A Wayward Woman. Helen Dickson
granddaughter’s distraction, the countess turned and looked at her, following the direction of her gaze. Her expression became one of severe displeasure when she saw the object of her attention.
Belle saw an odd, awed expression cross her grandmother’s face as she scrutinised the dark-haired man in military uniform and was both puzzled and troubled by the look in her eyes. She had no way of discerning what thoughts were being formed behind that hard mask of concern.
‘Isabelle,’ she reproached severely, her gaze swinging sharply to her granddaughter, ‘you look too long at that particular gentleman. Pull yourself together. We have an audience, if you hadn’t noticed.’
Belle had and she couldn’t suppress her amusement when the stranger gave her grandmother a mocking smile and affected an exaggerated bow.
The dowager countess was relieved to move on, away from the man who had looked at Isabelle with the hungry admiration of a wolf calmly contemplating its next meal. Lance Bingham was one gentleman she would prefer not to show an interest in her granddaughter. She had planned for too long to see Isabelle become just another conquest of the notorious Lord Lance Bingham, fifteenth Earl of Ryhill in a line that stretched back into the dim and distant days of the early Tudors, and whose reputation left very much to be desired.
For years gossip had linked him with every beautiful female of suitable lineage in Europe, and before he had gone to Spain to fight Napoleon’s forces, wherever he went he left a trail of broken hearts, for marriage was not what he offered. She was not at all happy to see him back in England. He was the last man in the entire world she wanted her granddaughter to associate with—but there were other reasons too, reasons that went far back in time, and when she glanced at the necklace adorning Isabelle’s neck, glittering in the light of the chandeliers, she shuddered at the painful memories it evoked.
It was all a long time ago now. The young people wouldn’t know what a fool she had made of herself over Stuart Bingham, the only man she had ever loved, but the older generation remembered and any kind of association between Stuart’s grandson and Isabelle would resurrect the old scandal.
‘Who was that gentleman, Grandmother?’ Belle ventured to ask as they passed into another room, where great arrangements of flowers filled the air with their fragrance.
The countess turned and gave her a baleful look. ‘His name is Colonel Lance Bingham—the Earl of Ryhill, or Lord Bingham as he is now addressed since the death of his uncle over a year ago—and I am amazed that a man could ignore his duties as prime heir for so long a period of time. He is only recently returned to London—not that it concerns you, since I would rather you did not have anything to do with him. I saw the way you looked at him, Isabelle; it is true enough that he is a handsome devil, but he’s a cold one.’
Belle remembered the warmth of those vivid blue orbs and doubted the truth of her grandmother’s observation. There was a vibrant life and intensity in Lance Bingham’s eyes that no one could deny.
The countess went on. ‘I remember him for his arrogance. I pity the woman who marries him. He may be a revered soldier, but before he went to Spain he was a rake of the first order, which young ladies such as yourself should be wary of, for I doubt things have changed now he has returned. I don’t want you to have anything to do with him, is that understood?’
Belle nodded. ‘Yes, Grandmother,’ she answered dutifully, shaking her head to banish the vision of the man who continued to occupy her mind, and hinted at what the strong, straight lips had not spoken. The memory of the way he had looked at her sent a dizzying thrill through her. Her face flamed at the meanderings of her mind and angrily she cast him out.
‘Sorry I’m late, Lance,’ a calm voice said beside him. ‘Had the deuce of a job getting away from my club—interesting game of dice kept me.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Ye Gods, just look at this place. I think the Regent must have invited half of London.’
Recognising the voice of his good friend Rowland Gibbon, grateful for the distraction, Lance tore his gaze from the delectable Isabelle Ainsley and turned to the man next to him. ‘I see that you have still not had a shave,’ he commented casually, drawing his friend to a quiet spot beside a rather large exotic oriental plant. ‘How long is this rebellion against the fashionable world going to last?’
Rowland grinned, proudly rubbing his whiskers. ‘As to that, I’ve not yet decided. My valet chastises me about it daily. I fear that one night when I crawl into bed deep in my cups, he will take a razor to it and shave it off. If he does I shall have to get rid of him, for I am determined to bring back the fashion for beards. Damn it, Lance, the London beaux need someone to keep them in check.’
Rowland, tall and lank and seeming rather disjointed in his gangling limberness, was too untidy to be described as a beau. His mane of light brown hair looked forever in need of a brush and his clothes often looked as though they had been slept in—which they often had on the occasions when he was too drunk to remove them and his valet had gone to bed. Wild, disreputable and outrageous, he was also warm hearted and possessed an enormous amount of charm, which endeared him to everyone and was the reason why he was invited to every fashionable party. The two had been close friends since their days at Oxford.
‘It’s good to have you back, Lance, and that you’ve assumed your earldom. Have you been to Ryhill?’
‘I’ve just got back.’
‘Your mother will be relieved you’re back. Is she well?’
He nodded. ‘She visited me at Ryhill prior to leaving for Ireland to visit Sophie. My sister is expecting her first child and naturally Mother insisted on going over to be with her.’
‘And your daughter—Charlotte?’ Rowland enquired cautiously. ‘You have seen the child, I take it?’
Lance’s face was devoid of expression as he avoided his friend’s probing gaze. ‘No, but I have it on good authority that she is thriving and being thoroughly spoilt. She is with Mother in Ireland.’
Rowland knew not to pursue the matter of Lance’s daughter. It was a subject he would never discuss. ‘And you’re finished with the army for good?’
Lance nodded, looking down at his uniform. ‘The old uniform will have to go, but it’s the best I have until my tailor provides me with new clothes—tomorrow, I hope. After Waterloo I had intended carrying on with my military career, but on learning of the death of my uncle, as his heir I had a change of heart. So I left the army, casting my sights towards home. I swore an oath to do my duty to my newly acquired title. Even to think of the estate being bestowed upon another went against everything I hold dear.’
‘Well, you’ve certainly set tongues a wagging since you got back, with every mama with daughters of marriageable age setting their sights your way. There’s one right now,’ he said, indicating a young woman standing close by with her mother.
Lance casually glanced their way and acknowledged first the older, then the younger woman with a slight inclination of his head. The mother smiled stiffly and the daughter blushed and giggled behind her fan.
‘There you are. You always did have women falling over themselves,’ Rowland remarked casually. ‘You were always viewed as the biggest fish in a very small pond. Every time you’re in town they begin casting nets in hopes of scooping you up.’
‘I’m particular as to which bait I nibble at, Rowland, and that particular morsel is not tasty enough for me.’ Lance withdrew his gaze from the young woman and fixed his eyes once more on Isabelle Ainsley, who wandered back and forth in admiration of her surroundings.
Rowland followed his gaze to the source of his distraction. ‘You look at that particular young lady with a good deal of interest.’
‘You are too observant, Rowland,’ Lance replied shortly.
Rowland raised one eyebrow. ‘Well, out with it, man. Am I to know the identity of the lady?’
‘Isabelle Ainsley, the granddaughter of the Dowager Countess of Harworth, recently come from America.’