Ghosts of Winter (23 page)

He glanced down at his appearance once more, though he had examined every detail in the looking glass several times over before coming out to the front of the house to wait for his guests. His finely embroidered coat was newly made for this occasion. The material was heavy and expensive, the cut perfect, with panels to emphasise the fullness of his hips, but cut close to his slim body about his chest. He adjusted one of the cuffs, turned back all the way to his elbow, just to feel the silk lining of the coat once more. The waistcoat he wore beneath was of the same rich fabric, and both were trimmed with glistening gold braid. He bent to ensure his new soft leather shoes, with their large silver buckles, showed no imperfections. His white silk stockings were very fine, the buckles securing them to his breeches sitting evenly above his slightly muscled calves. He raised a hand to smooth over his powdered wig. It was impossible for him to look any better. Smiling to himself in satisfaction, he wryly acknowledged his own vanity.

A clanking, rattling sound alerted him to the progress of the first of the carriages to arrive along the driveway. A pair of grey horses appeared, pulling a fine landau. Lord William smiled to himself again and waited for the carriage to come to a halt close to where he waited. A footman, liveried in green and gold, descended the steps to open the door and lower the step for the passengers to disembark from the carriage.

“Dearest Georgiana! And Percy too, of course,” Lord William exclaimed as Lord and Lady Stanwell climbed from the carriage. Georgiana Stanwell, once plain Mary James, born in the St. Giles rookeries, the most horrendous and depraved part of the ever-spreading capital, was one of his closest London confidantes. With her raven hair and voluptuous figure, she’d escaped the gin-soaked whoredom of her mother and sisters to become a much-admired actress, when handsome, rich Lord Percy Stanwell had outraged his family and most of polite society by asking for her hand in marriage. Lord William delighted in the scandal attached to them, so markedly in contrast to the purity of the way they adored each other, and their friendship had been firmly cemented over the time he had spent in London, since their own town house was across the square from his own.

“William. What a beautiful house you’ve built!” Lady Georgiana exclaimed.

“I laid every stone myself, of course,” he returned. “That is the most exquisite stomacher.” He glanced down over the rest of her fine gown. “But my dear, I fear you’ve changed shape since last we met.”

“Oh, wide and flat is so out of style now, William. Our skirts have to be round and full these days.”

“It suits you perfectly, Georgiana, of course.”

“Now, William, that’s my wife you’re paying lavish compliments to,” Lord Percy said. William patted him on the arm,

“Are you jealous, Percy, dearest?”

“Exceedingly,” Lord Percy replied. “I’d rather like a compliment or two myself.”

“Then I must say I rather admire your ruffles, Lord Stanwell.”

“Most kind.” Lord Percy chuckled softly.

The footman closed the door behind them, and the carriage rumbled away to the rear of the house. “Welcome to my home. I thought tonight wine, sweetmeats, and cards would be a suitable entertainment. Tomorrow I will take you into the park and tell you in interminable detail of my intentions for the grounds. I have very interesting plans for a bridge over the river.”

“I’m sure it will be fascinating,” Lady Georgiana replied with ostentatious insincerity. Lord William’s droll reply was interrupted by the arrival of another carriage into the flickering torchlight. His gaze darted over the livery on the door of the carriage, and he hoped his slight disappointment did not show in his expression. Clearly he was a terrible actor, for Lady Georgiana leaned close to him and whispered, “Not who you were hoping for, William?”

“I am equally delighted to see each of my guests.” He smiled his acknowledgement of the truth of her words whilst refusing to look into her twinkling eyes.

The footman opened the door of the newly arrived carriage and the occupants climbed down. Sir Robert Hodgson, who had designed the new Winter Manor, accompanied by his good friend Mr. Henry Branton, and that man’s timid younger sister, Eleanor. Sir Robert was in his early forties. His tightly curled wig was the colour his hair had once been, dark brown, and his clothes were, at least in comparison to Lord William and Lord Percy’s, rather plain. Henry Branton was more finely dressed, in one of the new style three-piece suits, his breeches, waistcoat, and frock coat all of the same patterned fabric. His pretty blond sister, whose face was flushed with excitement, wore a skirt of the type Lady Georgiana claimed to be now out of fashion, with wide panniers over her hips, but a rather flat profile if viewed from the side.

“Robert! I see you’ve come to examine the use I am making of your work of art,” Lord William said to his friend in greeting.

“I have no doubt you are making excellent use of it,” Sir Robert responded in his characteristic gruff voice.

“Henry, good to see you. And the delicious Miss Branton. I may call you Eleanor, mayn’t I? You may call me Lord Winter.” Lord William winked at the young woman, and she flushed and giggled, apparently lost for words.

“Are you going to keep us out here in the cold?” Lady Georgiana enquired of him.

“It’s June, Georgiana, dearest.”

“It’s my prerogative to be cold whatever month it is,” she returned. “Is there a reason you’re not allowing us into your new house?”

“I am rather afraid you will contaminate the perfection of the air,” Lord William said in a serious tone. “But I would hate you to die of a chill, Georgiana, so I will allow you all inside after all.” Lord William turned towards the house, looking rather regretfully over his shoulder. All of the expected guests were not equal, just as Lady Georgiana had suggested, and there was one in particular he was waiting for.

The party had just reached the point of the front steps where his new Greek statues gazed at each other. He was about to remark on how discontented he thought they looked, with their eyes locked eternally on each other, when he heard another carriage approaching.

“You may all go inside,” he said, ushering his guests past him and through the front doors into the high-ceilinged hallway. “The servants will see you settled in the Drawing Room with drinks. I will meet our final guests and attend to you in a moment.” He caught the knowing look on Lady Georgiana’s countenance, her skirts brushing his legs as she passed him and entered the house.

The carriage came to a halt and the footman attended to it. A woman emerged first. She wore the air of easy sophistication that signalled her nationality. The Marchioness Claudette of Danbridge had been in England since her marriage ten years ago, but she was still perfectly Parisian. Accustomed to luxury in her upbringing in the French royal court of Louis XV, she appeared to regard the whole world with something like distaste. Her gown was decorated with broad vertical stripes, and her waist was corseted into the narrowest dimensions. Her wig was powdered and piled in curls on her crown, her cheeks and lips rouged, and she wore a dark beauty patch to the left of her perfect full lips. She was breathtaking. Lord William kissed her hand and then turned his attention to the man climbing quickly down from the carriage after her. His smile grew broader, and he felt that dreadful surge of anticipation in the very pit of his stomach. George, Marquess of Danbridge smiled warmly at him, and it was impossible to miss the simmering heat in his eyes. Lord William was perfectly sure he was not imagining the intent in that even gaze.

The Marquess of Danbridge was taller and broader than Lord William, though not greatly. His frock coat was dark blue and decorated with black and gold piping, with lace at the cuffs. He wore no wig, rather his full head of chestnut hair was swept back and tied with a black velvet ribbon at the nape of his neck. His skin was ageless, though he was four years older than Lord William. Though his jawline was firm, his mouth was fleshy and sensitive. Lord William was fascinated by the Marquess’s mouth.

“George! Claudette! I was beginning to think we might not have the pleasure,” he said jovially.

“We couldn’t deny you that of course,” the Marchioness replied in her musically accented English. “Your little house is rather charming,” she added, looking up at Winter appreciatively.

“Only you would call it ‘little,’ Claudette, dearest.”

“It is little. But little is not always a bad thing. It depends on the use the size is put to, don’t you think?” If the Marchioness meant the innuendo of the words, her expression gave no sign of it.

“I agree completely,” Lord William replied, before turning his attention to the Marquess.

“Wonderful to see you, George. I am very eager for you to see the Saloon, I’m sure you will approve of it. I drew a lot of inspiration from our last conversation—about Venice.”

“You did, William?”

“You’re very inspirational, George.” Lord William could feel the colour rising to his face.

The Marchioness rolled her eyes dramatically and took both men by the arm. “Shall we go inside now, William?” She propelled them towards the doors.

Half an hour later, the exclaiming over the quality of the plaster-moulded ceilings, the carved marble fireplace, and the fine blue silk lining the walls of the Drawing Room was complete, and the entire party sat down to a game of whist, declaring that the tour of the rest of the property could wait until daylight would show it to its best advantage. The only exception from their game was Eleanor Branton, who declaring herself to be “atrociously terrible” at cards, seated herself at the harpsichord in the adjoining Music Room, and provided an accomplished musical accompaniment to their entertainment, tinkling her way through one of Scarlatti’s sonatas.

“Excellent claret,” Sir Robert said, sipping his drink as he contemplated his hand of cards.

“It is French, of course,” the Marchioness replied.

“Is everything French exquisite?” Lord Percy asked.

“Everything, my lord.” The Marchioness offered him a slight, suggestive smile. “The English manage vulgarity with so much more success than we ever could, however.” She threw a card onto the table.

“I’m particular to English vulgarity myself,” Lord Percy said, patting his wife’s hand comfortingly.

“There’s nothing a French woman can do that I am incapable of,” Georgiana replied indignantly.

“As I’m sure Percy can testify,” Lord William said.

“Perhaps we should ask Percy and George to compare the merits of each nation’s women for us?” Henry Branton said, with a smirk that suggested he would really enjoy such a description.

“And maybe this house party is a respectable gathering.” Lord William’s protest produced contemptuous peals of laughter from all of his guests. Henry Branton played his card, Lord William followed suit, and the game continued. He pondered that laughter though. For all the sins of the company he kept, he felt himself to be, at his core, a respectable man. His father had been a fair and efficient landowner; he had himself studied at Cambridge to be sure his intellect did not stagnate as a result of his wealth; he neither drank nor gambled to excess; and he even listened to the sermon from the family pew in the local church most Sundays.

Lord William took a sip of his claret and leaned back in his chair to survey his gathered friends. A former actress and woman of easy virtue leaned lovingly on the shoulder of a lord wealthier than himself who had spited his family and married for true love. A knight who spent most of his time enclosed in his library and planning fine buildings sipped his claret with true appreciation. A country gentleman studied the cards intently, and his rather silly, yet accomplished, younger sister smiled as she played the harpsichord. A self-obsessed French aristocrat glanced around at the company as keenly as he did himself. And an English Marquess reclined in his chair, watching the game with a relaxed countenance. Lord William’s eyes lingered on the Marquess. He loved Georgiana, it was true, but suddenly everyone in the room except the Marquess appeared frivolous and pointless. None of them were as solid, as deeply thoughtful, as substantial as the Marquess.

George, Marquess of Danbridge and his wife, Claudette, were also the only members of his party who were both welcome in respectable society and actively sought out such approval. Both attended King George II at court when they were in London, and the Marchioness’s French style was envied and copied by many of the nobility’s most proper ladies. That he claimed them among his own close friends was a privilege he did not quite understand. They took a risk in being associated with Lord William, not because of Lord William himself, but because Lord William maintained friendships with people such as Lady Georgiana—who were generally bitterly condemned by polite society—and preferred the company of men such as Sir Robert, who were shunned for their eccentricity. The Marquess was different, he straddled both worlds without duplicity, and Lord William was endlessly fascinated by him. It had changed everything when he’d discovered, during their last meeting, that the Marquess returned similar feelings. Since that time, Lord William had been able to think of very little else.

Lord William found it no great revelation that he should be attracted so compulsively to one of his own sex. His time at Cambridge had educated him in more ways than one. The surprise was that a man such as the Marquess would share any of those feelings, and that they should be inspired by him. Certain comments had passed between them, and more meaningful glances, until there was no doubt of their shared sentiments. The uncertainty came in whether either of them would yet act on their feelings. The Marquess was a married, respected man, but somehow the look in his eye suggested he was also a man of action, who would not leave his desires unfulfilled. Lord William found that glimmer in the Marquess’s expression desperately exciting.