The Toplofty Lord Thorpe (2 page)

Lucy squirmed comfortably against the squabs, a satisfied smile lighting her eyes. “The thought had occurred to me, my dear aunt. The thought had occurred.”

L
UCY AWOKE
the following morning with a feeling of warm anticipation that was totally unmixed with any touches of anxiety. Lord Thorpe was coming to Portman Square in a few short hours. Lord Thorpe, the man she had first clapped eyes on over three years ago, instantly losing her heart to the tall blond gentleman who had, by his magnificent physical appearance, filled every one of her girlish requirements for a perfect mate.

The fact that this gentleman had not been similarly emotionally poleaxed by the mere sight of a young dark-haired miss in virginal white muslin did not serve to lessen her enthusiasm a whit. Neither did the information that the gentleman of her dreams was already engaged to be married.

Against the pleadings of her aunt, who told her to give up her childish fantasies and concentrate on hooking herself a more landable fish, Lucy set out to ensnare the earl with her feminine charms. Alas, he seemed immune to discreet flirting overtop her fan or coy eyelash batting directed at him from across the room.

Deciding that stronger measures were in order, she had then taken steps to call herself to his lordship's notice. As those steps involved, for the most part,
impetuous mad starts, harmless escapades, and one or two nearly risque exploits, it was not too much longer before Lord Thorpe (not to mention the rest of fashionable London) was aware of Lucy Gladwin.

Society, always on the lookout for titillation, welcomed Lucy with open arms, and she was soon surrounded by a group of the more lively members of the
ton,
who thought her to be “a great gun.”

Lord Thorpe, however, was not similarly impressed. Too late, Lucy discovered that her beloved was more than a little bit high in the instep and looked down upon people who, in his way of thinking, disgraced their lineage by their common behavior.

Anyone would be excused for believing that Lucy, once she discovered the arrogance that lay behind her intended's handsome face, would have washed her hands of the man and set out to discover a more suitable gentleman who would appreciate a woman like herself. But those foolish enough to consider such a possibility would likewise have been wise to refrain from laying odds on their supposition, for anyone choosing to put down his blunt on such an eventuality would soon be the poorer for his optimism, as Lucy was made of sterner stuff.

Positive she could not have been mistaken in her judgment of Lord Thorpe, Lucy had, over the years, got it into her head that the man was merely a victim of his birth and upbringing. There was a good, sweet, caring man beneath that pompous, straitlaced exterior, and she wasn't going to rest until the world at
large (and Lord Thorpe in particular) was forced to acknowledge that fact.

For over three years Lord Thorpe, armed with his indifferences, had avoided publicly owning to his awareness of Lucy's none-too-subtle pursuit of his person. With his fiancée on his arm, he had chosen to pretend Lucy Gladwin did not really exist. His strategy had worked very well. Onlookers who at first snickered at Lucy's antics were quickly silenced by Lord Thorpe's chilling looks and sarcastic put-downs, and soon Lucy was regarded as nothing more than a darling, rather madcap eccentric, and Lord Thorpe's name was no longer linked with hers.

But her antics of the day before, warning him of yet another Season to be spent warding off her ridiculous bids for attention and overlooking her preposterous follies, had forced him to take action. Not for a moment (well, maybe for just a sublime second or two in time) did Lucy believe the earl was calling in Portman Square for any reason but to warn her off in that blood-chilling tone he employed to such advantage.

Lucy, just now snuggling back down under her covers, an inane smile on her face, would not have been blamed for being frightened out of her wits at the prospect of Lord Thorpe's bound-to-be-scathing diatribe. Indeed, most
men,
if faced with the fact that Lord Thorpe would be arriving at their domicile to verbally tear a strip off their hides, would have suddenly found pressing business in far-off Cumbria that required their immediate attention.

But Lucy was not dreading the confrontation one little bit. As a matter of fact, now that she had decided on a course of action, she was looking forward to the meeting with every indication of eagerness.

 

A
S
L
ORD
T
HORPE TOOLED
his matched grays through the early-morning traffic in Mayfair, he rehearsed the speech he would soon be delivering to Miss Rachel Gladwin. Mentally adding a word here or erasing a too-severe phrase there, he wished yet again that Sir Hale Gladwin was in residence in Portman Square. After all, this was a conversation best handled between gentlemen—not that Sir Hale, that red-faced, hard-drinking, blustering fool, could be counted on to realize the gravity of the situation.

Sir Hale embraced a mode of behavior that was the complete antithesis of every value Julian Rutherford felt a gentleman should display. There were times, thought his lordship as he edged his curricle past a delivery wagon that had no business still being about at this hour, that he wished that wealth and good lineage were not the sole prerequisites for admission to polite society. There should be some kind of test, he mused reflectively, some sort of examination, as it were, for young peers, that would exclude all but the more intelligent, the better mannered, from their ranks.

That he, Lord Thorpe, would score at or near the top in such a test was a foregone conclusion. He was intelligent, erudite, possessed only the highest instincts, was worthy of the loftiest regard, and, in gen
eral, exemplified all that was desired in an English nobleman. Anyone who didn't believe it could apply to his mother—who had devoted her life to making her son aware of his perfection—and she would be happy to supply a full listing of his attributes.

That he was in addition—alas, also thanks to his proud mama—arrogant, autocratic, pompous, blindly biased in his opinions, and insufferably straitlaced never occurred to him (and who, pray tell was there brave enough or foolhardy enough to bring such failings to his attention?).

Once fully grown, and already self-satisfied to the point of smugness, Lord Thorpe had advanced to the age of three-and-thirty years, still warmed by the knowledge that his fellowmen had yet to do anything to undermine his fine opinion of himself—or his bad opinion of them.

So why had he, a man who held himself above the plebeian antics of the underbred, allowed this silly Gladwin chit to get so annoyingly under his skin—and worse yet, remain there for over three long, uncomfortable years? Surely he should have been able to continue his pretense of ignoring both her and her atrocious behavior? But that was just it—his indifference
was
a pretense. He had never really succeeded in banishing her from his conscious mind.

Not that he was intrigued by her vibrant, volatile personality, or attracted to her petite but still somewhat earthy charms. On the contrary, he was repelled by them, and angry at himself for allowing any hint
of base physical attraction to the chit to disturb the even tenor of his days.

Physical desire was for the lower orders and young peers out on a romp. It was
not
for distinguished scions of ancient houses. Every time he was forced to acknowledge Lucy Gladwin's existence, it was like being served a slap in the face, a disturbing reminder that he was, after all, only human, and therefore susceptible to common carnal lust.

Well, he reminded himself as he thought fleetingly of the way Lucy had looked the day before in the park, there is no place in
my
life for such animal weakness. A gentleman does not desire women of his own social level in that way—such base cravings were reserved for liaisons with opera dancers and other low women, whose lesser intellect and poor breeding opened them to all sorts of licentious behavior. Imagine Cynthia abandoning her cool air of self-possession beneath him as they writhed about in bed—preposterous! He would lose all respect for her—the woman whom he had chosen to bear the next proud generation of Rutherfords.

Lady Cynthia. She was another reason behind this morning's visit to Portman Square. It was his duty to protect her from further upset. The earl had studied long and hard before condescending to offer his hand to this exemplary female—she of the impressive lineage, elevated social standing, high standards, and impeccable manners (and straight white teeth, for such things must be considered). Cynthia knew full well the responsibility placed upon her by
her rank, and was comfortingly cognizant of both the honor and the duties that came along with his proposal of marriage.

That all her fine blue blood and careful upbringing did not keep her from bellowing at him like some common Billingsgate fishwife once they were clear of the park the day before, Lord Thorpe chose to charge to a justifiable bout of nerves caused by Lucy Gladwin's sad exhibition of hoydenism—although deep down he believed that Lucy's supposedly artless, wide-eyed set-down hinting of an imbalance in Lady Cynthia's mind had more than a little bit to do with the matter.

Raving that Miss Gladwin was, in her words, “an insupportable person,” Cynthia had gone on at length about the trials she had endured thanks to that “silly chit dogging our every step and throwing herself at your head every chance she gets.” That this tirade did not serve to turn his lordship's head, seeing as how he could not help but assume that he was both the target of Miss Gladwin's slavish adoration and the man who had inspired Lady Cynthia's unseemly display of jealousy, was only due to the fact that he already had a very high opinion of himself and saw nothing unusual in either of the ladies' reactions.

He had, by the time they had reached Lady Cynthia's residence in Grosvenor Square, succeeded in convincing his betrothed that all would be settled before another day was out, finally penetrating her near-hysteria over the thought of her fiancé actually
volunteering to place himself under the same roof as that vulgar girl. “I seriously doubt I will even be forced to so much as lay eyes on Miss Gladwin, my dear,” he had told her as the acrid smell of the burnt feathers Lady Cynthia's maid had lately been waving beneath her mistress' nostrils found him seeking recourse to his scented handkerchief. “I am tempted to believe the aunt is reasonably intelligent. Surely a few words meant to point her in the right direction will be all that is needed to put an end to this infantile charade once and for all. I'm only sorry I didn't act sooner.”

Now, turning his pair into Portman Square, the earl was still of the same mind as when he gave his assurances to Lady Cynthia. He should have done this years ago and saved himself a great deal of trouble. So thinking, he threw the reins to his tiger as that slim young fellow ran to the horses' heads, and leapt lightly onto the flagway, determined to complete his interview with the elder Miss Gladwin in time to keep an appointment with his tailor before noon.

 

T
HE EARL WAS JUST IN
the process of spreading his coattails in preparation of seating himself in the bright, sunlit drawing room (choosing a wide, straight-backed armchair that he felt would cast him more in the role of host than guest, thereby gaining yet another subtle advantage on the sure-to-be-apprehensive Miss Rachel Gladwin) when a flurry of
movement near the open double doors brought him back to a standing position.

The woman who had entered the room had her back to him for the moment, as she was fully occupied in bustling the reluctant butler away from the doorway. Once the elderly servant, just then whispering fiercely under his breath, was repositioned in the hallway so close to the entrance that his straining body looked as if it was imprisoned behind an invisible barrier of glass, the doors were firmly shut in his face—with or without inflicting a nasty pinch to the man's rather prominent proboscis, the earl was not to know.

“Now, then, my lord,” Lucy Gladwin began, wiping her hands together as if in anticipation, “shall we get to it? To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?”

Lord Thorpe didn't answer at once, as he was caught between a silent inventory of Lucy's person, becomingly if not correctly (as it still lacked an hour till noon) attired in a formal gown of deep rose silk, and the dawning realization that the two of them were, most improperly too, alone together in a room whose doors he had just heard lock shut.

The twinkle he saw in Lucy's bright eyes was all the warning he needed (even if he were dense enough to overlook the distraught butler, the low-cut gown, and the bolted doors) to alert him to the fact that he had to do a good bit more than select the proper seat if he was going to convince Lucy—or himself—that
he
was in control of this interview.

Drawing himself up to his full, not unimposing height, he said coolly, “Tell me, Miss Gladwin, when you say ‘we,' are you employing the kingly ‘we'—or has your aunt mastered the art of invisibility?”

Lucy laughed and waved one small hand at him as if to say his little joke was amusing but not really worthy of a reply. Moving gracefully across the carpeting to stand in front of the settee, she inclined her head and bade her guest sit down and make himself comfortable.

“I shan't be staying,” the earl informed her, already striding regally toward the door. “It isn't proper for you to receive male visitors without your chaperon present.”

“Oh, pooh!” Lucy exclaimed airily, plunking herself down on the settee. “After all, who's to know if we don't tell?”

Thorpe pivoted neatly on his heels to face her and returned stonily, “
I
shall know, Miss Gladwin.”

A wide smile rearranged Lucy's upturned face into a startling resemblance to the enchanting pixie princess featured in a favored storybook the earl had read during his days in the nursery and believed long since forgotten. “And will you
tell,
my lord?” she teased. “I didn't think earls tattled.”