Dawn In My Heart. Ruth Morren Axtell
wondered if there was anyone privy to all his secrets.
Sky had hardly seen his father. When the marquess wasn’t at the races, he was at the gaming table or at someone’s house in the country round about London.
The three of them lingered over their table until two in the morning. When at last they rose, Sky gave instructions to his coachman to drop off Miss Spencer first at her residence. She gave him a very pointed look of open invitation, but he ignored it.
When she had left them, Lane closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the seat. “Have you ever seen such an exquisite complexion? And those eyes, they make you feel either you can conquer all or that you’re the biggest imbecile she’s ever come across.”
Sky had to chuckle at that. “She is, after all, an actress.”
“Ah, her talent!”
Sky hadn’t actually seen her act, merely prance across the stage, but he didn’t point this out to his enamored friend. He shifted against the squabs, feeling a vague discomfort. He had already begun to feel it in the restaurant, but now it grew stronger. The meal had obviously not agreed with him.
Just a bout of indigestion, nothing more. Probably bad oysters. He refused to think it could be anything else.
Certainly not a recurrence of the fever that had almost killed him.
“Pity you shall soon be leg-shackled, although I think Lady Gillian is a wonderful girl.” Lane gave a deep sigh. “But I wouldn’t want to miss the delights of a Miss Spencer.” He grinned wickedly at Sky in the darkened coach interior. “Of course, after a suitable period, the proverbial honeymoon, you can always keep an eye out for another such morsel.”
“Except for the fact I’m one of those who believes in the exclusivity of marriage.”
“What? You mean keeping one’s marriage vows?”
Sky pulled aside the curtain, not caring to enter into a discussion on his views of matrimony.
“Oh, come on, man, show me one London couple who keeps their vows after, say, five years of marriage.”
“I daresay one would be hard-pressed,” he admitted.
“Is this some West Indian custom you’ve picked up?”
Sky breathed in deeply, hoping that would ease the queasiness stirring in his stomach. “Let’s just say I would want to know my heirs are my own.”
Lane nodded. “Of course. But say after a time, once your lineage is secure…”
“There’s a small matter of pride. If I can’t satisfy my bride, I probably deserve to be cuckolded.”
Delaney laughed. “If only more gentlemen held that viewpoint.”
They fell silent as the carriage crossed Haymarket. Then Lane ventured once again, “What if, despite everything, your wife should stray?”
“Well, let us hope my marrying a young lady of high birth who knows little of the world will give me someone innocent enough to conform to my way of thinking.”
Lord Skylar appeared at Lady Gillian’s residence promptly at three o’clock the next afternoon. Gillian saw him descend from his curricle, hand his tiger the reins and give him some instructions, before striding toward the front steps. She sat ensconced in a comfortable chair at her bedroom window, having retired to her room with a book at half-past two and neglecting to mention to her mother that Lord Skylar would call.
Twenty minutes went by before she received a summons. During that time, she had paced and stopped in front of her full-length mirror a half-dozen times, wondering why her absence hadn’t been noted sooner.
She smoothed down the jonquil-yellow lawn dress and readjusted the moss-green ribbon tied under the bodice, knowing the colors enhanced her complexion and dark hair. Giving herself one final look in the glass, with a quick rearranging of her curls, she left the confines of her room.
She could hear voices through the drawing room door. Quietly she opened it, wanting to observe before being observed.
Lord Skylar sat forward on the striped settee, with his hands upon a cane, directing himself to Templeton. He looked perfectly at ease chatting with her.
“I know precisely what you mean,” he said to Gillian’s companion in an understanding tone. Gillian stared from his benign demeanor to her tormentor’s parched features, which reminded her of a desiccated fish. Templeton coughed and reddened, stammering something in reply. It was probably the first time someone had agreed with her on anything.
Her mother sat across from them, regarding Lord Skylar with an interested smile.
“Ah, there is Gillian at last,” she declared, turning to her.
Lord Skylar rose in a leisurely fashion and gave her a slight bow. “Good afternoon, Lady Gillian.”
He wore black, and she realized he was still in mourning for his brother. His appearance continued to unnerve her, those dark looks deepened by the dark garments he wore.
She gave him a brief nod. “Good afternoon.”
He waited until she had seated herself as far away from him as possible before taking his seat again.
“Lord Skylar has requested your company for a ride around the park. He was hopeful to find you at home today. I told him of course you would be available to him at any time. He has but to send round a note.”
Gillian gave Lord Skylar a tight smile, conceding him the victory. At least he hadn’t given her away. “Lord Skylar did mention paying a call this afternoon. It must have slipped my mind.”
“Slipped your mind!” Templeton’s disapproving tone intruded. “Good gracious, my lady. You have better manners than that. You owe Lord Skylar an apology.”
“She owes me nothing. I have found her at home and that is all that is required,” he drawled, returning Gillian’s smile with one of his one.
“I believe a ride is a delightful idea. It will give the two of you the chance to get better acquainted with one another,” put in her mother. “It is such a lovely afternoon.”
“As you wish, Mama.”
Lord Skylar rose again. “Then, as we have the duchess’s permission, I suggest we depart.” He approached her chair and held out an arm. “Shall we?”
As they were leaving the room, she turned toward her companion. “Aren’t you coming with us, Templeton?”
Her mother answered for her. “No, my dear. Since you are taking a drive with your betrothed and his groom, you have no need of Templeton.”
Gillian blinked at her mother. Before she could say anything, Lord Skylar led her out the door.
“Don’t forget your parasol and shawl, my lady,” Templeton called out.
Gillian was too amazed at her sudden freedom from Templeton to be aware of Lord Skylar handing her up into the close confines of the curricle. As he took the reins and whip from his tiger, she unfurled her parasol in the open carriage, aware all the while of how closely she sat beside him.
She watched his gloved hands as he maneuvered the curricle around the crowded square and was forced to concede he was a competent whip. He skirted the crested coaches parked in front of the stately residences while avoiding the oncoming vehicles clip-clopping toward them.
“You have a fine pair of grays,” she commented once they were away from the crowded streets of Mayfair and approaching the green expanse of Hyde Park.
“I can take no credit. They were Edmund’s. Not the pair that killed him,” he added.
“I’m sorry. It must pain you to think about your brother…the suddenness of the accident.”
“By the time I was informed, he was long dead and buried,