~ ~ ~
Morgan hated that painting as much as he loved it. They had sat for it only months before his mother died and their whole world changed.
Christiana looked lovely today. This dress was definitely new for the Season, a delicate green with twining leaves around the bodice, sleeves, and border. It was as springlike as the flowers just arrived from the Braemoor succession houses.
She let go of his arm as they stopped before a large globe of the world and he let her step away.
“My brother Rhys has had a telescope in his hand since he could walk. He could read before he was out of the nursery. Intellectually, he is quite impressive and the fact that he uses his brain for something besides his own pleasure is not at all typical of Braedons.”
“We each have different skills, my lord. And judging someone else’s particular talent as exceptional does not diminish the talent of another.”
He looked at her with a little surprise. It was a compliment worthy of a diplomat.
“That insight is not a truth unique to me.” With a slightly embarrassed shrug she explained, “I do listen to the vicar’s sermons on occasion.”
“You actually listen to sermons?” He gave her a slight bow. “My dear, that is one of your lesser acknowledged talents. Alas, daydreaming through them is only one of my shortcomings.”
“But why do you dwell on your shortcomings?”
There was a touch of indignation in her question. It was charming and now Morgan was curious. “Let me see, Rhys is our intellectual, Mariel can claim music as her talent. But what is mine, I wonder?”
“A generosity of spirit, my lord.”
“Suitably vague.”
“I can give you examples: Your willingness to help me with my charade, your willingness to dance with all those least likely to find partners.”
At his surprise, she added, “Oh yes, I have noticed that.” She thought a bare moment more. “Oh, and your refusal to fleece the more foolish gamblers. How many times have I heard you decline play with Peter Wilton because he was foxed?”
“I am beginning to sound positively virtuous.”
“You have your moments, my lord, but I think I will stop there, lest you think I hold you in too high a regard.”
He was grateful for that. Few things were more annoying than having someone list your admirable qualities. Usually the list was a figment of their imagination and as accurate as Cupid’s arrow after a drunken orgy. And generally aimed with the same intent. This was flirtation and nothing more.
Christiana gave the globe a delicate spin. “Does your brother Rhys have the use of a telescope?”
Morgan shook his head, remembering. “On this most recent visit, he and my brother James came close to a physical fight about some property on which Rhys wants to construct one.”
“No, really?” She looked shocked, but she pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. “I would imagine that any argument with the viscount rarely results in a win for the other whether the fight is physical or verbal.”
“That insight, so obvious to us, my dear, is something Rhys has not yet grasped.”
This time she did laugh and shook her head. “But why does the viscount object? Is it valuable property or cultivated?”
“The thing is the property that Rhys wants to use belongs to a neighbor, a hilly piece, useless for farming and not much better for grazing. There is even an old foundation that he insists he could use for the observatory. The problem lies in that Rhys wants to trade some prime Braedon land for it.”
“Even if your older brother agreed, would that be possible? Surely the land is entailed?”
“No, not this parcel. Trust Rhys to research all this quite thoroughly.”
“And Lord Rhys is hoping to talk your brother into the trade? I am sorry to sound cynical, my lord, but he is an incredible optimist to think any man would give up good productive land for useless, even in the name of science.”
“He is worse than an optimist, he is a dedicated scholar.” Morgan shook his head. “And right now he is living in a fantasy world. You are right. James giving up land is as likely as Bonaparte accepting an invite to dine with the King.”
“I understand completely. In my family, the Lamberts and the Wiltons have been arguing over a piece of property for at least four generations. It is quite unusable land really, good only for hunting, but you would think they would be able to mine gold there if only one family or the other could establish ownership.”
Ah, yes, the property that young Wilton had told him about so long ago. “Have they ever been close to agreement?” It was an innocent question, he insisted to himself. He was only curious to know if Christiana realized how nearly her own future was tied to the resolution of this dispute.
“It could be. There is some antique proviso that when a Lambert and Wilton marry the property will go to the male half of the union.”
“Then, when you marry Richard, his family will secure the title to the property?”
“I think that the land is the only reason my father has been so hesitant to agree to our engagement.” She spoke with a casual nod, totally unaware that this information amazed him.
She knew about the agreement? So much for young Wilton’s assumption that her sensibilities would be offended by the knowledge. Not only Wilton, he, too, had been certain that for Christiana Lambert romance was of paramount importance in any married relationship. “Forgive me if I am indelicate, but the pragmatic aspect of this land transaction does not dilute your own conviction that Richard’s attachment to you is purely romantic?”
“No.”
The single word could have been firmer.
Her second no was much more firm. “He is a second son and gains no financial benefit from it, my lord. His attachment to me is of the purest and most noble.”
He wanted to laugh, but restrained himself, with effort.
“I can see that you do not believe me. And, in all honesty, I am not as convinced of it as I once was.”
“Really?” Now that did surprise him, which surely showed that her naïveté was contagious.
“If he was as passionately devoted to me as I would like then he never would have left for Portugal so soon. He would have come for at least part of the Season. Then perhaps we could have become engaged and letters between us would have been possible.”
“A young man with a commission is not entirely at his own command. He must respond to his orders.” Good, Morgan, he thought. Defend the man. Remind yourself that she has interests elsewhere.
She sighed and on the next indrawn breath claimed a bit more Town bronze. “At first I thought I would miss him unbearably, far more than he would miss me. But now I am not so sure. There are days that go by when I neglect to write in the journal that I plan to share with him. I do check the papers daily but there has been little fighting since Douro in mid-May. There are whole hours that go by when I do not give his hardships a thought.”
“London is a city built to entertain and distract.”
He took a step closer, and reached out to raise her chin so he could see her face. There was self-reproach in her eyes and he wondered if he should feel guilty. “London can even undermine our most cherished beliefs.” He let his hand fall and took a step back. “That is something I must remind myself daily.”
Christiana gave the globe one last spin before she turned toward the windows. “I now realize that it was an incredible conceit on my part to think that I would be immune from those temptations.”
Was he the temptation? Best not to pursue that at this particular moment. They were alone, the conversation intimate, but the mood was all wrong. He stepped behind the large desk that stood in the middle of the room. “So you have given up some innocence and gained some wisdom.”
“Wisdom? I am not so sure, my lord. Perhaps self-knowledge is a more realistic phrase?”
Perhaps it was best that she lost some little bit of her innocence. At seventeen it was charming, a way to r
etrieve his own youth, but at thirty would it be so appealing? He doubted it.
Not that he would be around to see.
“Yes, self-knowledge is a better term. In truth, I have always thought wisdom could only come from pain.”
She turned back to him and smiled. “And this Season has been a hundred different things, but not one of them is painful.”
“I will accept that you have gained self-knowledge or, perhaps understanding”—he bowed to her—“and hope that it does not inhibit your laughter or still your longing to dance.”
She smiled into his eyes for a long moment and then sobered suddenly. “Do you think perhaps, my lord, we should return to the duchess?”
He offered her his arm. She was right; it would be best to return to the subject at hand, though he doubted that his grandmama needed their help as much as Christiana insisted. She had invited them today so she could see how they were getting on. Had she learned as much as he had?
As if to reinforce her suggestion, a footman scratched at the door and announced that tea was awaiting them. With his letter sanded, sealed, and slipped into his pocket, Morgan bowed Christiana ahead of him and escorted her down the hall.
“My lord, who are you going to ask to deliver the letter?” There was doubt more than question in her voice.
“You know, that could present a problem.”
He settled her arm through his as they walked down the hall to the stairs and down them. “Time is a factor, but if I ask someone from Braedon House and he is found out, it could cost the man his job. And if someone from Hale House is sent, Mariel’s invitation would not be a secret for more than a day.”
As they reached the bottom of the stairs, she stopped their progress and stood facing him. “I have an idea, my lord. You could hire someone to go, someone with no connection to either family.”
“And that would be?” Her question was tentative but surely she had someone in mind.
“Sergeant Tidwell?”
“An excellent notion! I even have his direction.” The man was at Monksford’s, working in the stable, not more than six blocks away. Surely Monksford would agree to the errand and Tidwell could be on his way before dark.
Christiana tucked her hand back into his arm as they moved along the hall to the back of the house. She walked very close to him, more closely than necessary when you considered they were walking down a hallway where frayed carpet was the only possible hazard.
He was not going to complain. He could only feel her head close to his shoulder, her lithe young body soft against his arm. No one could see them but the footman and if their promenade generated gossip below stairs it would be nothing that had not been reported a dozen times before.
This moment was too precious to sabotage with the ton’s notion of appropriate. It was a rare day that he was regarded as both hero and confidante, though he was not entirely sure he liked either role. He would have preferred lover, but since that was denied him, hero would do.
Fourteen
“Was I awful?” Emily Perry’s question showed a rare insecurity. The amateur segment of the musicale had gone quite well, but Christiana understood that there was always a need for assurance.
“Your piece was quite lovely.” Christiana reached out to still the fan Emily was waving frantically. “You have a light touch and you chose a piece that was familiar but not overplayed.”
Emily relaxed and began to recount each note of her performance. Christiana listened patiently, all the while praying that Joanna would rescue her, but the room was filled with guests and Joanna was nowhere in sight.
After a time Emily’s beau approached and Christiana left the two discussing the manifold merits of her performance. Christiana nodded to several others, but moved purposefully to the knot of people gathered around the harp. Mariel Whitlow stood beside the instrument, as though she felt the need to share praise with it.
Morgan’s older sister had the look of a Braedon, but kind eyes and a mouth made for smiling softened the strong jaw and high cheekbones. She wore her hair in the latest style and her dress was au courant. Despite the latest fashion, there was something about her that set her apart from this social milieu, as though she felt she was no longer part of the ton and not unhappy with that distance.
“It was kind of my grandmother to plan it so that I was the only harpist.”
How sweet, thought Christiana. As if that was the reason she had sounded so extraordinary.
“Mariel, she could get no one else to play!” There was general laughter. “Too many remember your skill. It was only a few years ago.”
An older woman added waspishly, “You would have to have more ego than sense to play the harp when Mrs. Whitlow is on the program.”
Harshly said but true. The notes of the piece still echoed in her head. Mariel played with a rare talent and she played with heart. The harp, which usually looked so awkward, seemed like an extension of the musician, or maybe she was an extension of it.
“But no encore, Mariel.” The man who chastised her spoke with a coy reproach that was surely meant as flirtation. Christiana watched the response with interest.
“No, my lord, the applause was very gratifying but it is, after all, the Delacortes’ evening.” She nodded to the corner of the room, where the professional musicians were talking with a group of admirers. “Do please excuse me, I have only a day or two in Town and want to spend as much time as possible with my family.”
Oh, nicely done, thought Christians. She managed to make his comment part of the whole and rid herself of the lot of them.
Instead of moving to where the dowager duchess stood surrounded by a small group of friends, Mariel came to her.
“Miss Lambert”—she nodded slightly and smiled—“do you know where Morgan has got to?” She scanned the room while adding in a lower voice, “Actually, you are the one I would like to speak with.”
Since it was exactly what Christiana was hoping for, she answered with a total lie that would give them both an escape. “I think he went to the yellow salon to find the shawl your grandmother left there.”
“Excellent. Come with me, will you, while I find him?”
It took a few more brief conversations before they were out of the room, but Morgan did accommodate them by remaining wherever else he was.
It was cooler in the salon. The room was painted wood with yellow highlights, very much in the decor of the last century, but it had aged well. Chairs lined the wall in the old style, but neither of them wanted to sit. Instead they walked closer to the fire.
“Grandmama is full of praise for you and tells me that you are exactly what Morgan needs.”
Christiana blushed and tried to return the compliment. “He is a charming escort.” Oh no, that was all wrong. Oh, heavens, it was one thing to fool the ton, but lying to Morgan’s family was not at all appealing.
Mariel looked down, pausing for thought, and tried again. “Miss Lambert. I am talking about more than dancing and the theater.”
Did she know how much she sounded like her older brother James: very Braedon, very in charge? Unsure how to answer, Christiana remained silent.
“If I seem rude, Miss Lambert, I apologize.” She spoke without the slightest hint of apology in her voice. “I have so little time and the happiness of my family is important to me.”
Now there was a hint of anger in the way Mariel fisted her palms at her sides. “I thank God daily that Morgan is not”—she paused, her mouth a tight line as she searched for the right word—“that Morgan is not constrained by Papa’s dictates.”
“Mrs. Whitlow, I enjoy Lord Morgan’s company.” Christiana took a step closer to her. “I am not sure what Her Grace has told you, or indeed what she may hope for, but a match between us is not possible.”
“Then what game is Morgan playing? It looks very like a courtship.”
“We are friends.” Christiana spoke with as much firmness as she could summon. “I know the idea of friendship between a man and wo
man is unusual, strange even. But it is what we both want.”
“And Morgan agreed to it?” She stopped and shook her head. “Even friendship is more than he has had these last few years. That is why Grandmama had begun to hope. He has allowed so few people close to him.”
“Oh, exactly, ma’am. That is the heart of the matter, is it not? He so rarely speaks of family and when he does there is such regret in his voice.”
They heard the babble of voices increase as the ballroom doors were opened and the small crowd of people proceeded down the hall to the dining room, where refreshments were waiting. Neither Christiana nor Mariel moved to join them.
“Morgan refuses to accept that there is no hope of a reconciliation. He and Grandmama can command, ask, and beg and Papa will not give in.”
Christiana had only some little knowledge of this, but she nodded in sympathy.
Mariel looked at her in a considering way. “You know, Miss Lambert, that I am happy and content, but I will tell you that marrying without my father’s approval was the most difficult decision I have ever made.”
Mariel reached over and took her hand. “I know that you say there can be no match between you and my brother, but I feel that I must tell you, because of my own experience, that if you should decide to accept his suit, despite your parents’ disapproval, you will have my support.”
Their joined hands and her pledge of support made Mariel’s words more a caution than a warning, but her reasoning was so misguided that Christiana stammered, “Is that what Morgan told you?”
“Oh no, he never discusses his personal life with anyone. It is only what I have surmised.” Mariel let go of her hand with one last pat. “What else could keep you from the match? He has such a reputation as a gamester that I can understand any parents’ hesitation. He has so perfected the facade that sometimes I think he believes it.”
“A facade? It is?”
“His gambling is only a means to an end.” Mariel walked closer to the fire. Christiana followed a few steps and then stopped. Finally Mariel turned back to her. “Morgan inherited property from our mother when he turned twenty-five. Papa never told him about it before that. Not that Morgan would ever have saved as much as a farthing, mind you, but still it was so managing of our father. So like him.”
Mariel shook her head slightly. “Now that Morgan has control of the property, he is trying to raise enough money to make it self-sustaining. And the only way he can do that is by gaming. Even Papa and James do not realize why he is so devoted to faro.”
“Oh dear.” Christiana put her hands to her cheeks. “His tenants were depending on him and all the while he was dancing attendance on me at Almack’s!”
“Then it must be love, Miss Lambert. Almack’s is a dead bore.”
Christiana forced a laugh. “I trust you mean that as a joke, for I assure you our appearance of courtship is as much a game that we both are playing as any played at a table.”
“You think to fool all of society, up to and including our grandmother? To what end, Miss Lambert? How will either one of you benefit?” There was an edge of suspicion that made Christiana cringe.
“Mrs. Whitlow, there are very few people who know this and I trust your confidence.” She waited, her silence insisting on an answer.
“I have been involved with the church for years now and excel at keeping secrets.” Her smile was reassuring.
“My parents insisted I come to London for the Season and from the beginning I hoped to find someone who would escort me but expect no lasting connection. You see, I am quite determined to marry my neighbor from home.”
“Determined?”
“Well, perhaps that is not the best choice of words. I love him, of course. We have known each other forever. Richard is fighting in the Peninsula and I have every intention of joining him to follow the drum.”
“That is very noble of you”—she paused—“but is it wise?”
“Not noble or wise, ma’am,” Christiana responded earnestly. “But when we are married I will go where he is and right now that is Portugal.”
“How biblical.” Her expression shifted from self-assurance to worry. Sitting on one of the chairs near a window, she gestured to the chair beside her “Please do come sit with me for a moment.”
Christiana did as she was asked even though she felt a lecture was coming.
“Christiana, I find my concern is now for my brother. You say he agreed to this sham?”
Christiana nodded.
“I will concede that it may have begun as sport, but are you certain that his feelings are not engaged? It is so unlike him to indulge in the courtship ritual and I can not think what would induce him to do it, except perhaps the hope that he can replace the absent Richard in your heart.”
“Oh, but you see, Lord Morgan has his own reasons for the game.” She was so relieved that she rushed into the speech without considering it was not her secret to share. “Lord Morgan told me that his father demanded he find a match this Season. Morgan said he would prefer to find a bride at a place and time of his own choice and given what you have told me of his property in Wales, I can understand even more fully his reasoning.”
“Oh, Papa!” Mariel spoke the two words with the vehemence of an expletive. “Will he never learn?”
Mariel stood abruptly and began to pace the room. “Ah, well, now I see that it is the two of you who are playing a game. Both of you trying to convince your parents and the ton that you are fulfilling their wishes and very determined to honor your own.”
That was the truth of it, but she made it sound foolish.
“Christiana, do bear in mind that it is a game and there are very few games where both the players win.”
“You think we are closer than we should be.” Christiana stood, uncomfortable because she knew it might be true.
“That is for the two of you to determine. But before it goes any further be absolutely sure that you are content with friendship.”
“His friendship means everything to me. I would not hurt him for the world.” Christiana’s eyes misted with guilt. She loved Richard. She loved Richard. But if that was the truth then why did the thought of hurting Morgan make her want to cry?
“You mistake me, Christiana; it is not Morgan’s feelings I am worried about. It is yours. You must remind yourself that this is a flirtation with a very experienced man, a heady experience for any girl in her first Season.”
Christiana shivered. Put that way it sounded more delicious than mean-spirited. “Then everything is all right for I know that Lord Morgan is as careful of my feelings as I am of his.”
“Very well then.” Now Mariel sounded exactly like a priest. She straightened her skirts and smoothed her hair.
“But, ma’am, what will you tell Her Grace?” Christiana stood where she was, anxious to have this one last issue resolved.
“I will tell her that she knows you and Morgan better than I and that I hope and pray the two of you know what you are about. It will be nothing less than the truth.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” There was something left unspoken, but Christiana was so relieved to have the interview end on a happy note that she did not pursue it further. Did that make her a coward or wise? She opted for sensible.
“Shall we join the others and treat ourselves to the wonderful sweets the duke’s chef promised?”
And where was Morgan, Christiana wondered. Out loud she asked, “Do you think there will be any left? I can guarantee that Peter Wilton alone is capable of demolishing the entire buffet. And he was only one of a dozen young men invited.”
“Aha, the chef understands this very well, but he has known me from childhood, and I can equally guarantee that he has set some aside for us.”
The chef had indeed set aside a plate for each of them. Christiana accepted his offering with appreciation and when no one was looking, set it down on an empty table already filled with plates and glasses.
Searching the crowd for Lord Morgan, she f
inally located him talking with Peter Wilton and several other young men. He was listening to them with indulgent interest. As if he could feel her gaze, he looked up. She smiled at him and he smiled at her, and then returned to his conversation. There, she thought. Everything is fine. He did not rush over to me and I am perfectly content to let him talk with his friends. There is nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.