Barbara Metzger (27 page)

Instead, she helped Athena select styles that were suitable for a young lady, but not the virginal white of a girl making her come-out, and not as modest as a very young miss’s. While selecting fabrics for Lady Rensdale, they found a turquoise silk in the exact shade of Athena’s eyes, and a sprigged muslin with tiny turquoise flowers. Then there was the pale rose satin that made her skin look like porcelain, the primrose sarcenet that complemented her blond curls, and a coral-colored velvet to match her cameo brooch. Of course, she needed shoes and gloves and petticoats and pelisses to match, studies of the fashion books, and fittings. A lot of fittings.

Not so amazingly, considering the countess’s clout and the earl’s income, the dressmakers often came to Maddox House for the pinning and basting and repinning. Otherwise, Athena might have cancelled half the orders.

She stopped feeling guilty about spending so much of her brother’s money when she added up the purchases for Lady Rensdale’s wardrobe, which would likely be given to the maids when her sister-in-law’s confinement was finished. As a sop to her conscience, Athena did purchase lengths of the softest lawn fabric, to sew into tiny gowns and bonnets for her new niece or nephew while she sat by Troy’s bedside, and more books to read to him there—on Rensdale’s credit, naturally.

She would not have ten minutes with her brother if Lady Marden had her way. For a near-invalid, the countess had more energy for shopping than Athena, her maid, and Lady Dorothy combined.

The earl’s sister was content with a few new purchases, and went back to her visits to the orphanage and other less wholesome institutions for the needy. She was educating Mr. Carswell on the plight of those less fortunate, she said. He said he needed no such lessons, for his own income barely covered his tailor’s bills, but he went with her, and then helped her write down her observations, so she could report to various committees about passing legislation to improve conditions. She thought he ought to stand for office in the Commons. He thought she ought to come dancing with him at Vauxhall Gardens. She thought he was a fribble; he thought she frowned too much. They were both learning.

Ian did not abandon the ladies. He escorted them to every shop in London, it seemed to Athena. She had never before received such service, such attention, such choice materials from which to select. She did not consider this entirely a blessing, based as it was on Marden’s money and his prior patronage of the modistes. Every dressmaker knew him, and so did every lady coming to window shop or have a new gown fitted. In addition, some of his greeters did not appear to be ladies at all.

Every time the earl polished his courtly image with his kindness in escorting them everywhere—his gentle humoring of his mother, his careful consideration of Athena’s opinions—another female came along to tarnish his armor. Lady Marden assured Miss Renslow that she was a damsel in distress, about to be savaged by the social wolves, but Athena did not wish to be rescued by any knight who spent every night with a different female. She was no closer to accepting his offer than she was to enjoying greetings from his former flirts.

What she was closer to, gloriously so, were fabrics so soft and smooth against her skin that she felt almost indecent, as if she could be one of Ian’s ladybirds after all. Her new gowns required new undergarments too, and she bought the silkiest, laciest, most frivolous she could find. For the first time in her life, Athena did not choose her intimate apparel for warmth or practicality, or how long they would last. She chose them for the sheer pleasure, and for their sheerness.

Ian did not go into those shops with her and his mother, of course. But he did whisper to her as she went into a corsetiere or a hosier, “Buy something naughty, Attie, in case I convince you to marry me soon.”

She ought not consider a man’s response to her shifts and stockings, she told herself, holding up a pink gossamer negligee that might have been sewn for seduction. She tried her best not to imagine what his lordship would think of her in it…and thought of nothing else, of course. The more she told herself to ignore his possible reactions, the more she thought of his laughing mouth, his gleaming, knowing eyes, and his strong, gentle hands. On it, on her. On the bed. Taking his time to take it off her.

“I’ll take it,” she told the storekeeper. That purchase she paid for herself, from her own money. Her older brother would have apoplexy, paying for a barque of frailty’s bedgown. Athena adored it. She came out of the shop with a smile that would have stirred a septuagenarian.

Ian was already having a grand time spending Rensdale’s money. When Athena would order one day gown, the earl instructed the seamstress to make up two or three. While she and his mother were selecting lace caps for Lady Rensdale, he was picking out the perfect bonnet for Attie, a chip straw one with silk daisies and a blue bow. Her piles of packages grew behind her back, and above Rensdale’s figuring.

The nipcheese deserved to be pinched where it hurt, in his pocketbook. Athena kept telling his mother that she had never been treated so well, had never worn such fine fabrics, had never owned so many clothes at one time. Well, she ought to have. She ought to have been treated like a princess, not a poor relation.

Rensdale complained when the bills started coming in, saying that the chit would grow spoiled. So what? Ian could afford to keep her in all the silks and satins she wanted. Besides, he told Rensdale, his own sister had never been denied anything, and she was no spendthrift.

Lud, if Rensdale could see the smile Athena wore coming out of that last emporium, he’d consider every shilling well spent. Rensdale might also consider that the wedding take place sooner, rather than later. Ian felt his pulse race just thinking about what she might have bought in that lace-shrouded store.

Ian had another reason for encouraging Miss Renslow to spend her brother’s blunt: he wanted her to get a taste of being well-off, of being wealthy enough to have anything one wanted, and two of some of them. He did not think of Athena as mercenary, and he never wanted to be wed for his money or his title alone, but he was not above using every ace in the deck.

He wanted to marry her. It was that simple, and that complicated. He did not know how or when it happened, but he definitely wanted to marry the little lady. Well, maybe not definitely. He definitely wanted to make love to her, though, and he knew he could not have one without the other. Even if his sister had not taken him to task, he could not dishonor the moral Miss Renslow. He liked her too well.

Nothing could stop him from having decidedly immoral thoughts of her, meanwhile. All those silks and velvets and frothy laces, all those stockings and petticoats and nightgowns she was buying—he could not wait to see her out of them.

Chapter Twenty

Ah, the chase.

—Anonymous

Oh, the choice.

—Mrs. Anonymous

Ian brought Athena flowers and he brought her little gifts, none going beyond the line of what was proper. She was touched by his thoughtfulness, she said, but was embarrassed when he gave her a handkerchief to replace the one ruined with his blood from the cut on his cheek. A fan, a filigree bouquet holder, a box of bonbons, all met with pleased smiles, but no greater enthusiasm. The cartload of books for the orphans earned him a shy peck on the cheek, but nothing more. His offer to carry her brother out to the garden to sit in the sun was most gladly received of all, but then it rained for two days.

He was getting no closer to winning her favor, and he could not understand why. He could tell she was aware of him because of how she pretended not to notice him. He caught her staring at his doeskin breeches, and if her glance lingered any longer, he might give her something to stare at, indeed. She always looked away in time, thank goodness, hopefully unaware of how her interest affected him. Hell, her presence in the room was beginning to affect him, whether she looked at him or not. Knowing that she might be his—no, that she would be his—made his every sense stand to attention, some more awkwardly than others. The scent of her was enough to warm his blood and make it flow southward, leaving his brain as empty as his arms.

She never hid from his company, yet she never sought it, either. She had not mentioned seeking employment in ages—but she had not mentioned marriage, either.

Ian had never tried to worm his way into a woman’s affections before. He’d never had to. His past amours had all come to him, eager for pleasure and a bauble or two. The idea of trying to buy the affections of the female he wanted to wed was abhorrent, especially when he was restricted to pennies’-worth presents. The notion of letting Athena stay indifferent to him was equally as unacceptable. She liked him, by George, and she would grow to like him more if it killed him trying. So he followed her from shop to shop, and spent time with her brothers, for that seemed to win her favor. He even befriended the dog, sacrificing the tassels on his boots to do so.

If only he could hold her—in the patterns of a dance, of course—he could fan those sparks that flew between them. If only he could slip out to a secluded balcony with her, he could remind her of the kisses they had shared. She was not ready to attend any social functions, however. Her new clothes were not completed, and she
was not convinced that she should be paraded about like a pet pony. According to his sister, Athena knew what people were saying, and refused to encourage strangers to believe them promised. Going out and about with his mother was enough. Going to balls on his arm was too much.

If he could not entice her to the Dark Walk at Vauxhall, he would take her to his own gardens behind the house, by Jupiter, by lanterns’ light and moon’s shine, but his mother and sister were suddenly proving to be strict chaperones. His sister warned about playing with fire, and his mother declared that a man might not buy what he could get for free, mortifying both Athena and Ian in one sentence. He was not trying to seduce the female, damn it. He just wanted to convince her how compatible they were, show the inexperienced lass what enjoyments lay ahead once they were married. He was quickly losing confidence in winning her over with his wealth, his title or his charm, but his lovemaking ought to do the trick.

Very well, he wanted to seduce her—but not for base motives, he tried to convince himself. His intentions were strictly honorable, if not strictly proper. He was growing more and more frustrated both in his mind and in his body, and deuced impatient with this delay. Where was her blasted uncle, anyway?

He had a man stationed at the Cameron Street residence, and another at the harbor, listening for word of the captain’s ship. He had suborned a clerk at the Admiralty with a check, to get soonest notice of changes in the captain’s orders. And he had paid a fortune to that makebate Macelmore to see that the officer called on Ian before he spoke to his niece, whenever he did arrive.

The groom Alfie Brown seemed to have disappeared, which was still troublesome to Ian. He had not gone to the authorities, had not come to Ian for silence money, and had not reported to Rensdale, who had been his actual employer. Why would the man keep quiet about a possible crime? That made no sense to Ian, or to Macelmore, but it did not matter much now, for Troy seemed to be out of danger. He was no longer restricted to invalid fare, and was no longer taking laudanum, to Ian’s relief. The earl had enough on his plate without the youngster becoming addicted to the drug. Bad enough Troy could not get out of bed without that young manservant Geoffrey’s assistance. They told Ian he was exercising, though, which he took for a hopeful sign.

That was the only one he had that week. A few smiles from his would-be bride, and a list of how many sit-ups young Renslow could do. Botheration!

Lord Rensdale was despondent, too. He saw his cash flowing from his bank account like a waterfall, all downhill. His wife’s letters were growing more strident and more demanding. Now she wanted new furniture, because her back ached too much for any of the hundreds of chairs at Rensdale Hall. She needed footstools, too, matching ones, because her ankles were swelling.

What did Rensdale know about buying furniture? Lady Marden and his sister were too busy filling Veronica’s other shopping list to be of help. Rensdale would rather visit cabinetmakers than ladies’ clothiers, Lord knew, but he should be out with his hounds, riding his fields. He should be at the local tavern, trading tales with the squire and his cronies, playing a hand or two of whist, not staying in some expensive hotel, gambling for the outrageous sums they wagered at White’s, and losing.

“Then stop playing,” Ian told him when he and Carswell met up with his prospective brother-in-law at the gentlemen’s club. “Half the chaps here are inveterate gamesters, and the other half have more blunt than they know what to do with.”

Having played with Rensdale, Carswell added, “And they have far more skill than you do, for the most part.”

With his losses proof of Carswell’s words, Athena’s brother could not take umbrage. He could take another swallow of his drink, but not offense. “Lud knows the luck ain’t with me, either. But what’s a fellow to do, then? I’ve never been one for the theater, and if I never sleep through another opera that’s too soon.” He sighed and ordered the waiter to bring another bottle.

What did Rensdale have to complain about? Ian wondered. He had a wife who was carrying his son at last, he was sure, and he had escaped her talons for once. The man ought to be rejoicing. Ian, on the other hand, was holding court at White’s, fending off questions about his matrimonial plans, instead of holding a sweet armful of Athena. He was breathing smoke instead of her intoxicating floral scent, and hearing Lord Preakhurst belch instead of hearing her endearingly off-key humming. No, Rensdale had nothing to complain about. Still, he was going to be part of Ian’s family. As distant a connection as possible, true, but a relation for all that. Ian ought to see to the man’s entertainment.

The problem was how. They could not go to the less respectable gambling dens, where Ian sometimes spent hours at games of skill or chance. If Rensdale lost at White’s, chances were he’d lose his last shilling to the ivory tuners and card sharps at the Green Door or the Black Dog. Ian saw no reason to partner him and toss his own blunt away.