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For two we
eks Avery kept the tightest rein on his temper he ever had in his life. He interviewed governesses and found none to his liking, he arranged for the Berkeley Square house to be put in readiness and he dealt with a weeping child who could not understand why her new Aunt Caroline had vanished. And that was difficult to endure because he had the nagging conviction on his conscience that she had fled his kisses and Alice’s distress was therefore all his fault.
After a few days of tears, followed by clinging, Alice seemed to settle down. After all, as she confided in Avery, poor Aunt Caroline had been sad, so perhaps it was best that she had gone home to her friends, the only excuse he had been able to come up with.
Now all he had to do was to find Alice a stepmama who would love her and she could forget a mother who had sent her away and a mysterious aunt who had vanished. He found he was quite looking forward to it. There would be no work, no worries, no sudden crises, simply a process of sociable, pleasurable wife-hunting and then marriage.
Must be getting old, he thought, studying himself in the pier glass and tightening the muscles of an already flat stomach. No sign of grey hairs yet, but the prospect of a wife is surprisingly attractive. There would be none of the expenses and tantrums associated with mistresses. And none of the tension and guilt associated with respectable widows either, his conscience added. But it was good that Caroline had gone, for an earl with diplomatic responsibilities could not offer marriage to the widow of some middling gentleman and the alternative would not have been honourable. Yes, it was fortunate that he would never see Mrs Caroline Jordan again. But he missed her.
Chapter Eight
‘So who is chaperoning you? Hmm?’ The Dowager Marchioness of Birtwell lifted her lorgnette to her eyes and fixed Laura with an unnervingly magnified gaze.
Laura paused in her wanderings through the crowds at Mrs Fairweather’s May Day musical reception and dipped a curtsy. ‘My cousin Florence, ma’am.’ Laura reminded herself that one day she might be eighty with arthritis and managed a smile. She crossed her fingers behind her back—after all, Cousin Florence had promised to come and stay soon…she just wasn’t here at this moment.
‘Lady Carstairs? She always was an empty-headed peahen. If your poor dear mama couldn’t keep you in line, what hope has Florence Carstairs?’
‘I am resolved not to be a trial to her,’ Laura said and was rewarded with a crack of laugher.
‘Well, you are too pale to compete with this year’s beauties—and you are getting to be too old for any nonsense into the bargain. Time to stop flitting about and find a husband.’ The dowager flapped her hands at Laura as if she was a troublesome chicken. ‘Go on, there are enough of them out there. In fact, I saw just the man a moment ago. Neither of you are in a position to be too fussy. Now where has he gone?’
There were limits to polite toleration of one’s elders, Laura decided, murmuring an excuse and moving away into the thronged reception room before the old dragon spotted that Cousin Florence was nowhere to be seen or located the rather less-than-ideal candidate she had in mind for Laura’s hand. She was too pale, too old and had too much of a reputation to be entirely eligible apparently, but what were the gentleman’s faults, such that he could not afford to be fussy either? she wondered. Buck teeth, a spreading waistline and a gambling habit, perhaps?
‘Lady Laura! You have returned to us and as lovely as ever.’ Lord Gordon Johnston placed one elegant hand on his beautifully tailored chest, approximately where his heart would be if he possessed one, and sketched a bow.
‘Nonsense, Lord Gordon. I have it on the best authority that I am too pale and too old and had best find myself a husband before I am at my last prayers.’ She had known him for years and knew, too, that the only way to avoid becoming the victim of his barbed tongue was to show him no chink in one’s armour.
Lady Birtwell was right: she was too pale, she had lost her bloom and it was going to take sunshine, excitement and entertainment to bring it back and drive away the memories of the past few months. Meanwhile she must take care to seem as carefree and as secure as ever if she wanted to hold her place amongst the ton and not slip into being that poor Lady Laura, on the shelf and at her last prayers.
‘As white as the lily,’ Lord Gordon agreed, running the tip of one finger down her cheek. ‘Such a dutiful daughter to shut yourself away in your blacks for so long. And when will we be seeing the new Earl of Hartland in town?’
‘Very soon, I hope. The house is all ready for him.’ Smile, don’t let him see you care about another man in Papa’s place.
‘And you are ready for a whirl of pleasure, my dear?’
‘Of course. Now who is new on the scene and lots of fun?’ And why don’t I care any more? Must pretend, must keep up the mask.
‘Let me think.’ Lord Gordon surveyed the guests through narrowed eyes. ‘How about Viscount Newlyn? Fresh in town, still a trifle gauche, pots of money and an itch to spend it. And such a pretty boy, if rather too aware of it. He’s over there, I’ll introduce you.’
Laura allowed him to guide her through the crowd to a group of old acquaintances clustered around a tall, blond young exquisite who looked as though he was all too conscious of every detail of his own appearance and who had spent a good hour before the mirror preening before he came out.
Irritating puppy, Laura decided, taking a mild dislike to him on sight. Still, if he threw good parties and was amusing she supposed she could tolerate him.
‘Lady Laura!’ He took her hand and pressed his lips to it. Laura extricated it with some difficulty and smiled at the various acquaintances who were greeting her. A year ago she would have called them her friends, now, she realised, she had not missed one of them while she had been out of society. ‘…delighted.’ The viscount was still talking. ‘I had no idea I would be so fortunate as to be introduced to Scandal’s Virgin herself within a week of arriving in London.’
The circle around him fell silent. The nickname was whispered but never spoken in the presence of Lady Laura herself. Miss Willmott, always nervous, gasped and gave a frightened little giggle, Lady Pamela Tutt started an abrupt, desperate monologue about the problems she was having with her maid and Lord Gordon’s rather thin lips curved in anticipation of an explosion.
Laura waited a heartbeat, just long enough for Lord Newlyn to realise he had made a major error, then smiled. ‘Why, my lord, I had no idea we were already on such terms as to be using pet names. What is yours? The Blond Blunderer, perhaps?’
There was laughter all round the group at that and the gentlemen, several of whom had stiffened, ready to intervene on Laura’s behalf, relaxed. The viscount coloured, his expression rigid, but there was real anger in his eyes, she recognised. He was obviously not used to set-downs. ‘My apologies, ma’am,’ he said before he turned out of the small circle and stalked away towards the card room.
‘A clumsy youth,’ Lord Petersfield drawled. ‘A mother’s boy, no doubt, used to being the centre of attention amongst his little circle in Essex.’
‘Oh well, Essex…’ Lady Pamela tittered ‘that explains it. Now, my dear Lady Laura, how are you going to amuse yourself now you are back amongst us? Mrs Bridgeport is promising the most delightful picnic next week if the weather holds…’
*
Laura finally found herself alone after an hour, talked out and rather weary. She was, she realised, thoroughly out of practice for late nights, hot rooms and constant conversation. Either that or the social scene was no longer enough to hold her attention, which was alarming. If she did not have that, her drug to stop her thinking, then how was she going to cope with the cold, empty centre of her life?
