Lady Beresford's Lover by Ella Quinn (8)

At eleven the following morning, Vivian closed the book she had been attempting, not very successfully, to read. Against all her desires, her mind strayed from the romantic hero to Lord Stanstead. If only romances came true.

Laying the book aside, she glanced down at her cat. “Surely someone must be up by now.”

Gisila slowly blinked her eyes once.

“I do wish you were a bit more communicative.” That is what she got for having a silent cat. Bending down, Vivian stroked the soft, gray feline. “If nothing else, I’ll enjoy the change of scenery.” She stuck her feet into her slippers, left her chambers, and headed for the morning room. Maybe it was the lack of industry that had her feeling blue deviled. By this time of day, she would normally have completed a full schedule of meetings, and who knew what else. Being in the dower house had given her back the sense of competence she had lost while married to Edgar. She gave herself a little shake. That must be it, and when she had her own estate, she would be back to her usual good spirits.

Voices and laughter drifted down the corridor from the back of the house. Aha, her cousin and friend must finally be about.

When she ambled through the open door, Silvia was in the process of giggling over a note. “Have you ever heard of anything so absurd?”

Clara shook her head and had a self-satisfied expression. “I told you you would be a success.”

The room was filled with bouquets, posies, notes, and what looked like paper fans with verse written on them. “I’d say Clara was right. You certainly made an impression.”

“Oh, Vivian, listen to this. Lord Oliver sent it. After what I said to him, I thought he would hate me.

“‘Rose that you are, stab me no more with your thorns. I was but a fool who thinks himself wise. Please dance with me again and save me from my demise.’”

“Very droll.” Vivian grinned. “Shall you stand up with him?”

“Yes. I believe I will give him another chance.” Her friend jumped up. “We were going to send for you. I’ve never known you to sleep so late.”

“I didn’t. I was waiting for the two of you.”

Silvia plucked a card from an exquisite arrangement of pale pink roses. “This is for you.”

She handed the card to Vivian. The writing was strong, masculine, yet neat, unlike the scribbling of her father and brothers. Imbedded in the wax seal was a crest. Who would have sent her such lovely flowers?

“Open it.” Silvia practically bounced with excitement.

If only Vivian could take them upstairs to her rooms and read the note in private, but her cousin looked on expectantly as well. She carefully separated the wax from the paper.

He had found her. Warmth wound its way through her body as she bent to smell the flowers. “They are lovely.”

“I’ve never seen anything like them before,” Clara said.

The blooms were cup shaped with multiple layers, and although the first impression was indeed a pale pink, the petals ranged from almost white on the outside to a deeper pink in the middle. Vivian fluffed them and the scent became more prominent. “Neither have I. Where in the world could he have found them?”

“Who sent them?” Silvia asked as she sniffed the flowers.

“Lord Stanstead.” He must have gone to a great deal of trouble. These were not the usual hot-house blooms.

Vivian ruthlessly shoved down a sense of joy. He was not for her. She must remember that.

Her friend pointed to an arrangement of autumn flowers. “This bouquet is for you as well.”

On the card, Vivian’s name was scrawled in cramped handwriting. She opened it and cast her eyes to the ceiling. “Lord Bumfield.”

A fresh pot of tea and toast arrived. Clara poured a cup, handing it to Vivian. “Practical, but hardly romantic, although he probably thinks it is.”

She was definitely not interested in Lord Bumfield. The man was nice, but a widower with several children, prone to flatulence, and stout. No, she’d do much better on her own than tied to a husband like his lordship. If she were to be interested in a gentleman, it would be Lord Stanstead, and there was no point in even thinking of him. Even if Vivian was in the market for a husband, he would choose a younger, better connected wife.

She glanced at her cousin. “What are our plans for the day and this evening?”

“We have morning calls and three entertainments this evening.” Clara placed her cup on the low oval table between the sofas. “Which means we must be dressing.”

Two hours later, after visiting several houses, Vivian was ready to return to Mount Street. Surely there must be houses where the rest of the company didn’t consist of young ladies who could speak of nothing but fashion, and giggled over who was to dance with them. Then again, neither did she have much in common with the women discussing children or people she didn’t know. She wondered if there was any way she could politely excuse herself from accompanying her cousin and friend without having to plead a headache.

The Dunwood House butler bowed them into Phoebe’s home.

“My ladies, please follow me.”

They were led to a large drawing room where, thankfully, all the women appeared older than eighteen.

Phoebe greeted them. “Welcome. I think you know everyone. We were just discussing the Worthingtons’ soirée. Will you be there?”

“Unfortunately, I was forced to decline,” Clara said. “I must do my duty by Miss Corbet and my cousin.”

“I understand.” Phoebe bussed Vivian’s cheek. “We will be discussing politics most of the evening.”

This might be exactly the escape she wanted. “Although I must confess to being a complete novice, I am extremely interested in politics.”

“I’d be happy to send a carriage to fetch Vivian.” Her hostess slid a glance at Clara. “She may dine with us as well.”

“Naturally, if she would enjoy that more . . .” Clara’s voice faded as she studied Vivian.

Goodness, it was past time to start standing up for herself. “I do believe I would prefer the Worthington event.” Vivian gave a rueful grin, more to apologize to her cousin than anything else. “My feet still ache from last night.”

“Very well,” Clara said. “That is settled. Vivian, you will be introduced to the leaders of our country’s liberals.”

“Wonderful.” Phoebe smiled. “I shall send the carriage for you at seven o’clock.”

“I look forward to it.” Vivian returned the smile. She had never been encouraged by her father to discuss politics, and her husband had let her know in no uncertain terms that he had no interest in her views.

Despite all that, she did keep up with the current issues and had some definite opinions of her own. Perhaps she might have something to contribute to the discussion this evening and, hopefully, issues in common with the ladies here. Yet as this was a morning visit, after the prescribed fifteen minutes, she, her cousin, and her friend said their good-byes.

As they were leaving, a lady even more flamboyantly dressed than Clara entered the house.

“Lady Evesham, how lovely to see you again!” The woman was wearing an elaborately embroidered silk robe, the like Vivian had never seen before. Atop her head was a turban made of different colored silk strips.

“Lady Thornhill, how wonderful that you’ve returned.” Phoebe took the woman’s outstretched hands, kissed her cheek, then turned to Vivian. “Her ladyship has been traveling in the Far East for the past two years.”

That probably explained the fantastical garments. “I envy you, my lady.”

“We have missed her drawing rooms greatly. No one was able to replicate them.” Phoebe quickly made the introductions and the talk turned to Lady Thornhill’s travels. Unfortunately, Clara ushered them out, but not before they received an invitation to attend any of the lady’s drawing rooms they wished.

Finally, Vivian was finding entertainments and people she would enjoy being around, and she had not thought of Lord Stanstead for at least ten minutes. That had to be progress.

 

Rupert’s secretary, John Milford, handed him a letter with the Evesham seal on it. He opened it, quickly perusing the contents. “I am dining with Lord and Lady Evesham this evening if I have nothing else scheduled.”

“You are not otherwise engaged, my lord.” Milford reached into the top part of a stack of cards, extracting one. “You have an invitation to Lord and Lady Thornhill’s drawing room on Thursday.”

“I saw him at my club. He has brought several interesting artifacts back with him. Accept it.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You had the roses sent?”

“Indeed, my lord. They should have arrived sometime this morning. Your gardener brought them from the estate and had words about taking so many from the plants. He almost insisted on taking them to the lady herself. However, Cook was able to convince him he should eat.”

“I’ll bet he did.” Rupert smiled. “I don’t suppose you reminded him that I found the things and braved the hazards of bringing them back from Persia, and therefore should be allowed to do as I wish?”

“I am not so bold.” One side of John’s mouth turned up in a crooked grin. “He still hasn’t forgiven me for stealing daisies when I was eight.”

John was the third son of Rupert’s rector. They were of an age and had been together almost constantly until Rupert went off on his Grand Tour. He wouldn’t have gone at all if John hadn’t been at Stanstead to oversee the estate while he was away. “If I recall correctly, you did not steal them, I told you to pick them for your mother.”

“Unfortunately, you didn’t get your gardener’s permission first,” his secretary responded in a dry tone. “The back of my legs still hurt.”

“I couldn’t sit down for days.” And he’d discovered just how much weight his courtesy title held. None at all.

“My hand was cramped from writing out over and over again that I would receive permission from a responsible party before accepting an invitation to take anything.”

“Someday,” he grumbled, “I’ll be in charge of my own gardens.”

“I wish you luck.”

“If you need me, I’ll be in my study until it’s time to dress for dinner.”

“And if you require me, I shall be right here.”

Rupert gave a short laugh. “Where you always are, unless I’ve sent you haring off somewhere.”

He took the stack of invitations from the desk and opened the door to his study. There were times that he still thought he could see his grandfather, or the man he’d thought of as his grandfather, from the corner of his eye as he entered the paneled room.

He separated the invitations into two piles, one for acceptances and the other rejections. A richly engraved card caught his eye. The Marquis of Sudbury was having a masquerade. Rupert didn’t know the man well. Sudbury never married and carefully cultivated his reputation as a rake, but they had more than a passing acquaintance, his lordship being a friend of Rupert’s grandfather Stanstead.

In England, masked parties still had a rather risqué reputation, but in Venice they had been all the crack. Even if it turned out to be “not quite the thing,” as his mother would say, the party might be fun. Rupert put the invitation on the acceptance pile.

A few hours later, he strolled into the drawing room of Dunwood House in Grosvenor Square, and stopped. Vivian was here, looking even lovelier than he remembered. His heart-beat grew more rapid. As if she could sense him, she glanced at the door and smiled. His ears rang as if they’d been boxed. He had definitely never had that kind of reaction to any female before.

“Rupert, come in.” Marcus shook his hand, tugging him into the room. “We have sherry if you’d like some.”

“Yes, please.” Rupert dragged his eyes from hers. “Sherry would be perfect.”

After she’d gone back to her conversation with Phoebe, Anna, Lady Rutherford, and Serena, his head began to clear.

“I think you know everyone present?” Marcus poured the excellent sherry he and Phoebe were famous for keeping. It was rumored that her uncle had laid in a store of it before the war.

Rupert gratefully accepted the drink. He sipped carefully, resisting the urge to drain the glass and ask for more. He would really worry his friends and cousins if he did that. “Yes. I believe I do.”

“You know how things are when you take your pot-luck with us. Nothing formal, just mill around until dinner is announced.”

Rupert did know. Having lived in the West Indies for years, Marcus was never as ceremonial as many of their peers. He snoodled over to Vivian and bowed. “My lady, it is a pleasure to see you again.”

Her cheeks turned a pretty shade of pink, almost the color of the roses he’d sent. “Thank you, my lord, for the compliment and for the flowers. I’ve never seen such beautiful blooms.”

“I found them during my travels. That you enjoy them made it worth the trouble.”

She gave him her hand, and he lightly kissed her fingers. Straightening, he greeted the other ladies and gentlemen, which included his cousin and Serena.

Robert raised a brow, and Rupert shrugged in answer. As soon as he knew in which direction the wind blew, he would tell his cousin. “What are you discussing?”

“Anything and everything,” Vivian responded. “We are solving the country’s woes.”

“Or attempting to,” Serena added. “We ladies have some ideas that Vivian might be interested in.”

It pleased him that his cousins were now on a Christian-name basis with Vivian. That Serena felt comfortable enough with Vivian to be informal said much of the lady he was interested in.

Rupert made a point of remaining next to Vivian as they resumed their discussion. “I’m still bothered over the Seditious Meetings Act. It is much too broad.”

“Will you attempt to bring a bill to modify it?” Rutherford asked.

“If I thought I could get enough support.” Rupert took a sip of sherry. “At the present, I’m more concerned about the one I am sponsoring concerning our returning soldiers.”

The air stirred next to him as Vivian shifted. “I agree. Some areas of the country have had too many problems with roving bands of former soldiers who are unable to find work.”

He wanted to touch her. Put his arm around her waist, or place his hand on the small of her back. With the exception of the two of them, everyone else present was married, and small touches, sidelong glances, and fleeting smiles abounded.

He forced himself to switch his glass to the hand nearer her in order to inhibit any unconscious gestures. “I agree. In my county, we have made a point of finding work or apprenticeships for them. Some of the soldiers are no more than children.”

“Indeed.” Vivian rubbed one finger absently over her bottom lip, and Rupert wished it were his lips touching it, tasting her, learning her sounds of pleasure as he made love to her. “There are the widows and children as well. Even widows of officers can have a difficult time making ends meet if they have no family to help them.”

He listened as she and the others discussed measures they’d taken. The longer she spoke, the more impressed he became with her intelligence and grasp of the political realities. This was a lady who could help make a political career.

Dinner was announced and he escorted her into the dining room. Fortunately, Phoebe and Marcus had invited only close friends, and they sat informally at the table, giving Rupert an opportunity to take a place next to Vivian. If only he knew if she had any feelings for him or if the emotions were all on his part, or how long he’d have to continue this dance before she responded to him. Rupert refused to consider the possibility that he would not win her. This urge he had to protect her, to care for her, was too strong to be ignored.

A footman held out the tray to him. “Pheasant, my lord?”

He speared a piece of the breast. “Lady Beresford, this slice looks particularly good. Will you sample it?”

Rupert wanted to be the one to attend her, selecting the most delicious foods, accompanying her to the most interesting places, and showing her what she had not yet experienced. Slowly learning her likes and dislikes.

He would take this one step at a time, being careful not to scare her. All evening she had claimed his attention in a way no other woman had done before. And the better he came to know Vivian, the more convinced he was that she was for him. Just as he had thought the first time he saw her.