Chapter Three
Hestia felt giddy for days after her encounter with the Marquess of Falconbridge. Her nerves hummed and thrummed as she carried out her daily duties and she thought that perhaps, if she had someone to confide in, that the feeling would leave her, but alas she did not have anyone to share her secret with.
Her relationship with Jane, while close, was not so close that Hestia would dare to overstep the invisible boundaries laid down by her station. As for the other staff in the household, well that was another matter entirely. Her position meant that while she was, essentially, a servant, the other servants did not view her that way. They were slightly suspicious of her, because of her closeness to the Mistress of the house, and because of this they kept their distance. Hestia, who had had a small circle of friends in Cornwall, had felt desperately lonely since her arrival in London, and now she felt even more so as she longed to discuss the dark and handsome Marquess who had spent an agonising few minutes running his hands through her hair.
Thank goodness for Henry, the King Charles Cavalier that Lady Bedford had insisted she take with her to keep her company. Henry followed her everywhere like a shadow, even sleeping at the foot of the bed in her narrow room on the top floor. When she was not required to accompany Jane out, Hestia often took the excitable dog to Green Park, where he could happily run around the wide, open fields to his heart's content.
That morning Jane had left the house early, accompanied by her wretched sister-in-law Emily. The two were gone to Hawkfield House, in St James' Square, to call on the Duchess of Hawkfield. Much to everyone's surprise, Jane and Lord Payne, had announced that they were to be married a few days previously. Hestia was thrilled for her friend, who she knew was ridiculed by her brother and his new wife for being a spinster, at having won the heart of London's most eligible bachelor. She was also thrilled because the fuss around Jane's engagement meant that Hestia had more free time to explore London.
The fashionable streets around the Deveraux's Berkeley Square home held little appeal for Hestia, who was slightly intimidated by the grand gentlemen and elegant ladies who paraded by. Instead she found herself pulled toward Green Park, where wide open fields filled with cows who grazed the grass, reminded her of home.
That morning she wandered off the path of the Queen's Walk and settled herself under a tree, allowing Henry to gambol about in the long grass before her. She settled the book she had brought with her onto her lap, turned it open to the first page, and promptly fell into a daydream -- a daydream which featured a man who looked remarkably like the Marquess of Falconbridge.
"Stop. Stop. Stop." She whispered aloud, once she realised what she was doing. Had she learned nothing from her mother? Men, especially darkly, handsome ones like the Marquess, brought nothing but trouble --and Lord Delaney had already proven himself to be more than troublesome. She should have more sense than to fantasise about a man like he; a pompous, overbearing, bossy --
"I thought I recognised that bonnet."
A shadow fell over the pages of her book and Hestia looked up to see that the very man she had been inwardly insulting towering above her.
"My Lord," she stuttered, after a moment of shocked silence. "What are you doing here?"
"I might ask you the same thing."
Lord Delaney folded his arms across his chest and glared down at her, his handsome face a picture of annoyance. Confused by his anger, Hestia glanced left and right of the tree she sat under, searching for something that said she should not be there, but seeing nothing she simply replied; "I am reading, my Lord, as you can see."
"Yes, I see," the Marquess's words were like ice, matching the glacial blue of his eyes. "Reading. Alone. In Green Park."
Hestia felt as if she was missing the vital piece of information that was making the Marquess so irate. True, she was reading a book in the park, but where was the crime in that?
"Yes," she picked up the book, "It's a rather good book actually, if you don't mind I'd like to finish it."
She knew that she was being rude, and she was certain that she should not speak to a man of such high rank as the Marquess in so impertinent a manner, but so as to avoid his smouldering gaze she returned her eyes to the page.
"I do mind."
The book was plucked from her grasp, forcing her to look upward at the man who had so rudely stolen it. "In fact, I mind very much. Green Park is no place for a lady to be alone. It is dangerous."
"Dangerous?"
As though to underscore the ridiculousness of his statement, Henry, tail wagging, came bounding over toward them in keen pursuit of a butterfly. Both Hestia and the Marquess watched silently as the Cavalier gave up his chase of the colourful insect and lay down lazily in the grass, which was littered with cheerful looking daisies and cowslips. Hestia tried to hide her delight as a small tinge of pink coloured Falconbridge's cheeks as he registered that the unfolding scene had completely contradicted what he had just said. His embarrassment would almost have been endearing, if the man himself hadn't been so intimidating.
Lord Delaney was over six foot tall, with broad shoulders, muscular legs and an athletic frame that was encased in the most impeccable, fashionable attire. Attire that Hestia estimated probably cost many times more than her yearly wage. All this would have been tolerable if it were not for his face, which was so sinfully handsome it was almost painful to look at. He was all hard angles --high cheekbones and a strong jaw --but they were softened somewhat by his eyes--a startling blue framed by black lashes-- as well as his hair which was dark, with a slight curl. He reminded Hestia somewhat of the paintings of angels one saw in the galleries in town, and she could see why the papers had dubbed him The Marquess of Temptation, for everything about him was tempting and lush.
"Yes," the Marquess continued, his jaw set stubbornly, "Despite appearances, Green Park can be a hotbed for criminal activity. I won't rest easy until I see you safely home. I could not bear the thought of a lady, such as yourself, coming to any harm."
"But I am not a lady," Hestia gently reminded him, her thoughts flashing to the newspaper article on her father. She was the daughter of a privateer, born out of scandal, she was the furthest thing possible from a lady.
"Says who?"
The Marquess quirked an eyebrow, an act that seemed to let loose a colony of butterflies in Hestia's stomach.
"Says everyone," she laughed nervously, standing to her feet. "Society, Lady Jarvis; why if the patronesses of Almack's were to interview me, they would say it too. I am no Lady, my Lord, though I am a Lady's companion and that is good enough for me."
She gave a light laugh, trying to brush off the awkwardness of the conversation --why, oh why, had she not simply ignored his initial remark? Now he was staring at her thoughtfully, in a way that made her feel ridiculously thrilled and overwhelmingly nervous, all at the same time.
"You are every inch the lady, Miss Bowstock," he finally replied solemnly. He hesitated, as though he wanted to say more, but looked down at Henry instead. "Though this little chap is no gentleman."
Indeed, during the course of their conversation, Henry had decided that the Marquess's gleaming Hessians looked good enough to eat. The small dog was licking them with great determination, as though sensing that at one stage in their lifetime, the boots had previously been an edible animal.
"Oh, Henry," Hestia gave a sigh, and scooped the small offender up into her arms. "You must not lick the Marquess's boots, it's naughty."
"Does he respond well to verbal reasoning?" there was a note of amusement in Lord Delaney's voice that made the corners of Hestia's lips tug into an involuntary smile.
"He does not," she grinned, "Henry only responds to bribes. Food is his first preference, affection comes in a close second."
"Then he is like every other man in the world."
For a few seconds they both stood in the tall grass, grinning stupidly at each other. Hestia, who had never spent any time alone with a man, wondered if this would be considered flirting.
How wrong I was about him, she thought with surprise, annoyed with herself for having misjudged him so.
"Enough chit chat," the Marquess's tone was suddenly brusque, "As I was saying Green Park is no place for a woman to be alone. Come, I will take you back to Berkeley Square."
"And as I was saying, I have no need to be escorted anywhere, my Lord," Hestia bristled at his tone, her affectionate thoughts evaporating as he once again assumed the air of an entitled Lord. "You would do me more harm than good escorting me home, how would I explain your presence if anyone from the household saw you?"
"I hope someone sees me," Falconbridge drawled, "For I want to have words with Miss Deveraux on her lack of concern for your safety."
Never before had Hestia felt so overwhelmed with frustration; it was like conversing with a brick wall. A stubborn headed, arrogant, pompous brick wall. She knew that no matter what she said, the Marquess would not listen, so, sensing she had no other choice, she turned on her heel and began to stalk away.
"Where are you going?"
Hestia ignored his irritated call and continued on her path across the field. Henry, who was still in her arms, wriggled in a valiant attempt to escape her clutches and return to the Marquess --but she held tight. She did not once look over her shoulder to see if the Marquess was following her, but she knew that he was from the annoyed sighs she heard as he shadowed her steps. When she reached the Queen's Walk, a stone path that ran the length of the park, she saw a huge, dark stallion tethered to the gate post. From its impressive gleaming coat and its sheer magnificence, Hestia assumed that the horse belonged to Lord Delaney. She did not wait for him to untie the beast, instead she continued on with great determination --she would reach Berkeley Square without the Marquess's assistance.
She crossed at Piccadilly, weaving her way through the carriages and carts that thronged the street with Henry still in her arms. Mayfair was a short stroll away, Hestia hurried along the much quieter Clarges Street, where finally she dared to look behind her. He was gone; she breathed a sigh of relief. He must have lost sight of her at Piccadilly -- thank goodness for that. She set Henry down on the footpath and as she did so realised that she had left her book behind her in the park.
Drat, she thought with annoyance. The book, a small leather-bound volume, had detailed Napoleon's exploits in Egypt at the start of the century and his surrender of Cairo to the English. It wasn't her usual reading material, but Jane had told her that it delved into the disappearance of several ancient artifacts during the military transition, artifacts that were thought to have been stolen from the Navy by pirates.
Instantly Hestia's mind had leapt to the newspaper article on her father, and how he was supposed to have carried out daring raids on Navy ships at that time. Truthfully, the book had been rather a bore, filled with analysis of military tactics and it had not mentioned her father once, but it had reignited her zeal for finding out what had happened to him that fateful night.
She glanced back toward Piccadilly, thinking that she might return to the park to collect the novel, but her eyes caught a glimpse of a tall man on horseback at the far end of the road.
Drat him anyway, she sighed, picking Henry back up and hurrying toward home; it would have to wait for another day.