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Despite the age and rank difference, and the not-insignificant fact that Charles was married with a pair of small sons of his own and a third child on the way, he and Lawrence were fast friends, having grown up on neighboring estates. Charles and his wife, who rarely went out at this late stage of her pregnancy, were half the reason Lawrence had accepted the clearly insincere invitation to the night’s events.
“It would be selfish of me to monopolize the girl’s time and lead her on when I have no intention of pursuing her,” murmured Lawrence, raising the crystal goblet in his hand to his lips. The wine was perhaps the only thing in the room that seemed of poor quality. The earl’s estates produced vast amounts of mediocre wine. English wine never was very good.
Charles stroked his beard – neatly trimmed with his upper lip bare, the latest in London fashion – with one hand, pretending to muse philosophical. “Ah, but tis better to have loved imperfectly than to have never loved at all!” He flourished his arm mockingly before laughing through a deep drought from his own goblet. Charles never cared much for the quality of drink, so long as he felt its effects. The slight pink already showing around his cheekbones suggested this was not his first cup. Hopefully dinner would begin before the man had too much.
Shaking his head, Lawrence didn’t reply. Truth was that he was lonely. But it was impossible to shake the deep-seated fears that he would turn out to be a philandering, spendthrift drunk like his father once he’d settled into a marriage. No, it was best to maintain the discipline he’d built into his life. He couldn’t disappoint anyone if no one cared for him.
Adopting a more serious tone, Charles gave him a sympathetic look. “I’ve seen the way you look at these fine young ladies, so I know you’re not sly, Lawrence.” He gestured with his goblet hand around the overlarge drawing room. Men and women were scattered around it in knots of three and four and five, some joking, some deep in serious-looking discussion, some sharing activities such as the two men who had finally settled in to play at the chess board. Brushing absently with his free hand at his double-breasted frock coat, Charles continued. “Maggie and I are worried about you, Lawrence. You are a better man than I, but look how happy I make Maggie!” He grinned somewhat foolishly. “Maggie says it would be a waste for you to remain a bachelor forever. Even if she has given up trying to match you with someone herself, she thinks you should give it a go with someone.” He took another swig of what looked to be a nearly empty goblet now. “Besides, she says you will be a bad influence on the boys as they grow older if you mope on about how perfect a man must be before becoming married.”
Lawrence frowned at his friend. Charles had known his parents, and was always there cheer him up after fleeing a shouting match between them. But that was not the same as understanding. He did have to admit that Charles and his wife appeared to be deeply in love, and as such a close family friend, Lawrence was sure he would have seen if that were a charade by now. But Charles was also a warm-hearted fellow who never seemed to work at bringing a smile or lending a helping hand. Where Lawrence was widely known for his philanthropy, Charles was talked about as a truly generous man who everyone took an instant liking to. There was no way that Lawrence could replicate that.
Stroking his unusual beard again, his friend appeared on the verge of saying more, but the sound of a small gong announced the dinner hour, and everyone began to meander toward the dining room to find their assigned seats.
Chapter Three
Anne bustled past the valet even as he was announcing her arrival. She was far beyond fashionably late, and the only reason she’d still come at all was that she’d told her father she would. Her expectations for the company at the earl’s dinner party were low and she had every intention of making a polite exit as soon as the men withdrew to smoke cigars and imbibe brandy.
With a murmured thank you to the serving man who held her chair for her, she gathered what little grace she could in her flustered state to sit with a smile. Her seat was quite good – nearly across from the Earl of Carteret himself. The sandy-haired young man wore the standard outfit that nearly all the gentlemen at the long banquet table were clothed in. Anne had never much liked how most men wore nearly identical and very somber looking frock coats and waistcoats to these affairs, though she suspected the menfolk were removed from having to dither in front of their wardrobe as the lady’s maid attempted to dress them to the nines.
Turning from a pair of obsequious beauties to his left, the earl nodded her a greeting and flashed her a smile. She had to admit he was handsome, and was comfortable enough with herself to recognize a twinge of interest from down below. But the man was a rake of the worst sort, from the rumors she had heard. And unlike many of the other social climbers present – she could not help but notice not a single woman who was not stunningly beautiful aside from a few wives with their husbands – Anne had no interest in trying to reform a man with a reputation for youthful indiscretions. In her sole previous interaction with the man earlier in the season, he had made clear in conversation that he held a very conservative attitude even amongst the nobility for what a woman’s role was to be. The likes of the Earl of Carteret valued “obey” over the “love” and “honor” mentioned in a woman’s wedding vows. In short, he would never do for a husband, even in her current desperate straits.
Returning his nod politely, Anne settled in to meet those seated by her. In a more sophisticated host, placement would have been a mixture of social precedence and conversational skills. But whomever had set the places for the earl had obviously prioritized putting the youngest and prettiest around the host with a few married men scattered to keep it from being too glaring to ignore.
“Good evening, Madam Hatley,” intoned the man to her right, with a glance at her place card to ensure he spoke the correct name and style of address. Already Anne was annoyed. Had she been styled analogous to a son who could inherit in his own right, she would have been Lady Roxborough. But her courtesy title extended only as far as “Madam.”
Sighing under her breath, Anne pivoted in her seat, smoothing her skirts to return the greetings to the man. He looked old enough to be her grandfather, and alone wore a color that wasn?
??t black or close enough to it to be called black. His antique suit and pince-nez were a bit jarring until she realized it must be a fashion from his youth. Eyes flicking down to his name on his place card, she amazed to learn that this was none other than Sir Gilbert Tamblyn, a man of some modest renown even now for eking out a desperate victory against Napoleonic forces in a battle whose name was long forgotten by Anne and most people who had only read of the whole terrible wars in books. The man must be more than ninety years old!
“Sir Gilbert, it is a deep honor to meet you. I –“ Her smile faltered as the older man waved a hand and cut her off.
“Don’t bother with all that frippery, Madam. I’ve no intention to spend what years, weeks, days, or hours I have left dancing around formalities. I’m a man who likes things straight and direct.” He gave her a sly smile. “And from what I’ve heard on my other side from yet another useless person,” he gestured to a young woman who was very actively turning away to avoid eye contact, “you feel the same way.”
Anne’s eyebrows rose in surprise. But perhaps she should not have been shocked that other girls were gossiping about her. After all, she was an easy target with her “unwomanly” reputation, but also one with enough standing and wealth attached to her hand in marriage that she was still a rival for most of these women.
The older man removed his pince-nez to inspect a spot on them. Waving them absentmindedly toward the table beyond him, he soothed, “Oh, don’t worry about what useless people say, Madam. For what it may be worth, were I sixty years younger, I would court you based on solely upon what the gossipmongers spread about you amongst themselves. I can only hope,” he continued firmly, “that you do not judge yourself by what these peacocks say. They are pretty to look at, but as a man who made the mistake thrice of marrying one, “ he leaned in to say, “they are a real pain in the ass!”
Anne fought down a giggle at the old man’s blunt, colorful words. It was something like hearing your grandfather curse. She supposed that was one of the few benefits of reaching such advanced age – you didn’t give a damn whether what you said was polite.
Someone across the table asked Sir Gilbert a question, and he favored her with a playful wink before turning to give his opinion on some renewed troubles with the Emirate of Afghanistan.
Left with no conversation on her right, Anne paused for a bowl of soup to be placed before her – it looked to be some sort of chilled leek soup to refresh from the waning heat of the day – before turning to her left.
The fellow there was appeared to be only a handful of years older than herself, staring solemnly at his soup as though deep in thought. A strong, clean-shaven jawline was clinched in either concentration or consternation, and his otherwise handsome visage was made less appealing by his somber, antisocial demeanor. Naturally she would have a bore on her left to balance out what promised to be highly entertaining banter on her right.
Anne’s eyebrows rose yet again as she read the name on the man’s place card: Lawrence Strauss, Duke of Amhurst. Why was a duke seated several chairs away from the host? Surely his rank alone would have predicated his being placed closer to the earl, who was quite openly putting a hand on the leg of the young lady seated to either side of him. Whereas Sir Gilbert, though only bearing a knighthood, was a war hero and about on par with Anne in social standing, the duke should have been seated in a place of prominence. It was a puzzle worth unraveling – delicately. Perhaps the man was not as morose as he appeared and merely a bit unhappy with his seating. Maybe there was some fascinating conflict between himself and the earl that had led to the seating arrangement.
Taking a sip of her soup – she’d never really liked leeks, and this was nearly black with too much pepper – Anne affected her best smile.
“Your Grace, I fear we have not been introduced. I am Lady Roxborough, my father is Viscount Roxborough.” She gave herself the courtesy title she would have had were women able to inherit the title directly. To hell with whomever had made most titles only inheritable by sons or married daughters!
Blinking as if surprised, the handsome man turned piercing gray eyes toward her. He seemed taken aback that anyone had spoken to him. The dinner guests to his left and across the table were all engaged in their own conversations, however, and short of being unbearably rude, there was nothing for him to do but reply to her.
“Ah, it is a pleasure. And you are welcome to call me Lawrence, if you do not feel it to be too familiar. Few enough are interested in speaking with me that we may as well become friends, if only until dessert.” His expression failed to match the friendliness of his words, remaining impassive, as if he were suggesting a way to pass the time in a rather clockwork way.
Which, in a way he was, Anne realized. To someone not comfortable with social gatherings, this sort of gathering might be something of a prison. Anne was glad that she had inherited her parents’ outgoing nature, typically at ease engaging total strangers in earnest discussion. Too at ease sometimes, according to her father, who was always warning her about voicing her heterodox views so loudly on the role of women in the Empire’s nobility.
“Thank you, Lawrence. You are most welcome to call me Anne, in return,” she offered. “Tell me, Lawrence, why is it you believe no one here wishes to speak with you?” With a rueful smile, the man took a sip of his soup before responding. He didn’t quite make a face, but she suspected he also found the chef’s use of pepper overwhelming.
