A Kind And Decent Man. Mary Brendan
and smiled at him with an unconscious sweet familiarity that hinted at their distant courtship. For a moment the charm bound him. Long fingers were raised to her face, lifting and slowly folding back the lacy veil over the crown of her hat, revealing her features.
His eyes scanned her countenance and she watched his back teeth meet, shooting his jaw out of alignment. Her smile and budding confidence faltered as she waited for a comment or sign as to how their reunion would proceed. As the silence between them tautened, she obliquely recalled addressing him incorrectly and seized on that for further conversation. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. You are now Lord Courtenay. How stupid of me to have forgotten. I knew, of course, because I attended your brother’s funeral with Daniel. It must have been…five years ago. But I didn’t see you then…you weren’t there…I believe you were abroad…the war…’ She was babbling, she realised wildly, and abruptly clamped together tremulous lips and bit down on the lower one.
David’s eyes were drawn immediately to the small white teeth gripping at that soft full curve. His lids swept down, shielding the expression darkening his eyes to midnight, and a muttered curse was hastily choked in his throat. Fat? Blowsy? Matronly? If she had children and this was how they’d left her…
She was everything he remembered, but so much more. More beautiful, if possible: she’d lost the youthful fullness in her face and now had cheekbones like ivory razors. Her inky lashes seemed lusher, her eyes more storm-violet than grey, her hair gleaming, glossy jet. Her nature seemed as sweet; that poignant melancholy she was trying to disguise with tentative friendliness made him want to do something idiotic like comfort her; cuddle her against him in a way he remembered doing so long ago…
His eyes ripped from her upturned face to stare across her dark head. The sooner he was out of here the better. He’d been a fool to come. There had been no need. A simple note of condolence would have sufficed. He’d take a glass of wine then get the hell out back to the Swan tavern at St Albans and pray that Dickie had found them some diversion to occupy his body and mind before they set off on the road back to London in the morning.
‘Lord Courtenay?’ a male voice queried uncertainly.
Victoria and David both immediately, gratefully looked about, glad of the distraction as the tension between them strained unbearably.
Sir Peter Grayson, Laura’s husband, had just entered through the great arched oaken doors of Hartfield and was clapping together his leather-gloved palms to warm them. He brushed flakes of snow from his caped shoulders and knocked them from the brim of his hat.
‘It’s snowing…’ Victoria murmured.
‘I thought I recognised you,’ Sir Peter said at the same time, directing a huge grin at David Hardinge.
David smiled as recognition dawned. ‘Peter, how nice to see you.’ He gripped the hand extended to him, while trying to block the memory of the last time this man and he had socialised. It had been about a year ago at a discreet private salon run by a personable widow. The evening of music and cards had terminated in its customary drunken orgy. The amusing memory of this young buck, cavorting naked except for his cravat, was difficult to banish.
As though abruptly recalling the same event, Sir Peter flushed, making Victoria look curiously at him. An embarrassed cough preceded Peter’s hasty, ‘I must introduce you to my wife, Lord Courtenay. Where is Laura, Vicky? Have you seen her?’ He chattered on. ‘It must be more than a year since last I spoke to you. How have you been? I rarely get to London now, you know. I spend all my time here in Hertfordshire. I was married in October of last year…and have never been happier.’
David inclined his head, acknowledging the caution. ‘Of course…’ he soothed.
‘Ah, here she is…’ Sir Peter said with a mix of relief and horror as Laura’s slim, black-clad figure drifted into the hallway from the drawing room.
Aware that a perfect opportunity for her to escape and compose her thoughts and a perfect opportunity to waylay David Hardinge longer had presented itself, Victoria appealed to her friends. ‘Please show Lord Courtenay the fire and the refreshments. I must just check that my papa is comfortable.
‘It is freezing out, Papa, and snowing again too,’ Victoria consoled her father a few moments later. ‘It is bitterly cold. Far too cold for you.’ She raised a cool, pale hand and laid it gently against his papery cheek. ‘See how chilled I still am, and I have been indoors for some while. Daniel would not have wished you to endure such inclement weather by the graveside. You know it would make you cough.’ She tucked in the rugs more closely about his bony frame but he grumbled incoherently and plucked at the blankets as she neatened them.
‘I’m hungry. Is there some wine?’ he demanded testily, making Victoria smile wryly. At times her poor, confused papa had no difficulty at all in making himself understood.
‘I’ll fetch a little porter for you,’ she promised, while removing his spectacles from where he had wedged them in the side of the chair.
He suddenly stiffened and leaned forward to hiss, ‘Who is that? Do I know him?’ Victoria half turned, still bending slightly over him, and even before she saw him, she knew to whom her father referred.
David Hardinge was grouped with Laura, Sir Peter and several other neighbours who, curious as to his relationship with the deceased, had come forward to be introduced to this handsome, charming stranger.
And he was both, Victoria had to acknowledge. His manners and appearance were exceptional. He had removed his greatcoat and handed it to Samuel Prescott, her male servant, on entering the drawing room, and now stood, superbly attired in black superfine tailcoat and trousers of expert cut and finest quality. A large black pearl nestled in a silver silk cravat at his throat. That he was now fabulously wealthy was beyond doubt. Everyone in his vicinity was focussed on him, and although he returned conversation his attention soon drifted elsewhere. He raised his glass of warm ruby wine and tasted it while watching her and her father over the rim.
‘Who is that?’ her father demanded stridently, making several people close by turn and sympathetically smile at her. ‘I recognise that devil…’
‘Papa…hush…’ Victoria soothed, feeling her face heating. As she turned away, she caught sight of a strange, humourless slant to David Hardinge’s thin lips, and heard his murmured excuses to his companions before he strolled over.
He looked down impassively at the brain-sick, elderly man for several seconds before quietly saying, ‘Hello, Mr Lorrimer.’
Charles Lorrimer peered up at him. He dug frantically in the sides of his chair for his spectacles but, finding nothing, he simply squinted foxily. ‘I suppose it’s been two months, then,’ he finally snapped, running his rheumy grey eyes over the man’s supremely distinguished figure, ‘and you’ve come back to buy my daughter.’
Chapter Two
‘You have a fine memory, Mr Lorrimer,’ David Hardinge quietly, drily commented.
Long, sooty lashes swept to shield the horrified embarrassment darkening her eyes before Victoria snatched a glance through them. David’s face gave nothing away. He was watching her father with what could have been wry amusement twisting his hard-moulded mouth. Any anger or umbrage was admirably concealed. Victoria steeled herself to hold the narrowed blue gaze that sliced to her, hoping he could detect in her expressive eyes her heartfelt regret at her father’s indiscretion.
‘Hah, you see, I have a fine memory.’ Charles Lorrimer smugly emphasised his point by clawing at his chair with skeletal fingers and inclining his fragile frame towards them. ‘She will not believe me when I tell her so,’ he conspiratorially confided to David Hardinge. ‘She says I am confused. But it suits her to say such things…to be cruel to her father and to lie to me.’
‘Papa!’ Victoria gasped, hurt and shame hoarsening her voice.
‘I remember she said she would fetch me a nice glass of warm brandy, but she has not,’ was next