Lavinia sat stubbornly on the bed, arms folded over her chest as Louisa continued sorting and folding her clothes. Her open trunk was half full, and she kept slanting significant glances in Lavinia’s direction that said all too clearly her sister should do the same.
Resign herself to leaving London and do her packing.
Lavinia refused. Even though the hour was growing late. Even though Mr. Rowland hadn’t answered her summons.
She’d waited all through dinner for Brobson to come into the dining room and announce an addition to their party.
But Mr. Rowland had not come. She was starting to fear he hadn’t gotten her note.
Or that he’d given up entirely. No longer cared for her.
For some reason, those two notions stung more than the thought of going home.
“Vivi, no need to frown and dwell on these matters,” Louisa said, her voice full of false cheer. “Going home means we won’t have to endure another night like Saturday or ever have to set foot in Almack’s again.”
“But Lady Wakefield promised to call tomorrow, and I am most certain she will be able to help us.”
Louisa’s reply was only a sad shake of her head.
So Lavinia curled tighter into a ball and chose to ignore her sister’s industry.
Nor did she do much more than glance at the door when one of the maids scratched at it and popped her head in.
“Miss,” she said, looking from Louisa to Lavinia. “Ur, His Lordship would like to see you in the library.”
This got Lavinia to her feet. “He does?” Tuck! He’d come to rescue her.
Rather, Mr. Rowland had come to her aid.
“Um, well, he asked for Miss Louisa,” the girl posed carefully, looking again from one sister to the other.
Louisa? Lavinia stilled, then dropped back down on her narrow bed.
“Me?” her sister asked. “I don’t see why—”
“His Lordship is in the library,” the girl said, rushing along now that she’d found the right miss.
“I hardly feel like a game of chess with all I have to do, but it would be rude to turn down the baron when he’s been nothing but kind to us,” Louisa said. Then, with a sigh of resignation, she nodded to the maid and turned to Lavinia. She looked about to say something more, but then changed her mind and left in silence.
Which was just as well. Lavinia didn’t want to hear it.
Glancing about the room, the heavy weight of resignation fell down upon her. Truly, there was nothing to be done but pack, but oh, how she hated giving up.
Losing all she’d ever wanted since that fateful day—the one the beautiful and vivacious Lady Tempest had chosen to leave them.
How was that her one and only memory of her mother?
And why did it have to be so clear? So piercing in the detail. She’d stood all alone at the nursery window, watching as her mother had come dashing out of the house, valise in hand, and climbed hastily into the open carriage that had pulled into the drive just moments earlier.
And then the pair, Mama and the man who’d been coming to the house to give Lady Tempest dancing lessons, had driven off.
Her mother hadn’t even looked up at the house. Bothered to check the nursery window. Just put her back to her children and husband and left.
And even at that tender age, Lavinia had known what it all meant. Not that it had stopped her from wishing with all her heart, Look back, Mama, look back and see me, so you will know you’ve made a mistake.
But Lady Tempest never had. Looked back. Or returned, for that matter. Rather there had been the story put about of her being lost in a carriage accident, but even that hadn’t carried a ring of truth to Lavinia.
Later, the whispers at social gatherings and such had all but confirmed what Lavinia suspected.
“Accident indeed!”
“Poor dears. So blighted by that woman.”
“It’s a favor she did, never returning. Such a shameful business.”
And when her mother had finally perished—in Italy, of a fever, all alone, having been long since abandoned by her lover, Louisa had seen the post when it arrived.
And later found it, tucked in the far back of Papa’s desk drawer.
She knew she shouldn’t, but she’d stolen it and secretly translated what the priest from Verona had written, the Italian dictionary in the library helping her make out the gist of the man’s words.
Signore, I regretfully write you to tell you of the passing of your wife.
Instead of feeling the shame of her mother’s actions, her mother’s scandal, what had torn Lavinia’s heart in half was the shock and grief on her father’s face when that letter had arrived.
The quiet fortnight retreat he’d made into his own private hell had aged him more than the past ten years of shame ever had.
Lavinia had vowed, after she’d put all the pieces together, that she would atone for all those sins. She would go to London, make a brilliant match—just as their mother had done—then she—Lavinia—would be the perfect wife, with never a thought to desert her children, her house, her husband.
She would erase the pain and disgrace her mother had caused. By her own good example, she’d show them all that she hadn’t an iota of her mother’s taint to her, there would be no more need to whisper behind a flutter of fans every time she entered a room.
Thus was born her list of all that was proper and ladylike. Like a mariner’s compass, it pointed her life in a direction that would never allow for error, a single misstep.
That is, until she’d arrived at Almack’s. And everything she’d worked for, every lesson, every adherence to propriety had been lost in just that—a single misstep.
Granted, more like a colossal tumble—but nonetheless now she was branded with the sins of her mother.
Punished to a spinsterhood that would leave her as a cautionary tale to all young ladies and a subject of conjecture and suspicions rather than the example of good sense and proper principles that she’d always strived to be.
Her list. Her beloved list, all that hard work, all those lessons, for naught.
Worse, there was Roselie’s suggestion that she and Tuck suited each other.
She pressed her lips together. Why, that was utter madness. They. Did. Not. Suit.
Tap.
Lavinia paused.
Tap. Tap.
She turned toward the window. Tap.
Puzzled, she went to it and pushed open the curtain. Down in the garden, she could see a man prodding around in the dirt with the toe of his boot. Retrieving a stone he’d dislodged, he looked up and paused when he saw her standing there.
A wicked grin lit his face. A decidedly improper one.
And she knew just how improper such an expression that was, for to be a proper lady, one needed to know exactly what wickedness looked like.
And Alaster Rowland was the epitome of everything that was scandalous about a man—standing there in the moonlight—his cravat loose and open, his coat unbuttoned, and his boots now muddy from the garden.
He looked more like a highwayman come to steal the silver than the gentleman he was purported to be.
Besides, gentlemen didn’t come throwing stones at the window of a lady’s bedchamber.
How utterly indecorous, she told herself. How very Tuck.
So why did she want to climb down the drainpipe and dash across the bit of lawn toward him?
Doing exactly what her mother did . . .
Setting her jaw, she pushed the window open with only one thought. Send the rogue packing.
“Come down.” His request—it wasn’t so much a request as a command, an expectation—teased her with temptation.
“I will not.” She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. She stole another glance down at him, telling herself she needed to confirm to herself who he was—a rogue. A knave. Not to be trusted.
And yet he called to her. Loosened a part of her that had been buried deeply ever since the day her mother had taken flight.
“I have good news.”
She doubted that—at least the sensible part did. Her heart, on the other hand, chimed happily at those words.
Good news.
Oh, but being a proper lady meant one had to listen to sensibility and propriety. Not the wavering and fickle breezes of a suddenly unreliable organ.
“Have you found me a likely match?” That was after all what their agreement was: for him to find her a suitable parti. “Well, have you?”
“Um, no,” he admitted, his boots shuffling in the dirt beneath him.
“Are my vouchers to Almack’s to be restored?”
His gaze rolled toward the stars. “Don’t really see why anyone would want them in the first place. Almack’s is nothing more than a den of dreadful—”
“Have you or haven’t you?” she pressed.
Again, he shuffled uncomfortably. “No, I haven’t got any vouchers.”
Harrumph. She crossed her arms over her bosom and frowned. “Have you come with a salver full of invitations?”
He groaned as well, one hand raking through his hair, leaving it all tousled. At the sight of him thusly—bareheaded and anxious—her fingers flexed in a desire to straighten the untidy curls at his brow, smooth out the furrow.
Which was hardly a proper thought, she realized, banishing it to the dark reaches of her heart and tightening her fingers into a hard ball.
There wasn’t a single reason to become softhearted over the perpetually unrepentant likes of Alaster Rowland.
None. Whatsoever.
Save when he looked so undone as he did now . . .
“Sir, I asked—”
“Yes, yes, I heard you. And you can very well see that I don’t have any bloody salvers or knights in shining armor tucked up my sleeve.” He shook out both arms just to make his point. “Besides, you summoned me.”
Lavinia’s lips pursed together. He would have to bring that up.
Nor was he about to let it alone. “So it is only good and proper that you come down here.”
“I don’t see how you can say you come bearing good news. No suitors. No invitations. No vouchers.” She paused, suddenly distracted. “Oh, good heavens, is that button still loose?”
“Wha-a-a-t?”
“The button on your coat—is it still loose from earlier?”
“I imagine it is,” he told her, looking down and, to her horror, plucking the poor thing free of his coat. “It is in worst straits now.” He held it up for her to see, looking most woebegone.
Oh, heavens no. The only thing worse than a button hanging by a thread in her estimation was one tugged completely free. Now it just begged to be lost.
Botheration, considering everyone said Tuck Rowland had pockets to let, it only figured that they would also have holes in them.
Why didn’t he just cast that perfectly good silver button into the gutter and be done with it?
Lavinia shuddered, thinking of Proper Rule No. 23.
One must keep one’s garments in a state of proper repair to avoid an appearance of dilapidation.
Down below, Tuck coughed to get her attention. “Forget the demmed button, will you? Just come down to the garden.” Each word was bitten off as if he was barely holding in his frustration.
He was frustrated? He wasn’t the one being sent off in disgrace.
“Just come down and hear me out.” After a pause, he added, “Please. After all, you did ask for my help.”
Bother that horrible moment of weakness, she cursed.
“Why would I want to do something utterly ruinous and improper as all that?” It was an irrational argument considering she’d been sneaking off with Mr. Rowland for days, but she was in a mulish mood.
Hence her refusal to pack. Or vacate Lord Charleton’s house. Or quit London.
But to his credit, he didn’t point out the fault in her logic. No, he went back to what he did best. Coaxing.
“Livy, I have a plan,” he said offhandedly, his words rising with all the right notes of a piper meant to lure her astray. “You won’t have to leave London. I promise.”
Not leave? It was too good to be true.
Still, wasn’t that exactly why she’d written her desperate note in the first place? So he would come and rescue her?
“This won’t take but five minutes, Livy. Please. Hear me out.”
Lavinia wavered. Why was it every time he called her “Livy,” something unfurled inside her.
An unwilling surrender of sorts.
“Though,” he added, “what I have to suggest might be slightly improper.”
Oh, there was something about the way he said that word, improper, that left her shivering. Much as she did when he held her in his arms.
Improper and Tuck seemed to go hand in hand. The man probably knew every way to define it. Act upon it.
Lead her to it. She shivered anew, her knees quaking slightly.
“Then again,” he was saying. “I was wrong to come to you. Given your strict adherence to your list. Perhaps it is best that you return to Kibble.”
“Kempton,” she corrected without thought. But how that word and all it meant jarred her. Kempton.
Her eyes closed, but all she saw before her was a spinster’s cold and lonely existence.
It was also enough to nudge her past her pride, past her list—but just this once more. Slowly, she opened her eyes, only to find that he had turned to leave. “Is this new plan anything like your last one? The one that left me alone and humiliated at Lady Gourley’s?”
At least at this he had the decency to look properly contrite as he glanced over his shoulder. “I will admit that wasn’t my best-laid endeavor.”
Harrumph. An utter shambles would be a more accurate description.
“But this time,” he continued as he returned to the spot under her window, “I have a proposition I know will work. At least it’s worked before.”
“A proposition?” Oh, she just bet he had one of those. He probably had half a dozen or so such propositions planned for the remainder of his evening.
Harrumph. She went to close the sash.
“No. No. No. Miss Tempest, you misunderstand. Please listen.”
Not Lavinia. Not Livy. But Miss Tempest. All proper and quite respectable.
For some reason, that left her even more vexed. She rather liked being his Livy. Not his, precisely, but . . . well, it was hard explain.
Or understand.
But it was there. That desire. That need. To hear him call to her in that terribly familiar, overly improper manner.
For it suited. More than she cared to admit.
“I don’t need to do anything but finish packing,” she told him, turning to look over her shoulder as if she had mountains piled about her.
Not that he could see she hadn’t even opened her trunk, or the clothes-press, or even a drawer.
“Livy, sweet Livy, you cannot give up. You haven’t it in you.”
And there it was. Livy. She was his Livy again. Her heart pattered rebelliously.
He stepped closer to the house and looked up at her. “Packing is a waste of your time. Come down, and I’ll tell you why.” After a moment, he glanced up again, a wry grin on his face. “Please, Livy?”
“You shouldn’t call me that,” she muttered under her breath. Because when he did, oh, how it tugged at her in the most dangerous ways.
She glanced over her shoulder at Louisa’s half packed trunk and her own unopened one sitting at the foot of her bed.
Truly, what were her choices? Give up and fold gowns or go listen to whatever outlandish nonsense Tuck Rowland had come up with now.
You did ask for this . . .
Lavinia shook away that thought and told herself that she certainly hadn’t asked him to show up so late and in such an unsuitable fashion.
Why couldn’t he knock at the front door like a gentleman?
Because he’s a knave, and right now, that’s exactly what you need.
Needed? At that, Lavinia took a step back from the window. “Perhaps it is best if I just left London and saved you all the trouble.”
“Leave? Heaven forbid!” Tuck declared, trying his best not to look as panicked as he felt. Leave? Was she mad?
With her sister all but matched to Piers, he was halfway to winning his wager.
All he needed was a bit of luck, a likely gentleman to shower some attention on Livy, give her an enviable boost up in society, then . . .
Something icy knifed through him at that thought, but he had to push it aside.
No, he must play the hand he’d been dealt. Besides, Brody and Lady Wakefield had passed him the winning card.
One he’d be a fool not to play.
“Don’t see why I would want to stay,” she was saying.
“What is all this?” Tuck wasn’t a gambler for nothing, and he had the sense she was bluffing. “You hardly strike me as someone who gives up so easily.”
“I’m not,” she told him, bristling a bit at the implication. “But—”
“No ‘buts.’” He began to dig into his jacket and fished out the note she’d sent. Holding it up like the most damning bit of evidence ever produced, he said, “The lady who wrote this had no intention of being sent home in disgrace.”
She flinched. Good. She should.
“That was hours ago,” she shot back. “Speaking of which, what took so long?”
“I had a matter to take care of with Piers, then I came straightaway.”
She hardly looked impressed. Which meant his most proper, list-at-the-ready miss was girding herself for battle.
As she ought to. For she had a battle in front of her.
Yet when she didn’t so much as move or reply, or toss down another parry, he continued his explanation. “Yes, well, it would have been a shameful waste not to partake in dinner at Piers’s when it was all laid and waiting to be eaten.” He sighed with pleasure as if recalling every bite. “How the devil did your sister get the infamous Mrs. Petchell to cook for my cousin?”
“I believe Lady Aveley helped. But then again, Louisa can be quite persistent.”
“She’d have to be to charm my cousin as she obviously has.”
“Charmed him? Whatever are you implying?”
He grinned at her. “Come down, and I’ll tell you.”
She wasn’t so easily persuaded. Instead, she sniffed and crossed her arms over her bosom in a stubborn declaration.
Impossible minx. But he had a few tricks up his sleeve. Including a few improper ones.
Shrugging off his jacket, he tossed it aside and came stalking through the flower garden to the side of the house.
She might be a stubborn miss, but she was also incurably curious, for she leaned out the window almost immediately. “Whatever are you doing? You’ll trample Lord Charleton’s prized peonies if you aren’t careful.”
“Then he will have only you to blame. If you won’t come down and have a civil conversation with me,” he told her, spitting on his hands and rubbing them together, “then I shall just come up.” He caught hold of the drainpipe and put his foot on a stone that jutted out a bit and hoisted himself up.
She leaned out the window, gaping at him. “What? You mustn’t! You shouldn’t!”
“It isn’t like I haven’t climbed into that window before.”
“You’ll fall. Quite possibly break your neck.”
He shrugged. “Not to mention the state I’ll leave the peonies in.”
“Mr. Rowland, you climb right back down this very moment.”
“What? Don’t you want some help packing?” He climbed a little higher.
“No!” She heaved a sigh. “Oh, sir, you’ll leave me ruined.”
“I already did,” he reminded her.
“Worse than ruined,” she protested.
He wasn’t too sure what was “worse than ruined,” but he suspected if he asked, she’d tell him.
She probably had a bloody list.
“I am going to continue climbing until you agree to come down and hear my plans.”
“Not if I lock the window,” she said, hands going to the window frame. “Or throw a vase at you.” She disappeared for a moment and returned, brandishing yet another vase.
Oh, hell. She would.
Leave him clinging to the drainpipe a good two floors above the ground or worse, laid low by a well-flung piece of crockery.
“Then I’d have to call for help,” he told her. “It would be devilishly embarrassing to explain how you wrote me a note and pleaded for me to come to you . . .”
“No one will believe you.”
“I have a missive that begs otherwise.”
“That is blackmail!” she declared, but, notably, she relinquished the vase.
“I suppose it is,” he told her.
“And hardly proper.”
“Decidedly improper.” He winked and began to edge a little higher.
And apparently high enough for her. For she made a loud harrumph, crossed her arms again and in a sense, surrendered. “I will come down. But for no more than”—she seemed to be considering the scenario—“well, five minutes—you can hardly cause much scandal or ruin in that amount of time.” With that, she turned and left the window.
Tuck sighed with relief and climbed back down.
Nor did he point out the real flaw in her logic.
There were plenty of ruinous things he could do to a lady in five minutes.
He’d even give her a list.