Lord of Sin. Susan Krinard
of dust settled on their parasols and compelled them to cough most discreetly behind their lace handkerchiefs.
Nuala didn’t mind the dust. She watched the comings and goings of the lords and their ladies, superb horsewomen in snug riding habits, young bucks driving their own phaetons, the more staid matrons showing off their equipages and dipping their heads to those who were privileged to know them. Each of them had a story. Sometimes Nuala imagined that she felt the spark that had always guided her in choosing who most needed her help: here a lonely young man whose shyness made it impossible for him to approach the woman he loved from afar; there a young spinster whose plain face concealed a keen intellect and loving heart.
She stopped such speculation before it could proceed any further and returned the greeting of a horsewoman to whom she had recently been introduced. The marchioness’s progress had been interrupted many times by such admirers; she had many friends. Her musicales and parties were much admired by both members of the fast Marlborough House Set and the more conservative followers of the Queen. She had a pleasant word for everyone, and frequently pointed out the leading lights of Society to her two guests.
“Look! Isn’t Lady Rush’s hat extraordinary?” Lady Oxenham asked, peering through her lorgnette. “I shouldn’t have the nerve to wear it. But of course she never gave two straws for the dictates of fashion.”
“I rather like it,” Deborah said in a tentative voice.
The marchioness chuckled. “It is just the sort of thing any young woman of imagination might fancy, I suppose,” she said. She smiled at Nuala. “And are you enjoying our outing, my dear?”
Nuala laid her hand over Lady Oxenham’s. “If it hadn’t been for you and your patronage, I wouldn’t be here at all.”
“Oh, pish. You are the wife of my son. You made his last days the happiest of his life. It is we who owe you our deepest thanks.”
An unaccustomed flush warmed Nuala’s cheeks. “If only I had been able to do more for him….”
“Never reproach yourself, dear Nuala. Charles loved you.”
“A poor vicar’s daughter.”
“A woman of great compassion and sensibility is not to be dismissed merely because of rank. And now you are Lady Charles Parkhill, and shall be until you marr—” She paused and waved her fan vigorously before her impressive bosom. “I did not mean to offend, my dear.”
Nuala squeezed her hand. “Of course not, Lady Oxenham.”
The older woman beamed at Deborah. “And you, Lady Orwell? What think you of our grand city?”
“Sometimes I think it can’t quite be real,” Deborah said, giving her own fan a quick shake.
“Indeed, at times I wonder the same thing myself.” The marchioness settled in her seat with a sigh of satisfaction. “Of course, Paris is nothing to sneeze at. You must have seen such sights there. Ah, Lady Bensham is riding alone. No doubt she’s quarreled with her husband. Those two quite unfashionably adore each other, but one must expect…” She pursed her lips. “Ah! Here are a pair of gentlemen you might like to meet. You share much in common.”
Nuala followed her look toward the approaching riders. “What would that be, Lady Oxenham?” she asked, her breath catching in her throat.
The marchioness glanced at her slyly. “They have sworn not to marry, just like you.”
Deborah sat up and shaded her eyes with one gloved hand. “Truly?”
“Indeed. They call themselves the ‘Forties,’ because they have vowed to remain bachelors until they have passed the age of forty.”
“Is that so very unusual?” Deborah asked. “My own dear husband…”
“Not terribly unusual in younger sons, at least,” Lady Oxenham said. “But eldest sons must look to producing heirs of their own. And these young gentlemen have…something of a reputation.”
“What sort of reputation?”
The marchioness had no opportunity to answer. The gentlemen were drawing their horses alongside the landau, the elder on a black stallion he held under remarkable control, the younger on a bay mare. Deborah’s eyes grew very wide. The younger man tipped his hat and returned her regard, his fair hair falling across his brow.
But Nuala gave him no more than a passing glance. She stared up at the taller man, who had also raised his hat to Lady Oxenham. He seemed to be completely unaware of Nuala’s presence.
“My dear Lord Donnington,” the marchioness said, extending her hand. “How pleasant to see you again.”
The earl took her hand and kissed the air over her fingers. “Lady Oxenham,” he said. “I trust you are enjoying the afternoon.”
She allowed him to hold her hand a little longer than was strictly necessary. “Indeed I am,” she said, and turned to her guests. “Lady Orwell, Lady Charles, may I present the Earl of Donnington.”
Deborah continued to gaze at the younger man as if she hadn’t heard the introduction. Lord Donning-ton bowed stiffly over his saddle.
“Lady Orwell,” he said, “Lady Charles.”
Nuala met Sinjin’s hard brown eyes. She had never forgotten for an instant how handsome he was, how lean and graceful, how utterly masculine in his coat, breeches and riding boots. Nor had she forgotten the scorn in his eyes four years ago, when she’d admitted to being a witch. A witch who had posed as a maid at his brother’s estate, Donbridge, and who had made herself an essential part of the events that had resulted in Giles’s death, and the disruption of everything Sinjin had known and believed.
She clasped her hands to keep them from trembling. “Good afternoon, Lord Donnington.”
He ignored her greeting and gestured to his friend. “May I be permitted to present Mr. Felix Melbyrne.”
Lady Oxenham inclined her head. “Mr. Melbyrne. I understand that you are but recently come to London.”
“It is true, Lady Oxenham,” Melbyrne said, nervously shifting his reins in his hands. “I am most honored to make your acquaintance.” His gaze wandered back to Deborah. “And yours, Lady Orwell, Lady Charles.”
Deborah blushed, bobbed her head and smiled. “I…I am happy to meet you, Mr. Melbyrne.”
“And I,” Nuala said. She searched the young man’s eyes. “Lady Orwell and I are also recent arrivals.”
“I…I see.” Mr. Melbyrne continued to fidget in a very telling manner. “There is so much to see and do.”
“Yes,” Deborah said, “I agree.”
“And you, Lady Charles?”
Sinjin’s voice was as harsh as his gaze, drawing a start of surprise from the marchioness. Nuala didn’t smile. She was compelled to concentrate entirely on making certain that her distress was not visible to him or her companions. That Deborah should not guess that she and the Earl of Donning-ton had met before under the most painful of circumstances.
“It is very different from the countryside Lord Charles preferred,” she said.
A flash of what might have been chagrin passed over Sinjin’s face. “Permit me to offer my sincere condolences on the loss of your husband.”
“You are very kind, Lord Donnington.”
“The earl was also kind enough to offer me his condolences,” the marchioness said, more brusquely than was her habit. “Having been out of the country so long, he did not learn of Charles’s passing until very recently. But then again, my brother-in-law was very reclusive. Many forgot his existence entirely.”
“Not I, I assure you,” Sinjin said. “We were together at Eton. I was deeply grieved.”
The marchioness