The image of a scale popped into her mind. On one side was Lord Oliver and the other Nick. To her dismay, Nick had the advantage.
“Miss Corbet has already given me the pleasure of that set.”
Oh, good heavens! Just what she needed, the both of them at one time. “Good morning, my lord.”
In contrast to Lord Oliver, Nick appeared well rested, shaved, and neatly dressed. “Good morning. Up to your walks again, I see.”
“I have a footman with me.”
“For all the good it’s doing you,” he said in an under voice.
Next to her Lord Oliver puffed up like a bantam rooster. “What, exactly, do you mean by that?”
Nick eyed the other man for a moment and seemed to make a decision. “Nothing at all. I’ll come along. I enjoy a pleasant stroll in the morning.”
This was too much. All Silvia had wanted was time alone to think. “I thank you both, but I simply wish to walk at my own pace.” Sweeping a curtsey, she started off. Let them make of that what they would. She had reached the gate leading to Mount Street when she glanced back. Of course it would be him. “Lord Beresford, don’t you have anything better to do?”
“Than protect you from that rascal? No.”
“He is not a . . . Oh, why bother.” If it wasn’t so undignified, she would have stamped her feet. “The only one I require protection from is you.”
She turned to step out into the street.
“I’m still dancing with you this evening,” he said, using his I-won-the-round voice and almost pushing her temper over the edge.
Pressing her lips firmly together, she continued on. There was absolutely no point in getting into an argument with him. It would be like lying down with pigs. They’d both get dirty, but he would enjoy it. Unfortunately, she was afraid she might as well.
The evening of the masquerade, Vivian held her arms up as her maid placed the gown over her head. A belt of gold cloth went around her waist. This was it, her last London entertainment for a while. She must get away from Lord Stanstead before she either did something stupid or lost her heart.
Between to-morrow and when she left, she would make up excuses to remain at home. Sick headaches always worked well. They covered myriad minor conditions.
Punt applied the kohl around Vivian’s eyes, then fitted the long black wig. She truly did look different. Not at all like herself. The starched linen garment from the last century made her hips and bust appear fuller. That was an unlooked-for improvement.
“There you go, my lady.” Punt stepped back.
“Thank you. I do not believe anyone will recognize me.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like some scent?”
Vivian glanced at the bottles lined up on her dressing table, all of them intended to entice her dead husband into her bed. Why had she even brought them? She glanced at the fireplace, wanting to hurl the expensive fragrances into the flames. “No. You may give them away or toss them in the rubbish. I do not wish to keep them any longer.”
A knock sounded on the door, and Clara strolled in and struck a pose reminiscent of one of Queen Elizabeth’s portraits.
Vivian grinned. “You look splendid and very regal.”
“I’ve always been fond of our virgin queen.” She patted her curls. “It must be the red hair.”
With a credibly straight face, Vivian said, “Or your forceful personalities.”
Her cousin nodded. “Very possibly. She was a lady we can all learn from. It was a pity she never married, though. I cannot imagine any descendent of hers being booted off the throne by Cromwell.”
“Indeed.” She wasn’t going to get Clara started on the English Civil War. It would take more than a century and a half for her to forget what Cromwell had done to her family. “Shall we go?”
“Yes. Please do not say anything to Silvia; she is a lovely girl, but I will not miss playing gooseberry for a change. I had no idea how tiring it is to chaperone a young lady, as well as”—Clara’s voice became as dry as dust—“listening to the mamas try to shove their daughters forward.” She graced Vivian with a brilliant smile. “I know I do not have to worry about you.”
Perhaps that was part of the problem. She had been a dutiful daughter, a dutiful wife, and now, it appeared, a dutiful widow. Not that she’d had much choice in the matter.
She gave herself a shake as Edgar’s voice rang in her head.“Put your nightgown on. How do you expect a man to think about getting an heir looking at that?”
