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—La Belle Assemblée, 1827
Later on Thursday afternoon
Lisburne had had an earful this afternoon, at Warford House and elsewhere. He still didn’t believe what he’d heard. He had to see it for himself.
Driving in an open carriage to Hyde Park, he couldn’t help but be aware of the sky’s unpromising grey complexion and the air’s increasing oppressiveness. But this was a distant perception. He was aware in the same way of the streets on which he drove and the vehicles, animals, and people who cluttered the route. This afternoon they cluttered it more than usual. His mind, though, was mainly on the phenomenon those four hundred acres contained this day.
It was no great journey from St. James’s Street to the park. The trouble was, at this time of day everybody—meaning Everybody who was Anybody—traveled in the same direction. Even though the Season neared its end, the ton could produce carriages and riders enough to take possession of the park during what they considered to be their time. Today, especially, everybody wanted to be there, because Lady Gladys Fairfax was driving with her cousin Lady Clara.
And everybody wanted to know what she was wearing, according to both Lady Warford and the shopgirls at Maison Noirot.
People wanted to see what Gladys was wearing, not Clara.
When Lisburne reached Hyde Park Corner, he realized that word had traveled even unto the lower ranks. Not only was the entrance to the park in the stage of conglomeration more commonly seen on Sundays, but a wall of onlookers lined the railings of the roads.
Once he’d disentangled himself from the mob near the Triumphal Arch and was able to look about him, he spotted her easily enough.
Not Gladys.
Leonie Noirot.
She stood surrounded by men at the railing, a short distance from the statue of Achilles.
She wore a dress of deep blue, adorned with a frothy piece of white ruffles and lace that spread like a cape over her shoulders and tucked into her belt, to reappear beneath it in two flowing tails. A narrow green scarf draped the garment’s neck, drawing the eye upward to the matching green flowers and bows of her bonnet.
Though she seemed not to notice all the fellows ogling her, Lisburne hadn’t the slightest doubt she’d taken an exact count of those vying for her attention, assessed their bank accounts, and could make a reasonable estimate of their property holdings.
He halted his curricle, to the audible annoyance of the other drivers. His tiger, Vines, jumped down from his perch at the rear of the vehicle and went to the horses’ heads.
Lisburne alit.
“Drat you, Lisburne!” someone shouted. “You’re blocking the road.”
The road here was wide enough to allow several vehicles to ride abreast. Today, however, too many were trying to squeeze in. The place reminded him of Paris, especially Longchamp during Easter week.
“Gentlemen, I must beg your indulgence for a moment,” he called. “A moment only, if luck is with me.”
He sauntered to the rail where Miss Noirot stood. In his usual lazy way he let his gaze travel over the crowd surrounding her.
The men moved away.
“Miss Noirot,” he said. “This is a pleasant surprise.”
“My lord,” she said, with a polite nod that set the ruffles aflutter. “Is it?”
“Pleasant but probably not a surprise, since I was told you’d be here,” he said.
“I’m waiting for Lady Clara and Lady Gladys,” she said. “I thought this would be the best place to wait, since all the park roads meet here.”
“Confound it, Lisburne!” someone behind him shouted.
“Had we but world enough, and time, dear lady,” he said, “I should linger here for days and converse. A hundred years should go to the innocent pleasure of contemplating a great mind and prodigious wit in a beautiful package. But at my back I always hear those louts in the road, who are in a perishing hurry to cover ground. I seem to be in their way. Will you join me—in the carriage I mean,” he said, leaning closer and dropping his voice. “The other connection will come, I hope, later . . . at a place of my choosing.”
She didn’t blush, exactly. He saw only a hint—more of a promise, so faint it was—of color washing over her cheeks. He wondered what it would take to make her blush fully.
“In the carriage,” she said. “A drive?”
“That is what, in my clumsy way, I was trying to say.”
He watched her blue gaze flicker to his cattle, a fine matched pair. He remembered her reaction at Astley’s, to the horses, and the note of longing he’d detected in her voice.
“Are those good horses?” she said.
“They are not permitted to go wherever they please at any rate of speed they choose,” he said. “They are not allowed to rear up when the whim takes them or bite each other or anybody who looks at them in a way they don’t like. You’ll be quite safe.”
“That isn’t what I meant,” she said. “They seem unusually beautiful to me. I only wondered whether I’d judged correctly.”
“As always, madame, your taste is impeccable,” he said. “The question remains, Will you allow me to take you round the park? I’ll let you hold the ribbons.”
Her eyes widened before she caught herself. “You’re only trying to tempt me,” she said. “I may know nothing about horses, but I know how men feel about women driving their carriages. In any event, the point is moot, because I’m on this side of the railing, and you’re on the other, and I’m not going to—oof—no! Don’t you—”
Lord Lisburne picked her up and lifted her over the rail.
Leonie had not seen it coming.
“That isn’t what I meant,” she said, her voice not completely steady.
“Now we’re on the same side,” he said as he set her on her feet. “Moreover, we’ve given the fashionable set something to talk about besides my cousin Gladys.”
Now, drat him, Leonie was reeling with physical awareness. The expert tailoring and almost foppishly perfect style hugged a body, she was hotly aware, of solid muscle.
As was not the case with other big, strong men, the muscle did not extend to his brain, unfortunately. He was entirely too perceptive.
She didn’t have time for this. She had a young woman’s future to save, not to mention her shop. She couldn’t afford to have her mind cluttered with Male. Big, strong, male, smelling of male things—starch a
nd shaving soap and leather and mingled with it, the tantalizing scent of horses.
While she was trying to put her wits back into order, he found the part of her arm not encased in stuffing—her lower arm—took hold of it, and led her to the carriage. In other words, like every other aristocrat, he did as he pleased, leaving others to cope with the consequences.
England belonged to them, and so, naturally, she belonged to him.
She’d noticed the way he’d given the latter message to the men standing near her.
Oh, very well, she’d felt a thrill, stupid she, because this splendid man had given other men possessive signals about her, and she was human, not made of wood or stone or steel, as would be infinitely more practical. Meanwhile, there were those beautiful creatures. He’d promised to let her hold the reins because she’d given herself away in some manner, and he knew how much she wanted to.
She climbed into his carriage and wondered whether one of his ancestors had been a Noirot or DeLucey.
He took his seat and the ribbons again, and his groom leapt to the rear of the carriage. The onlookers applauded.
Lord Lisburne threw her a little smile, and set the carriage in motion. And all of it, from the moment he’d stopped the vehicle and come to the railing, he’d done with effortless grace. So smooth, so elegant, and so charming that he made it all too easy to forget how dangerous he was.
Last evening she’d dined at Clevedon House, and the duke had told a story about Lord Lisburne—Lord Simon Blair at the time—at Eton. A group of boys had been bullying Lord Swanton. Young Blair had taken on the lot of them. He’d walked away from the melee with a few cuts and bruises. “The rest of them lay broken and bleeding on the ground,” the duke said. “Lisburne was like a berserker—if you could picture a cold, quiet, and methodical one.”
