Julia London (64 page)

Aunt Paddy snorted with disdain at the woman’s retreating back. “I cannot believe the cheek of that woman!” she bristled indignantly. “That young girl may have debuted at
court, but she has nothing to recommend her. Mrs. Clark believes Lady Pritchit has some distant connections, but none so great that she should set her sights on anything higher than a baron, for heaven’s sake!”

Alex nudged his aunt forward before she became apoplectic, and they continued walking, Paddy chattering in a string of inanities that Alex barely heard until she suddenly gasped and pointed to a black landau. “Oh my, it’s
her
!”

Alex glanced across the park but noticed nothing other than a woman’s foot disappearing inside the carriage. Lord van der Mill, an old coot with more money than he knew what to do with, was escorting her. “Who is ‘her’?” he asked with polite insouciance.

“The
countess
, Alex! Ah, such a lovely woman, and so tragic! It must be terribly difficult to be widowed at such a tender age,” she sighed sadly.

Alex looked again at the landau as it pulled away from the curb. “Which countess would that be? I do not recall hearing of any death among the peerage.”

“Not in
England.
In
Bavaria
!” Paddy exclaimed as if he were dense. “Count Bergdorf, Bergstrom, something like that. Oooo, it’s the most romantic story, really. She met the count on the continent, and he was positively swept away by her charitable disposition and agreeable looks, and mind you,
she
fell quite in love with him—he was terribly dashing, and
very
wealthy, according to Mrs. Clark, who heard it all from Lord Dowling. So strong was their attachment that they married quickly and repaired to his native Bavaria. Ah, but he was tragically taken from her in a fatal hunting accident,” Aunt Paddy recounted. As the landau disappeared into the crowded street, she sighed with all the longing of a schoolgirl.

Above her gray head, Alex rolled his eyes and made a mental note to tell Arthur to stop bringing Aunt Paddy those ridiculous novels.

* * *

As Lord van der Mill’s landau rocked away from Hyde Park toward Russell Square, Lauren sat with her arms folded across her middle, her eyes on her lap. She wore one of her mother’s old gowns she had altered to resemble the latest fashions. It was no prize, but it was not so bad as to warrant Lady Pritchit’s indelicate comments. She had hoped upon seeing the saber-tongued woman that Lord van der Mill would proceed past. But no, he had stopped to chat. At the end of the conversation, Lady Pritchit had eyed Lauren’s gown from the high neckline to the flounced hem, and had remarked, much to her daughter’s obvious horror, that Lauren’s gown resembled one she had seen at a wake many years ago. On the
deceased.

Lauren smiled absently at Lord van der Mill as he expounded on the reforms the Commons was debating. She was discovering, much to her dismay, that the further she penetrated the
ton
, the more her feminine vanity was making itself known to her. Ethan’s promise of a modiste had not materialized, naturally, and she was beginning to feel very conspicuous as she moved among Britain’s most finely dressed. Paul tried to help; he had taken to the gaming tables almost the moment they had arrived in London, eager to test the skills he had practiced for years at Rosewood. Although he had been moderately successful, and had managed to pay for a new gown here and there, they were not nearly enough to suit the
ton
’s standards. Angered by her vanity, Lauren glanced out the window and frowned. She had never cared a whit about dresses and frills and hats and gloves before now.

God
, her unprecedented self-consciousness was almost enough to send her to a convent. But Ethan’s constant parade of old, blue-veined men was humiliating. She had taken to disappearing when Davis would knock on her door and announce, “Caller!” Her penchant for doing that, however, had been the subject of many heated arguments with Ethan.

She sighed wearily, oblivious to Lord van der Mill’s increasingly
agitated discourse. The only bright spot so far was Miss Charlotte Pritchit, whom she had met at one of those awful affairs, and the two had become instant friends. Charlotte’s singular misfortune was having the world’s most disagreeable mother. If a man so much as looked in Lauren’s general direction, Lady Pritchit took it as a personal affront to Charlotte.

Lauren had not understood how deeply the woman disliked her until she heard her remark loudly at a supper party that the senior lords of the
ton
would not appreciate their sons courting a
foreign
woman with unknown connections in Britain. It took Lauren several minutes to realize she was referring to
her.
A few of the women gathered around Lady Pritchit that evening had nodded knowingly, although Lauren was unclear as to why. The men she had met were not heirs to the throne! Lady Pritchit obviously considered Charlotte a strong contender for
any
hand.

When Lauren had received an invitation to Mrs. Clark’s home, Lady Pritchit had become, apparently, enraged. It seemed that Mrs. Clark’s constant companion, Lady Paddington, was the great aunt of a duke or some such mucketymuck. Charlotte had apologetically informed her that Lady Pritchit was concerned she might meet this duke first, and therefore lure all the eligible hangers-on to her cause. Lauren had taken that to mean the old battle-ax had thrown another one of her infamous fits. Lauren had insisted to Charlotte that she was not the least bit interested in some stuffy old duke
or
his friends. Charlotte believed her, for all the good that did her.

She glanced at Lord van der Mill, who had become quite red in the face. Really, she thought as she observed the least odious of Ethan’s suitors, she had met many eligible young men, but none suited her. They were too finicky, too snobbish, too effeminate, too old, or too young. None of them seemed as strong or as kind or as
masculine
as Mr. Christian. Against her will, she ended up comparing all men to
him, then berating herself for making the entire situation so bloody impossible. Impossible because she found herself looking for Mr. Christian in every ballroom and salon—not a suitable match, as she was supposed to do.

Dear Lord, she tried; she really
did
try to look for the admirable qualities in the men she had met. But if she had to be married, she wanted to marry a man as virile as Mr. Christian. And as handsome. And
definitely
someone who would kiss her as he did. A little shiver ran up her spine at the memory and she smiled.

She was still smiling as the landau rolled to a halt in front of the Russell Square town house. Lauren automatically extended her hand to Lord van der Mill. “Thank you, my lord, for a very pleasant afternoon,” she said sweetly.

Shaken from his diatribe, Lord van der Mill glanced uneasily out the window. “Well, so we’ve come to Russell Square, have we?”

“Indeed we have, my lord.”

A coachman opened the door at the exact moment van der Mill grasped her hand. “Countess Bergen, if I may. Your uncle has been good enough to allow me to call three times now, and I think it obvious there is a certain, how shall I say, a certain and
mutual
esteem between us. It is as opportune a time as any to come to some understanding, don’t you think?”

Oh
God
, an understanding? The only understanding she could
possibly
have with Lord van der Mill was that there would
never
be an understanding between them. He looked at her expectantly, his tongue flicking nervously across his antique lips. She blinked. “Have you the time, my lord?”

Startled, he asked, “The
time
?”

“Yes, please, the time?”

His pale face pinched. He reluctantly dropped her hand and withdrew a timepiece, at which he impatiently glanced. “It is four o’clock, madam.”

“I should really be more attentive! I promised my brother
to help him with a—this afternoon! Thank you again, my lord,” she said, and grabbing her reticule, launched herself with all haste from the landau. “Good day!” she called, waved cheerfully, and walked as quickly as she could. Davis appeared at the door as she sprinted up the walk, and Lauren gratefully bounded up the steps and rushed through the opening before Lord van der Mill could call her back.

In the tiny foyer, she sagged against the wall as Davis peered at the landau, praying that Lord van der Mill would not mention this little episode to Ethan. She was imagining all the possible outbursts that would bring when she became aware of someone staring at her. Slowly, she turned her head; a man stepped in front of her, and Lauren shrieked.

“Magnus!”

He merely nodded, his hands clasped behind his back as he carefully regarded her.

“Count Bergen! What are you doing here?”

Magnus dropped his hand from his back and presented her with a large bouquet of roses. “For you,” he said simply.

Stunned, Lauren took the flowers without even glancing at them. “But what are you doing here?”

“I have come to London on business.”

“
Wh-what
business?”

Magnus frowned at Davis, standing at the door. “Is there someplace we might talk?” he asked, and with his head, motioned toward the parlor. Still gaping, Lauren watched him walk to the parlor door and pause, peeking rather timidly inside before disappearing inside. She glanced at the roses in her hand and slowly shook her head. The whole world had gone mad, utterly mad. She deposited the roses in a giant Grecian urn Davis occasionally used as a doorstop and followed Magnus into the parlor.

“Count Bergen,” she said as she crossed the threshold and folded her arms across her middle, “I demand to know
what you are doing in London. Not just in London, but
here
, at Russell Square.”

With his finger and thumb, Magnus picked up a bear claw that had been preserved for time immemorial, the bridge of his nose wrinkling with disgust. “I am obviously here to see you,” he said as he gingerly replaced the trophy. “The
Kartoffelmann
thinks of you. He has made a … shrine.”

In spite of her shock, Lauren burst out laughing. “The Potato Man built a
shrine
?” Magnus glanced up from his study of a candlestick made of an old sword hilt and nodded solemnly before moving on to a rather strange painting of two fairies and a dog. “But … but how did you know I was here?”

“I had the direction to Rosewood. Frau Peterman directed me here. Helga sends her regards,” he said, and produced a small, folded parchment. Lauren crossed the room to take the letter.

“Frederic has moped about since you left. He is not inclined to perform his duties,” he continued.

Lauren smiled at the memory of Magnus’s nervous valet. “Frederic is too finicky for you. You should send him to Paris, where he can do some meticulous fop justice.”

Magnus suddenly turned, his light blue eyes riveting on her face. “He would happily perform his duties if you were at Bergenschloss. The
Kartoffelmann
would perhaps allow one of his precious potatoes to be eaten. And Helga would stop moping about.”

Lauren covered her mouth with a gloved hand, stifling a burst of surprised laughter. Magnus arched a pale brow. Good God, he was serious! Yes, the whole world had gone
quite
mad. “I cannot come to Bergenschloss! I have responsibilities here!”

“Marry me and you will not want for responsibilities.”

“
Marry
…? Have you forgotten that you once wished to hang me from the castle walls?” she asked, trying desperately to contain her mirth at the absurdity of his offer.

“I have not forgotten.”

“Pardon, but I should think even
you
might see the irony in that!” She laughed.

Magnus frowned and contemplated the tips of his fingers for a moment. He looked at her again. “I have thought about you often. You could be very happy at Bergenschloss.”

She could barely contain the hysterical laughter bubbling in her throat. “Magnus! I
cannot
marry you!” she squeaked. He lifted one impatient brow high above the other, and her hysteria began to give way to shock.

“What is it that you think you cannot have in Bavaria? Orphans? You may tend them there if you like,” he offered.

“Orphans?”
she cried, and fought to check her rising panic. “I appreciate your offer, indeed I do. But my place is in England. I have Rosewood to think of—”

“I will provide for Rosewood.”

“But the children! They need—”

“Bring them.”

Stunned, Lauren gaped at him. At length, she slowly shook her head. “No, Magnus. I cannot marry you.”

With a face of stone, he asked, “How shall I convince you?”

“How much will you offer?” Ethan asked from the door.

Startled by the intrusion, Lauren whirled around to face her uncle. “Ethan, I said no!”

Ethan ignored her, his gaze locked on Magnus. “How much?” he asked again.

“Who are you?” Magnus inquired.

“Lord Ethan Hill, sir, her uncle. What is your offer?”

Magnus’s eyes flicked the length of Ethan’s massive body before casually inquiring, “How much do you want?”

Lauren jerked around to the German, her hysteria now giving way to anger. “I said no! No!”

As if she had not even spoken, Magnus flicked a stoic, blue-eyed gaze from her to Ethan. “What are your terms?”

With a shriek of exasperation, Lauren flung her hands in
the air and marched for the door. “You may talk all day if you like, the both of you! Go ahead, but I will
not
marry you!” Ethan and Magnus both regarded her impassively, as if she had just announced she preferred fish for supper.

“Ethan, you and I had an agreement!” she cried. He shrugged. She whirled toward Magnus. “I told you in Bavaria I could not live there!” When Magnus did not respond, she pivoted and marched angrily from the room, blinded by the fear that Ethan would actually strike some bargain with him.

The two men watched her march away before turning to look at one another. Ethan picked up a decanter of brandy and two glasses. “Shall we talk?” He grinned, and motioned his guest into an overstuffed red velvet chair.