Chapter 3
“So this is the proper attire for an evening at Almack’s?” Walker stared at his image in the full-length mirror while his valet, Wilbur, fluttered around him tweaking here and straightening there. “Dammit, man, are we nearly done?”
Wilbur didn’t blink an eye at Walker’s impatient outburst but stood back and pressed his hands together, clearly assessing Walker’s appearance. As effeminate as the day was long, the slender middle-aged man hastened forward to make another adjustment to Walker’s dark blue coat. Then he stepped backward and gazed with admiration at his handiwork.
“Ah, my lord, you look magnificent. Truly magnificent!”
My lord. When would Walker ever grow accustomed to being so addressed?
Good God, when would he grow accustomed to someone assisting him to dress? He stared at his appearance from the snowy white cravat knotted so expertly by Wilbur to the snug fit of his coat, waistcoat, and fawn-colored breeches, all the way down to the ridiculous white stockings and black buckled shoes. He’d nearly drawn the line there, preferring instead to wear his riding boots, but Wilbur would not hear of it and had actually appeared affronted.
“My lord, you must trust me that I know how to dress a fine gentleman such as yourself!” Wilbur had sniffed, and Walker had relented because he’d simply wanted to be done with the whole blasted process.
Now he felt as trussed up as a turkey and as dandified as any preening cock of the walk that he’d ever seen in Boston or London, while Wilbur looked as pleased as punch. At the valet’s insistence, Walker had even agreed to a pat of cologne upon his freshly shaved face that smelled of sandalwood and citrus, though he’d never been one to indulge in the stuff.
He doubted his closest friend, Jared, would even recognize him tonight! Walker had always been a man with simple tastes when it came to clothing and for that matter, women, too, and the manner in which he’d lived his life.
No fussy cravats or expensive expertly tailored clothes for him, just a comfortable coat, shirt open at the collar, trousers, and his riding boots, thank you very much.
No romantic entanglements for him, just a comely lass eager and willing to share his bed for a night or two. With the nomadic life he’d led, he’d never allowed himself anything more.
And no abundance of possessions for him although the wealth he’d accumulated during wartime in Boston was enough to buy him anything he could have wanted.
Yet now everything had changed. Here he stood nearly unrecognizable—even to himself!—in princely attire as he readied himself for a ball where marriageable young damsels would flock around him like buzzing bees to honey!
“Damnation,” Walker muttered to himself, although he knew he’d agreed to such a life the moment he had set foot upon the ship that had carried him to England.
“My lord, your chapeau bras.” With a deferential bow, Wilbur held out the tricorne hat that was considered de rigueur by Almack’s exacting lady patronesses. “You don’t have to wear it. Merely carry it under your arm.”
Sighing heavily, Walker accepted the hat and, with a last disgruntled look at himself in the mirror, strode from the room.
***
“Oh, Marguerite, you look like a princess! Have you ever seen a gown so fine? That green satin so brings out the color of your eyes! You must twirl around for us, again, oh, again!”
Marguerite felt dizzy from twirling in the foyer for Linette, who gazed at her with delight.
Dizzy and nearly ill to her stomach and so wretchedly apprehensive that she wanted to run up the grand staircase of the Gileses’ town house and flee to her bedchamber.
The place was so massive that she’d been granted her own room, which was only right and proper Lindsay had declared with unbridled excitement at seeing all of them again. Of course Marguerite must have her own room as she dressed for the nightly balls and assemblies that would surely, this year, bring her that much closer to marrying the man of her dreams!
“I think her face looks as green as her gown,” Estelle stated matter-of-factly, holding her little dog, Luther, in the crook of her arm. “Are you well, Marguerite?”
“Of course, she’s well,” came Corie’s voice behind her as she gently nudged Marguerite away from her younger sisters in a rustle of turquoise silk. “No more twirling, agreed?”
Marguerite nodded gratefully and took a deep breath as the white marbled foyer became a flurry of activity, she and Corie joined by Donovan and a smiling Lindsay resplendent in a rose-colored silk gown. Six months with child now, she glowed with good health and vigor. Her dashingly handsome husband, Lord Dovercourt, attired like Donovan in formal evening wear, strode from the library and offered her his arm.
“My beloved, come.”
My beloved. Oddly enough, Jared’s husky endearment to his beautiful wife of three years soothed Marguerite’s apprehension, as did Donovan’s warm smile of encouragement.
Both Donovan and Corie—dark-haired and tall and long of limb—and Lindsay and Jared—as vibrantly blond and blue-eyed a pair as she’d ever seen—made such striking couples. Just looking at them gave Marguerite fresh hope that one day she, too, might find such love and happiness. She did feel less anxious now that she was fairly surrounded by them as they moved through the front door and down the stone steps to the waiting carriage.
A magnificent carriage, all glossy and black, and bearing the Earl of Dovercourt’s family crest, that would carry them to King Street for Marguerite’s first ball of the Season. They had only just arrived in London and already the very pinnacle of society had been breached by illustrious family connections, Donovan’s brother and sister-in-law, Nigel and Charlotte, the Duke and Duchess of Arundale, awaiting them at Almack’s.
Almack’s. Feeling slightly queasy again, Marguerite nevertheless lifted her chin as Corie squeezed her hand and Lindsay smiled brightly at her.
“You look beautiful, Marguerite! Never lovelier. I can tell already it’s going to be the most wonderful night!”
***
Surrounded by well-dressed lords and ladies he had never seen before while his father’s nephew, Sir Russell Scott, made introductions right and left, Walker was certain that he faced the most unendurable of nights.
In fact, he was already eager to depart the overwarm assembly room with its crush of London high society and wide-eyed, blushing young women being thrust toward him from every turn.
“Lord Summerlin, you must meet our daughter Priscilla!”
“My daughter Amaryllis is so very anxious to meet you, my lord!”
“Will you trod upon my toe, madam?” came another woman’s indignant cry. “My husband and I were waiting here first—Lord Summerlin, if you would be so gracious as to spare a dance tonight for our daughter Lady Caroline?”
“God help me, Russell, is there nowhere we can take refuge?” Walker said in a gruff aside to the baronet, who was eight years his senior. Tall and lean and with a decided haughty demeanor and piercing brown eyes, Russell had been charged by the duke with the task of squiring Walker about London for the next few weeks. Yet, as if his cousin hadn’t heard him, he continued to steer Walker through the very middle of the brightly lit assembly room while the crowd around them only grew thicker.
A portly gentleman and his equally stout wife suddenly planted themselves right in front of him, bowing and curtseying with great deference.
“Lord Summerlin,” Russell began an introduction, “the Marquess and Marchioness of Washbury and their two daughters, Lady April and Lady May—”
“April and May, truly?” Walker whispered in an incredulous aside to Russell.
His cousin didn’t respond, though his dry laugh meant that at least Walker had been heard this time. As the two plump young women pirouetted in front of him in their giddiness to make his acquaintance, Walker could swear Russell was smirking…though he suspected more at Walker’s evident discomfort than any amusement at the young ladies’ overeager behavior.
Why wouldn’t the bastard smirk? Pretend deafness to Walker’s agitated request? Not too long ago he, Sir Russell Scott, had been the Duke of Summerlin’s heir presumptive to his title and fortune.
Now with Walker’s return to true home and family, everything for the man had changed. Russell had shown no outward displeasure at having to accompany Walker to London, but Walker was beginning to suspect now that he had little intention of easing his entry into society. As another eager-eyed young woman was thrust toward him, Walker had finally had enough.
While the orchestra struck up a waltz, he nodded gallantly to all around him and then began to forge his own way through the throng with a startled Russell following behind him.
“Alexander, wait!”
His jaw clenched tightly, Walker didn’t wait, nor did he stop until he’d reached the opposite, and less crowded, end of the room. Only then did he turn around so abruptly that Russell nearly collided with him. Clearly affronted, his cousin drew himself up and tugged with irritation at his waistcoat. Sweat beaded his prominent brow, his dark brown hair damp at the temples.
“Really, Alexander—”
“Walker. Call me Walker.”
“Not here, my lord cousin. You’re Alexander, the future Duke of Summerlin, so you might as well grow accustomed to everyone calling you by that name…including myself.”
Deciding then and there that growing accustomed to any of what surrounded him would be more difficult than he had imagined, Walker said nothing further as he surveyed the massive room. It wasn’t a hard thing given his height, and he could see at a glance that Jared and Lord Donovan had not yet arrived.
Where the devil were they? It seemed that everyone he’d met thus far at Almack’s on this Wednesday evening had no qualms about his former life as an enemy of the Crown…so clearly immense wealth, position, and a Prince Regent’s pardon had triumphed over treason. Yet it would be a relief to at last see some familiar faces among this milling throng.
He could not help wondering if Jared’s reentry into society would be so readily welcomed given that he’d been the infamous Phoenix, after all. Even with that disagreeable thought Walker felt certain that Lord Donovan’s enormous efforts on their behalf would prevail over any remaining animosity. And hadn’t Russell said Prince George himself might make an appearance here tonight as well? In truth he looked forward to meeting the future King of England and thanking him…
Walker smiled dryly to himself at the irony of expressing gratitude for what included the cluster of mothers and their daughters who drew closer even as his gaze once more swept the room.
Lord Donovan and Jared were both as tall as he, if not more, so it would be no trouble spotting them if they had arrived, or their lovely wives. If anything might predispose him to marriage, it would be to meet as spirited and indomitable a young woman as both Corie and Lindsay had proved to be. Walker shook his head just thinking of the predicaments they had both gotten themselves into—and out of—
“Oh, Lord Summerlin, here’s my daughter Lady Caroline! She loves to waltz, don’t you, my dear?”
With a sinking realization that there appeared to be no escape from the determined mother who pushed her blushing daughter toward him, Walker handed his chapeau bras to Russell. “If you don’t mind, cousin. Don’t know what else to do with the damnable thing…”
“Not at all,” Russell murmured obligingly, though his gaze had hardened as if Walker had somehow insulted him. “Enjoy the dance.”
Walker doubted it, but he held out his hand to Lady Caroline all the same as the pretty young woman spun excitedly from her mother and reached out with trembling fingers—
“By God, man, there you are!”
Walker dropped his hand as Jared Giles pushed through the crowd toward him. With an apologetic glance at a crestfallen Lady Caroline, he went to meet his friend, who smiled with understanding as he clapped Walker on the back.
“In need of rescue? Come on, we’re in the adjoining room.”
“Another room?”
Jared laughed as they strode past waltzing couples. “Three of them…and all filled with young ladies anxious to make your acquaintance. But right now, Lindsay wishes to greet you…and Lord Donovan and Corie.”
Walker glanced over his shoulder to see Russell following close behind them. Yet he forgot about his cousin as he and Jared entered a smaller assembly room that wasn’t as crowded. At once he heard a delighted outcry as Lindsay rushed forward to greet him.
“Oh, Walker, it’s so good to see you again!” As irrepressible and stunningly lovely as ever, Lindsay embraced him warmly and then pulled him toward a group of people standing in a semicircle. “You remember Corie…and Lord Donovan…”
Walker nodded at Corie, who smiled at him as warmly in welcome, and then reached out to accept Donovan’s firm handshake. Yet before he could utter a word of thanks for all Donovan had done for him, he found himself being steered toward a shorter, rather stout gentleman who Walker nonetheless could tell was a close relation.
“We know him as Walker Burke,” Donovan began by way of introduction. “Lord Summerlin, may I introduce my brother, Nigel, and his wife, Charlotte, the Duke and Duchess of Arundale.”
For a fleeting moment Walker wasn’t sure whether to reach out for a handshake as would an American or to bow to the duke, but with a short laugh Nigel offered his hand. “Very pleased to meet you, Summerlin.” As Charlotte, a wan fretful-looking woman, offered him a thin smile, more to cover her bad teeth than out of any malice, Walker felt Lindsay once more take his arm.
“You haven’t met everyone, my lord, no, indeed.” With that, Lindsay drew him nearer to Donovan, who stepped aside even as the small group seemed to have formed a semicircle again.
All of them stood almost protectively around a young woman wearing an emerald green gown that shimmered in the chandelier’s brilliant light, her lovely brown eyes wide as she stared at him.
“My sister. Miss Marguerite Easton,” came Corie’s voice, though Walker knew he had seen her before.
Yes, three years ago in Roscoff, Brittany. One never forgot such exquisite beauty, glimpsed however briefly.
She’d been younger then, sixteen, perhaps? In truth, he had never imagined seeing her again, that is, until he’d made the decision to accept the new life that fate had dealt him. He’d thought to ask Lindsay about her—he knew she and Lady Donovan wrote constantly to each other—but then had kept silent when imagining she surely must have wed by now.
Yet Corie had said “Miss,” so Marguerite wasn’t married at all.
Might she remember him?