Fool for Love Page 5

  “Hogwash,” Henrietta said bluntly. “No one cares about the color of your hair if you can’t have children.”

  “Mr. Gell heard of a new doctor,” Imogen reminded her. “That bone doctor in Swindon. Perhaps he’ll know what to do.”

  “Papa dragged me to every doctor within forty miles, and they all said exactly the same thing. If I carry a child, I’ll likely die in the birth and the child as well. It’s better to face the truth, not keep dreaming of a new doctor who might say differently.”

  Imogen pressed her lips together and for a moment she looked as commanding as a Roman goddess. Or her late father. “I won’t settle for it,” she said. “There’ll be a doctor who can cure you. You’ll see.”

  Henrietta laughed. “I don’t want a husband.”

  “You are always clucking at babies,” Imogen said, sounding unconvinced.

  “No, I am not,” Henrietta said, rather nauseated by the old-maid image. Did she really spend her life clucking at other people’s babies? A familiar sense of despair clutched her around the heart. It was so unfair.

  If only she were like those fashionable women who had no interest in their offspring. Lady Fairburn boasted that she never saw her children but twice a year. Said it was the best way to raise them. And the oh-so-splendid Mr. Darby didn’t even recognize his own sweet sister.

  That was the crux of it: she, Henrietta Maclellan, was cursed with a passion for children and a hip that prevented her from bearing them. She was doing her absolute best to convince herself that running the village school was an adequate substitute. And she was blessed—as she tried to remind herself often—with sufficient brain to see how tiresome husbands could be.

  “If I had a husband, my life would be utterly tedious,” she pointed out. “I would have to pretend that I thought his talk of ferrets and hunting dogs was interesting. Men are self-absorbed idiots. Take that Darby, for instance. He was so absorbed by his own consequence that he actually tried to play his London manners off on me—me!”

  “That’s why you are wearing your crape,” Imogen crowed. “I should have guessed immediately! Is he terribly handsome? Emilia told me that all the girls in London were longing to dance with him. With a single compliment, he could make you one of the most eligible ladies in London.”

  “A more conceited man I never saw,” Henrietta said dampeningly. “You should have seen how pained he looked when he realized that his neck cloth was crumpled.”

  “Darby must have seen how lovely you are. Did he compliment you? Is that why you’re wearing your best dress?”

  Henrietta burst out laughing. “Oh, Imogen, give over! Why on earth would I change my apparel because a frenchified London beau was rusticating in Wiltshire? The man has no interest in me. And—more to the point—I have none in him. I decided yesterday that I would wear my crape. As I told you, I decided that I’m not saving anything for a better occasion.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Imogen said mulishly.

  “My hip is really a blessing in disguise,” Henrietta told her skeptical sister. “Papa would have married me off the very year I debuted—”

  “You didn’t debut.”

  “I would have, if I hadn’t this infirmity. And I should have been married off to the highest bidder, likely a man who couldn’t remember my name and simply wanted Papa’s estate, given as most of it is so obligingly unentailed. By now I’d be a lamentably bored woman.”

  “I was married before I debuted,” Millicent put in. “And I’m not bored at all. I’ve had two of the loveliest daughters in Christendom to care for, and what what’s more, Henrietta, I always found your father’s conversation very interesting. He didn’t just discuss ferrets; he was a veritable mine of information on the subject.”

  Henrietta grinned at her stepmother. “You would find that fascinating, darling, because you are the sweetest-tempered woman in this country. But I cannot countenance a droning discussion of hunting in the morning, only to be equaled by the tedium of a list of executed animals recited over supper. I’m afraid my temper would get the better of me.”

  “Only because you haven’t fallen in love,” Millicent replied.

  “Likely if you had made a debut, you would have fallen in love your very first season,” Imogen said dreamily. “A handsome duke would have swept you off your feet and married you out of hand.” When Imogen forgot to be irritating, she was a passionate romantic.

  “There are no handsome dukes,” Henrietta said, laughing. “They’re all decrepit.” She tried to imagine herself, going to London and being feted by ancient gentlemen. And by all the fortune hunters, a sharp little voice in her head pointed out. After all, her father’s title had gone to a distant cousin, but the unentailed portions of his estate had made her an heiress.

  She would have spent her time receiving flowers and gifts and dancing with gentlemen as exquisite as Darby. She almost laughed at the thought. Darby was far too dangerously beautiful himself. Who would ever want to consider such a man as a husband?

  Imogen was still deep in the fantasy she was weaving. “You’d be married to a duke by now, Henrietta, with nothing to do but go to grand balls and dance with your husband. Perhaps with Mr. Darby!”

  “Darby is not a duke,” Henrietta objected. “Moreover, I shouldn’t wish to fall in love with a man who cares more for his lace neck cloth than his little sister.”

  Imogen shrugged. “He’s a London gentleman, Henrietta. He’s not a homebody like you. Just imagine if you had debuted, then married Darby. Those children would be yours to care for!”

  Henrietta’s heart almost turned over at the thought. Children—and without risking her life to have them. Little bald Anabel and scowling Josie.

  “Rumor is that he doesn’t have a penny to fly with,” Imogen continued. “At least, he won’t if Lady Rawlings has a boy, because then he’ll lose his uncle’s inheritance. At the moment he’s just an heir apparent.”

  “I dislike that sort of gossip,” the dowager countess said.

  “He’s not exactly dressed in rags,” Henrietta observed.

  “I must look my best,” Imogen announced. “Just think how marvelous it would be if he paid me notice. Sylvia Farley would expire of jealousy. Do you think that I should ask Crace to curl my hair?” The sisters shared a lady’s maid, Crace.

  “Why on earth would you do that?” Henrietta said. “Your hair curls beautifully on its own.”

  Imogen looked at herself in the glass and frowned. “It’s not very regular. Sylvia’s hair lies in the most marvelous ringlets, rows of them right down her back. She said that her maid did it with a hot iron.”

  “I wouldn’t bother. We have to leave in twenty minutes or so, and Crace gets frightfully bad-tempered when she’s rushed. I may not have debuted,” Henrietta said with an impish smile, “but you will be doing so this spring, Imogen. Perhaps Darby will fall in love with you and marry you out of hand.”

  Imogen looked surprised. “It’s all very well to dance with the man, and I should like a compliment that would bring me into fashion. But I wouldn’t want to marry him.”

  “Why on earth not?” Henrietta asked, picturing Darby’s elegant physique and broad shoulders.

  “He’s too old. Why, the man must be well over thirty—perhaps even forty! Mother’s age, not mine. In fact, he probably has to retire to his chamber directly after supper.” She cast a darkling look at her mother, who had committed the unforgivable crime of dragging Imogen away from Lady Whippleseer’s gala before light dawned in the east.

  “He didn’t seem very old to me,” Henrietta said. But thinking of his practiced gallantry, she added: “I think you’re right. He’s far too much of a—a rake to be a good marriage prospect. He says farewell by kissing just the very tips of one’s fingers.”

  “Wait till he meets Selina,” Imogen said with a happy gleam of mischief in her eye. “She’ll bust her seams if he kisses her fingertips!”

  “Imogen!” said her mama. “Behave yourself!”


  Imogen only giggled.

  7

  Lady Rawlings Hosts an Evening at Home

  The first person Esme saw when she walked into her drawing room that evening was her nephew, Darby, being entertained by one of the local matrons, Selina Davenport. Mrs. Davenport was holding court before the great windows at the end of the room, throwing her head back in such a way that her breasts practically fell out of her gown and made themselves a present to Darby.

  “Oh Lord,” she moaned.

  “Mrs. Davenport made a beeline for him,” Helene murmured with a little chuckle. “I gather that she is determined to snare the fine gentleman who opportunely strayed into our midst.”

  To Esme’s irritation, Darby looked engrossed. He couldn’t be finding Selina’s conversation so absorbing. Selina seemed to have only two topics: herself and her prowess at various activities. Some of which even occurred outside the bedchamber.

  “Darby!” Esme said, approaching him from behind.

  He turned with a start and bowed, kissing her hand. “My dear aunt,” he murmured.

  His voice was cool. Helene is right, Esme thought to herself. He did come to see if I’m carrying a bastard.

  Selina swept a curtsy that exposed her breasts to the whole world. Never mind the fact that Esme herself was prone to magnificent displays of her chest. That was before she embarked on her career as a circus elephant.

  “My goodness,” Selina said with an arch smile. “I hope you don’t mind my mentioning, my dear Lady Rawlings, that you are simply growing more”—she hesitated—“more beauteous every day.”

  Esme smiled at her, a dagger keen smile honed by swimming the dangerous currents of London society for eight years. “That is so kind of you,” she cooed, “especially given that you undoubtedly met so many beautiful women in the years before I made my debut.”

  Selina’s smile snapped shut like a fan.

  Esme turned back to her nephew. “Darby, shall we take a turn around the room? I am hoping that you can make a long stay with me, and this is a perfect occasion to introduce you to some of my local acquaintances.”

  They walked toward the other side of the room.

  “Lady Rawlings, I trust we do not intrude,” Darby said. “I hoped that the children would be the better for country air, but we needn’t rely on your hospitality.”

  “Oh please, do call me Esme,” she said. “We are far away from the formalities of London, and we are family, after all.”

  He looked a little taken aback at that. “Of course,” he murmured. “And you must call me Simon.”

  “How is little Josie? Miles told me that she had a particularly difficult time accepting your stepmother’s death, poor little thing.”

  “He did?” Darby looked faintly surprised.

  “Well, yes,” Esme said. “He was quite distressed to think of the difficulties you would face becoming an unexpected parent. I only hope I can do as well as you, given that I must raise this little one without Miles.”

  Darby looked down at Lady Rawlings’s hand, resting on the great mound of her stomach.

  She was pregnant, all right. He’d never seen anyone so pregnant in his entire life. The elegant leader of the ton was swollen up like someone about to give birth in a day or two. It must be an illegitimate child. Miles certainly hadn’t slept with his wife before going to that blasted house party in July.

  Something must have shown in his face because she led him into the hall and from there into the library.

  “Why are you here, Simon?” Esme said, sitting down on a velvet couch. He just looked down at her for a second, nonplussed by the change in his aunt’s appearance. He remembered her as a sensual goddess, all luscious curves and glossy black curls. Now she looked bloated and tired and altogether unattractive.

  Suddenly before he could speak, she said: “I am carrying Miles’s child.”

  Darby bowed. “I never doubted it for a moment.”

  “Yes, you did.” Her eyes twinkled, and for a moment Darby felt the pull of the glorious woman whom all London had called the Aphrodite when she debuted. “I don’t blame you. But I am carrying Miles’s child. He wanted an heir, you know.”

  “I know that,” Darby said.

  “So we agreed to a rapprochement,” she said, unconsciously echoing his words to Gerard Bunge. “But I had no idea—no idea!—that Miles’s heart was so frail.” She looked up at him, and her eyes were suddenly brimming with tears. “You have to believe me. I would never have agreed to…to heir-making if I thought it would endanger his health.”

  Darby blinked. Perhaps he was wrong, and the child was legitimate.

  His aunt was still talking. “Even if the child is male, I shall not disinherit you. We’ll get around the entail somehow. Miles would not have wished it.”

  Darby suddenly saw through the aura of sensuality that his aunt had always carried around her like a suit of armor. He saw her anxious eyes, heard her words, and realized that he knew nothing of his uncle and aunt’s marriage. The chilling truth was that her child likely was his uncle’s own babe.

  He sat down and said, flatly, “I owe you an apology, Lady Rawlings. Shamefully, I did come because I questioned whether Miles could be the child’s father. I am deeply sorry that I ever doubted you.”

  “Please call me Esme,” she said, putting her hand on his. “I completely understand your suspicions. I would have doubted myself. The fact is that it was a very recent arrangement between Miles and myself. And I simply can’t understand why he didn’t tell me about his heart. I know that we were estranged, but to risk his life in that fashion—”

  “He wanted a child desperately,” Darby put in. “If Miles thought there was a way to secure an heir, he would not have considered the risk too high.”

  Esme’s hand tightened around his. Her eyes were painfully earnest and, Darby noticed with alarm, still swimming with tears. “Do you really think so? I can’t stop thinking that if he had simply told me about his heart condition, he would be here at this very moment.” Tears welled up and spilled over.

  Darby patted her shoulder. “It’s all right,” he said.

  “No, it’s not all right,” she replied in a strangled voice. “It’s not all right! I am quite certain that he strained his heart that evening, and that’s why it failed when, when—”

  “It is unfortunate that Marquess Bonnington mistook your chamber and entered the room. The shock seems to have precipitated a heart attack. But Miles himself told me that the doctor had given him an ultimatum—”

  “I know!” she wailed. “I went to the doctor after Miles died, and he said that Miles was not supposed to—to have—to have—but Miles didn’t tell me!” She collapsed against Darby’s shoulder.

  It was decidedly odd to feel her huge ball of a stomach pressing against his side. “Even if he had told you, it wouldn’t have made any difference. The doctor had only given him until the end of the summer.”

  “The doctor told me as well. I simply cannot believe that Miles didn’t tell me—that.”

  “Not Miles,” Darby said. “He disliked making people sad. He didn’t tell you because he didn’t want to make you unhappy.”

  That brought on a fresh onslaught of tears. Her voice was falling to pieces now, and he could only catch tangled bits of language, about how Miles was too good for her, truly, and she would never, ever—something—and….

  He stroked her shoulder silently. He would have unequivocally stated that his aunt and uncle had no marriage at all, that they barely spoke and couldn’t tolerate each other’s company. But he was clearly wrong.

  Esme was grieving for Miles, even if they hadn’t lived together in the common way of things. And even if she had flirted with every attractive man in London. And even if Miles’s affair with Lady Childe was public knowledge.

  After another moment of patting his aunt’s shoulder, his mind wandered to the woman who rescued Josie and Anabel, Lady Henrietta Maclellan. To the best of his knowledge, he’d never seen
her in London. Perhaps her father decided she was too needle-tongued for marriage. She had certainly summed him up as beneath her notice in a mere breath. He had never seen such a dismissive expression on a woman in his entire life.

  But he’d never seen such a beautiful smile either. When she smiled good-bye, she turned exquisite, in a way that made his heart stop: like a bird in flight, delicate and fine boned.

  Beside him, Esme straightened up and mopped the last of her tears with a handkerchief. “I’m sa-sa-sorry,” she said, hiccupping a little. “I’m afraid I’m terribly emotional these days, and I do miss Miles, and it’s just so—so—”

  “I know just what you mean,” Darby said quickly, seeing the blue eyes fill up with tears again. “Shall I call your maid? I fear that your guests may begin to wonder where you are.”

  Esme blinked. “Oh dear. I suppose more rice powder is in order. I do have to spend a great deal of my time covering up evidence of my deranged spirits. You can have no idea.”

  For a moment they just looked at each other, an impeccably groomed gentleman with a damp shoulder, and a frowzled-looking, very pregnant gentlewoman with reddened eyes, and then they both broke into laughter.

  “When your own wife is increasing, Simon, you’ll grow to see how weepy a condition it is.”

  “I look forward to it with bated breath,” he said gravely, kissing the very tips of her fingers.

  8

  A Light Supper Is Served in the Rose Salon

  By taking great care, Henrietta managed to walk without limping to a small table in the Rose Salon, where a light supper was being served. The room was a graceful rectangle, with beautiful arched windows that looked into a conservatory. Those windows lent the conservatory just enough countenance that it was deemed adequately chaperoned, and thus became a pleasant trysting spot for amorous couples. Lady Rawlings had arranged for tables to be spread about the room in charming disarray, while a sideboard at the far end was piled with dainties. Henrietta joined her stepmother and her stepmother’s bosom friend, Lady Winifred Thompson.