. My brother is a practiced seducer, I am sorry to say, but if you are not going to wear his ring, you must not wear that well-kissed look.”

“I did not…that is, he did not…”

“Do you think I do not recognize the signs? Where do all those orphans come from, then, if not from such illicit trysts? I do know what goes on between a man and a woman, despite my spinster status, and I am telling you, it will not do. With your upbringing, your conscience will bother you, for one thing, and your family will be ashamed, for another. You would not be welcome in any respectable house, and might be forbidden your brother’s company. Worst of all, you will too quickly realize how soon the pleasure of being a rich man’s ladybird flies away. Your protector will find a new interest and you will have to find another man, then another and another, until your looks are gone and none want you. Trust me, my dear Miss Renslow, the courtesan’s life is not an easy one. I see too many former mistresses at the women’s homes and hospitals.”

“I am not a courtesan!”

“Then what do you call a woman who gives her favors without giving her hand, who shares a man’s passions without sharing his name?” She waved her hand at the expanse of Maddox House. “A woman who repays a gentleman’s generosity with her body, but not her bridal vows? What do you call that?”

Athena called it confused.

She went into her bedroom and dismissed her disappointed maid. She went to the window overlooking the gardens of Maddox House and tried to make sense of the turmoil she felt. Lady Dorothy was wrong. She was no light skirt, succumbing to a practiced flirt. She was a woman making a careful choice of her life’s partner. No female should purchase a pig in a poke. Why, what if she found her suitor’s kisses repulsive? Wouldn’t it be better to know that before she accepted his proposal than after, when it was too late?

Hah! Who was she fooling, Athena asked herself. She adored Lord Marden’s—Ian’s—kisses. She was more than halfway in love with the man, anyway, and reveled in the passion he’d so effortlessly aroused. He was not unaffected, either, she knew. He’d been breathing just as hard, and his hand had been shaking when he held her dampened handkerchief to his cheek. So many sparks had flown between them, in fact, that Athena was surprised the breakfast parlor had not caught on fire. But was that good, as Ian seemed to think, boding well for a marriage of convenience, or bad, leading her to worse heartbreak?

Heavens, how was a girl to decide, with her head or her heart…or her instincts? Her heart wanted her to jump into his arms, into his bed, into the marriage. Her head told her wedding the earl was her wisest course. But her sense of self-preservation—that instinct that would not let her leap into unknown waters—was warning her that she would be in over her head, that she’d surely drown, reminding her that she had never learned to swim.

Ian was right, that her uncle could not have an answer to her dilemma, but Uncle Barnaby, or his absence, was a good excuse to delay her decision. Her reputation could not be ruined worse, not with his mother and sister in the house, and the rest of the gossip could be ignored, so there was no hurry. She needed time…to learn how to tread water.

*

Rensdale was angry, and let his half-sister know it in no uncertain terms. He was in a hurry to get home to his flocks and his fields, less so to his newly fecund wife. He berated Athena for being a dunderhead, a disgrace to the family name, and a drain on his purse. So what if she had only known the earl for less than a month? He was a gentleman, wasn’t he? He was rich, wasn’t he? What else mattered?

Troy tried to defend his sister, saying she was thinking about accepting Lord Marden, and it was her decision, after all. Not in Rensdale’s book, it wasn’t. Marden was willing to take the cub along with the chit, which suited Spartacus to a cow’s thumb. He’d be stuck with the boy otherwise, a sickly runt who could not help on the estate, could not be shipped off to the army or the clergy, and could only grow more expensive to keep with his ailments and illnesses.

Rensdale’s life would be a great deal easier without both of his late father’s progeny. His wife was jealous of Athena, ashamed of Troy, and disdainful of Spartacus for keeping them around. If Lady Rensdale had her way, Athena would be wed to Wiggs and the boy sent off to an institution. His life would be hell if he dragged them both home, one in worse condition than when he left, the other a social outcast.

Rensdale huffed off to his hotel, muttering about having a weakling for a brother and a wantwit for a sister. He was ready to console himself with a fine bottle of brandy and a fine-looking upstairs maid. No, he did not want to see any wretched orphans. Attie and Troy were enough. Let the others fend for themselves, was his opinion.

The rest of them—except Troy, of course—went to the orphanage in the afternoon, even Lady Marden. Despite her indolence and ailments, the countess did take an interest in her children’s philanthropy. More, she wanted to decide for herself if Miss Renslow was worthy of her son. If so, Lady Marden would put a flea in the girl’s ear about duty and destiny and the value of a hefty bank balance.

She carried a lavender-soaked cloth over her nose to avoid contagion, and stayed in the matron’s office, to avoid the orphans.

Lady Dorothy led the tour of the children’s home, with particular care to show Carswell the classrooms, and then the records to show how many former charges had been apprenticed as clerks and shopkeepers and assistants. A few of the girls who could read had gone into service as governesses and two were acting as secretaries to ladies of letters. Literacy did not give the children grandiose notions above their humble stations, she declared to Mr. Carswell. It gave them opportunities to rise above those dismal beginnings. Learning to read gave them hope, she told him, which every child deserved.

Carswell had to admit that the orphans he saw here were a much cheerier group than the homeless urchins he saw on the street. But these had full bellies and a place to sleep at night other than the gutters. That was why they could laugh and play, not because their heads were full of useless learning.

“Useless? I’d wager the ability to read is more valuable to these waifs than it is to you. What do you read? The racing forms, your tailor’s bills, the gossip columns?”

“And the occasional
billet-doux.
I was teasing, Lady Dorothy, to see your reaction. This home should be a model for all such institutions, and you and your brother are to be congratulated for such forward thinking.” He tipped his hat in her direction. “And while I am singing your praises, may I say how delightful you look today?”

Dorothy had on so much paint and powder that she did not have to fret about Carswell seeing her blushes. His appearance still put them all in the shade, of course, but Dorothy was pleased she had taken the time—all morning, it turned out—to get fancified, as her maid said. Even her mother had something nice to say, if one considered “about time” to be a compliment. From the countess, it would have to do.

Doro felt better yet when Carswell took out his quizzing glass and examined her more closely. “Yes, delightful, and not because of that fetching bonnet or the charming gown you wear. And no, not because of that hint of color so artfully applied to your cheeks, either.”

A hint? Lady Dorothy’s maid had emptied the chemist’s shop, but Dorothy was not about to mention that, not when the most elegant gentleman in London was being so diplomatic, and so…so… Not kind, for Carswell did not have to say pretty things to his friend’s sister. He was being honest, by George. He truly did find her delightful.

“That’s it,” he finally concluded. “That glow. Merely pretty chits can’t hold a candle to your inner beauty when you let it shine out. Good works become you, Lady Dorothy. I can see where I shall have to follow you about to workhouses and insane asylums, to protect you from the inmates—and their keepers, their brothers, and every other gentleman who passes by.”

No man had made improper attention to Lady Dorothy in her entire life, but she would not mention that, either. “I am quite capable of seeing to my own safety, you know. I have been doing it this past decade, and my servants are strong and capable.”

“Yes, but I would feel better acting as your escort whilst you are in town. Do you object?”

Did the flowers resent the sun shining on them?

*

Athena was beginning to think that her brother was right. She truly was the stupidest female in all of London, maybe in all of England. Not only was Lord Marden titled and wealthy, handsome and intelligent, strong and well mannered, generous and kind, but he was genuinely nice. And he kissed like a dream.

And she had turned him down over a few silly scruples. The fact that he was honor-bound to offer for her still bothered, and the fact that he was a gazetted rake still rankled but, goodness, no one was perfect. His sister was lovely despite her imperfect complexion, and her own brother was no less dear for being sickly. Her other half-brother had a limp, and his wife was a shrew. She herself was hopelessly short. No one was perfect.

Ian was as close to perfect as a man could get.

He knew half the orphans by name, and all of the matrons and schoolteachers. He did not merely send a check to the home; he came in person to ensure that his money was being spent properly. When he saw a need, he filled it, like now, when he distributed a large sack of horehound drops to children who rarely had a treat. Other men of her acquaintance had to be bludgeoned into making charitable contributions, much less getting sticky at the same time. Yet here was Ian, a lump of candy in his cheek and a tiny girl in his arms. He was grinning at the orphans, seemingly happy amid the clamoring horde of them. He looked younger than his years, and looked at home holding a toddler. Athena could not imagine Spartacus holding an infant, nor could she picture Mr. Carswell, for one, laughing at the baby’s drool on his coat sleeve. What a good father Ian would make.

And what a goose she was. She would tell him so tonight, accepting his offer without waiting for Uncle Barnaby’s approval.

She felt a great deal better for the decision. Now she did not have to feel like a wanton, wanting more of his kisses, and what came after. What came after was a wedding night, and now she could look forward to it, wishing it were tomorrow. Her cheeks felt warm at the thought, at the wanting she had never felt before. She wanted to see what he looked like without his clothes on, and she could not wait to touch his skin, to feel the muscles she knew he possessed. Was his chest hairy, and how would that feel against her own bare breasts? Oh, my. She could feel her nipples tighten at the very idea, and pulled her shawl tighter, so no one would notice. She’d say she was cold, that was all, even though Lady Marden was fanning herself and Lady Dorothy had removed her wrap.

Then Athena had to worry that her figure was not adequate, certainly not compared to Lady Paige’s amplitude. She would be mortified if Ian found her lacking. Bad enough he was getting an inexperienced lover. He should at least get a well-endowed wife.

“Are you ill?” he asked, hearing her sigh. “Or tired? Do you wish to go home?”

She wished her bosom was bigger. She sighed again and said, “No, not at all. I promised to tell the older girls a story and I was wondering which tale to tell. Perhaps we could purchase some books for them, next time we come. I saw a great many improving works on the shelves, but nothing simply entertaining.”

“You see? You are finding ways to spend my blunt already. I promised you all the books you wanted, didn’t I? We shall strip bare the shelves of the nearest bookstore, all right?”

Strip? Bare? Athena blushed so red, Ian asked if she was certain she was not coming down with a fever. “No, no. Simply growing warm.”

“I thought you were cold.”

“I was then. Now I am not.” She turned to speak to the head matron about which books to purchase, to avoid his probing glance.

While the woman was discussing
the dangers of letting girls fill their heads with fairy tales and such, Athena went back to building her own fairy castles in the air, or in the bedroom, filled with flowers and candlelight. She could not improve her bust, but perhaps she could borrow some of Lady Dorothy’s new face paint to make herself appear older, more alluring, like the sophisticated women he was used to. That way, he might not miss his mistresses.

Then one of the younger instructors came by with a message for the head matron. She was tall and pretty and had red hair, green eyes, a lush bosom, and long, thick eyelashes that she batted fiercely enough in Ian’s direction to cause a draft. She curtsied and simpered a greeting, the jade, and held her hand out.