Belle's Beau (7 page)

Lord Ashdon shook his head and said quietly, "I am not interested in a spoiled society miss, Peter. In fact, ever since I was recuperating in Bath last year, I have carried the image of a certain young lady emblazoned on my memory."

"Oh, I see!" Crocker regarded his companion thoughtfully, slowing his steps to deliberately delay their joining of his party. “Then you will not be staying long in London, I take it?"

Lord Ashdon's easy smile reappeared. His summer-blue eyes glinted with laughter. "Am I as transparent as all that? You have the right of it, Peter. I am but satisfying a promise that I made to Lady Ashdon before I am off lo Bath."

"Poor Abigail," said Crocker with a sigh. He put a smile on his face as he came up to his wife. "Melissa, look whom I have found. You will recall Lord Ashdon, I am certain. He wasn't able to attend our wedding, but he called on us last year when he was on wounded leave."

"Of course I do!" Melissa Crocker held out her gloved hand in a friendly manner. Her shrewd brown eyes regarded the viscount with approval. "My lord, I am very glad to see you. I trust you are back in England for good. Allow me to introduce you to our party." She performed introductions to the two elderly ladies seated beside her, who turned out to be her mother and her aunt; to Mr. Crocker's younger brother, August, who flushed at being greeted by a hero of the war; and to Miss Abigail Fairchilde, a demure miss who scarcely lifted her eyes to meet the viscount's gaze.

Lord Ashdon said all that was civil. Then he politely asked Mrs. Crocker to stand up with him. As he had expected, she gracefully turned down his invitation and suggested that perhaps her sister could stand up with him in her stead. Miss Fairchilde appeared alarmed and threw a wide-eyed glance at her sister.

The viscount bowed to the young lady, his ready smile coming to his face. "I hope that you will not disappoint me as well, Miss Fairchilde."

"Oh, no, my lord! At least—" Miss Fairchilde met his sympathetic gaze, and a shy smile crossed her face, "I will be most happy to stand up with you, my lord." She rose and placed her hand on his arm. With the most unaffected grace, she allowed his lordship to lead her into the set that was just forming.

The viscount was not the only one on the dance floor. Belle turned a corner with her partner, her eyes automatically surveying the others, and a fleeting glimpse of a handsome, browned face caught her gaze. She had only a second to absorb the impact of a rakish white scar and an easy smile before her partner reclaimed her attention. When she had the opportunity to glance around again, she was disappointed because she did not see the unknown gentleman.

Lord Ashdon finished the set with Miss Fairchilde and led her back to her chair. He began to make his excuses to part from the Crocker party. Melissa Crocker invited him to a small soiree that they were holding in a few nights, and the viscount expressed his delight at being able to attend. Peter Crocker shook hands with him, a gleam of sympathy in his eyes, and murmured, "I trust that we shall not be serving up roasted goose."

Lord Ashdon gave a quick smile, understanding his friend perfectly well. "So do I, sir, believe me."

Crocker chuckled. "We shall see you then, Ashdon."

Lord Ashdon left Almack's without a backward glance. He was relieved to have completed his duty for that evening. He could declare to his mother with good conscience that he had met one young lady of good family, and that news would pacify Lady Ashdon for at least a day or two. His rash promise of a fortnight's sojourn in London would soon be fulfilled, and he hoped he would be able to delay his mother's machinations on his behalf for that long. Then he could be off to Bath in search of the lady whose lovely face he had never forgotten.

As he started down the street, it occurred to him that he would be returning to the town house early. Lady Ashdon was probably not yet returned from fulfilling her own obligations. It was entirely possible, however, that she had cut short her own amusement to wait for him. Lord Ashdon grimaced. He did not wish to be pulled into a late-night discussion about his matrimonial prospects.

He decided that he was in just the right mood for a late dinner and perhaps a round or two of cards, so instead of returning to the town house, he hailed a hackney cab and gave the direction of his club. As he leaned back against the squabs, he grinned to himself. No doubt his appearance would occasion some surprise.

At the door of the club, Lord Ashdon paid off the hackney, then bounded up the steps, colliding with a gentleman who was just emerging. "Sir! My abject apologies. I did not see you coming out," said Lord Ashdon.

The shorter gentleman had almost instantly righted himself. "Quite all right, I assure you," he replied in a drawl.

Lord Ashdon looked more carefully at the gentleman in the uncertain light thrown by a nearby streetlamp. "By all that's wonderful! Sylvan Darlington!"

The smaller man, preparing to brush past, suddenly turned. "Wait a moment. I know your voice, do I not?"

Lord Ashdon laughed. "It is I, Ashdon. How have you been, Darlington?" The two gentlemen gripped hands.

"I am better than one might expect." The smaller gentleman hesitated. "You heard about my cousins, Richard and Phillip, I suppose?"

Lord Ashdon instantly sobered. "Yes, I am sorry. I did not see much of them while I was in Spain, since I was in a different division. But I understand that they acquitted themselves well."

"Thank you, Ashdon. That is kind of you. It came as a startling surprise to me, as you may well imagine. I never expected to inherit the title."

Lord Ashdon suddenly realized that his companion was now a marquis. "No, of course not. War changes many things. I was about to order supper. Will you join me, my lord?"

"I have already supped, but I will take a glass of wine," said Lord Darlington.

The two gentlemen went into the club and entered the dining room. Lord Ashdon made his order and poured the wine, then spent a comfortable hour in conversation with Lord Sylvan Darlington. The marquis was younger than himself, having been up to school with Ashdon's cousin, Roland White, but he felt no discomfort in their discourse. He had been fairly well acquainted with Darlington's cousins and had often had occasion to include the younger gentleman in their youthful exploits. They talked of several things, coming eventually to the duties that hound a gentleman's honor.

Ashdon leaned back in his chair, rolling his wineglass between his fingers. With a smile, he commented, "It seems strange to me to be back in England. It is all so very civilized."

"Yes, I wish that I had had the opportunity to escape it," said Darlington. He lounged back in his own chair, and a lazy smile lit his pale face as he met the viscount's surprised glance. "You see, I have always envied fellows such as yourself, Ashdon. My greatest ambition was to purchase a pair of colors and run off to war. But my familial duties bound me close to home, so that any dream of soldiering remained but a dream."

Ashdon frowned thoughtfully. "I had quite forgotten. Your father had died, had he not? And there were younger siblings, as I recall."

The marquis bowed from his sitting position. "My duty was plain, of course."

Ashdon nodded. "Yes; I understand that you were honor-bound to support your family. I, too, find myself in the position of satisfying family duty."

Darlington's eyes lit with interest. "Indeed! How is this?"

Ashdon smiled ruefully. "I am the last of my line, Darlington. It behooves me to find a suitable wife."

"My condolences, my lord," said his companion, smiling a little. "Have you a fair damsel in mind, perhaps?"

"Yes. But whether she remembers me, or even remains unwed, I know not," said Ashdon.

"I scent a romance," murmured Darlington, his mobile lips twisting slightly.

Ashdon laughed. "Hardly that! The lady is simply someone whom I met when I was on wounded leave last year. I hope to discover her whereabouts, and perhaps wed, before I return to the Continent."

"Have you not sold out, then?" asked Darlington with extreme interest.

Ashdon shook his head, frowning slightly. "I have been called all sorts of fool, Darlington, but I continue to hold to my opinion. Bonaparte's abdication was not in his style. I believe that we shall see him again."

The marquis sat up straighter. His eyes glowed. "You interest me profoundly, Ashdon! Would that I could go with you."

"What of your siblings, my lord?" asked Ashdon. "Do you not still bear responsibilities?"

"Quite, but the situation is somewhat changed from what it was when my father died," said Darlington. "Then, the estate was hopelessly encumbered. I have been able to retire the mortgages, so that my mother and sisters and brothers need not be in fear of losing the roof over their heads. Also, the sister closest in age to me has been married off, and another is betrothed, both having accepted offers from solid gentlemen of worth. One of my brothers is up at Oxford, and the other two are at Eton. The youngest sister is still with my mother."

"I have heard that good men are needed for the Congress of Vienna," suggested Ashdon.

"Politics?" Darlington grimaced. "Really, Ashdon. I hardly think that is quite in my style."

"Perhaps not. However, the experience would expose you to the notice of important personages, such as Wellington, who is always attaching another gentleman or two to his staff," said Lord Ashdon. He could see that the suggestion had made an impression on his companion. "If you need a sponsor, I can probably put you in the way of a good word. My commanding officer is a good sort and has the ear of a few people."

"Decent of you, Ashdon," said Darlington in a low voice. There was a controlled fervor in his voice.

Soon after, Ashdon took friendly leave of the marquis. He was glad to have been of some encouragement to him. He hoped that the marquis would take him up on his offer of introduction. He had had much experience at reading men, and unless he was very much mistaken, Lord Sylvan Darlington was ripe for trouble. In London, there were the seamy sides of life that could offer both the sort of thrills and challenge he felt the marquis yearned for and also very real dangers. He would spare the young marquis that, if he could.

Ashdon made his way on foot back to his father's town house. For a moment he stood looking up at the silent front of it from the sidewalk. Though strange to think of, his father was dead; it was his town house now.

As his gaze traveled further, he saw the reflection of light escaping from behind the curtains of his mother's sitting rooms.

He sighed. No, the town house was not his. It belonged to Lady Ashdon. It bore her mark and was ruled by her hand. He had been long away from his position, and he would soon be going away again.

Lord Ashdon climbed the stone steps and took out his key to let himself quietly in the door.

Chapter 6

It was just before dawn, the hour where night began to fuse with day. The darkness had lightened just enough so that objects had taken on some form and shadow.

Lord Ashdon had not slept well, and he had risen with a feeling of restlessness, so he had set out on a ride with his favorite horse. He knew to what he could attribute his unsettled frame of mind.

His mother's gentle insistence that he remain in London for the Season was already wearing on him. Lady Ashdon had reiterated her wishes when he had returned to the town house the previous evening. Her ladyship had not only cut short her own outing in order to waylay him, as he had foreseen that she would, but had waited up for him until his return in the small hours of the morning. A man grown for some years and used to his independence, he had failed to see the humor in his mother's avowed anxiety for his safe return.

The viscount loved his parent, but since his return to England, he had found himself constantly forced into the position of steeling his emotions and his mind against her cajoling and arguments. For a man lately home from battle, it should not have been greatly wondered at if he did not feel inclined to plunge into a constant round of gaiety. At least, that was what he had told Lady Ashdon. Her ladyship had, however, responded with the opinion that that was precisely what the viscount needed to restore himself.

He urged the horse on faster, wanting to feel the resistance of the damp wind against him. More and more, thoughts of traveling to Bath were on his mind. He had found the slower pace of society in the popular watering spot appealing. Perhaps that had been because of his slow recovery from his head wound. He had suffered tremendous headaches, and for a time sunlight had hurt his eyes. Finally, however, the cure had been complete.

The tedium of those dreadful weeks had been pleasantly relieved by the polite friendship that he had developed with a certain young lady whom he had met in the Pump Room. Even now he smiled when he recalled their civil conversations. He had looked forward to those meetings.

There had been nothing the least bit clandestine in their blossoming relationship. She had always been accompanied by her maid, and he had behaved as a model gentleman, never by word or glance conveying anything warmer than what was conventional. They had remained, and parted, as mere acquaintances.

Now he wondered if he had not been a fool. He had never forgotten her face, nor the melodious sound of her voice. He should have pursued their relationship and asked permission of her guardians to court her. If he had, he would not now be in the straits that he was, former scruples set aside and compelled to wed before the war started again.

Despite any reasoning to the contrary, Lord Ashdon knew instinctively that it would not be long before the bugle call and the drums sounded again. Even as he questioned now his wisdom in not courting his lady, he understood why he had not taken the step to commitment. He had not wanted to wed and leave behind a young bride who might become a widow before the next packet of letters from the front had arrived in England.

The situation had not changed overmuch, but his thinking had. He might still wed and leave a widow, but he hoped he would also leave behind an heir. That had become more important to him in light of the weight he felt on his soul. He knew that the last battle was destined to be a monstrous one. Clear-eyed as he was, he had realized that the odds of his coming out alive might very well have swung against him. After all, he had already survived years of war and countless skirmishes.