Pride & Passion. Charlotte Featherstone
was rounded in all the right places, and possessed a bosom that Lucy felt quite envious of. Nothing ever spilled out of her own necklines, despite the fact she had taken to making her own clothes.
Once the tea was poured, and the scones cut and swathed in lemon curd and clotted cream, they sat back with a collective sigh and kicked off their shoes, while assuming positions of comfort that no lady of gentle breeding would dare consider during an afternoon call to tea.
“I adore it when the house is devoid of men,” Elizabeth said on a sigh as she bit into her scone. “One can eat as much as they desire without speculation, and sit in the most unseemly positions. Do put your feet up, ladies, if you’re so inclined.”
Isabella moaned as she bit into a pink iced cake that oozed custard from its flaky sides. “This is to die for, Lizzy, the little square cake with the pink icing. What do you call it?”
“I have no idea what its proper name is, but Cook likes to refer to it as ‘the bit of sweet his grace adores.’ It’s Sussex’s favorite. All almond paste and marzipan and thick custard. What I wouldn’t give to see him sitting here with a delicate pink square in his hand.”
Laughter erupted as Isabella agreed, while wondering aloud what her husband would look like indulging in the fancy pastries, and little thin sandwiches. Try as she might, Lucy attempted to picture the mysterious Earl of Black, but instead of his image, a set of haunting gray eyes appeared, and she blinked it away, and instead finished off her scone.
“So, what news is there to be had?” Elizabeth inquired.
“As you know, I haven’t been out of the house in a fortnight,” Isabella grumbled, “but I do know that Lucy has some gossip to share.”
Elizabeth sat up a bit straighter, jostling Rosie in the process, who gave a little grunt of displeasure then stretched out onto her back. “Gossip? Oh, do tell!”
“Well,” Lucy hedged, “I don’t know if I should be repeating this. Gossip, you know, such a nasty thing.”
“Oh, hang it,” Elizabeth said on a laugh. “Regale us with it, Lucy, because like Isabella, I’ve been cooped up here, and Maggie absolutely refuses to read the gossip rags to me—she thinks she’s keeping my mind from being poisoned, but I assure you it’s far too late for that.”
“All right, but I warn you, it’s positively indecent, and I only know about it because I happened to witness it when I came out of the ladies’ retiring room. So it’s not really gossip, more like an eyewitness account.”
“Oh, better and better!”
“As you will recall, I was forced out of the house last night.”
“Oh, that is right—you went to the Moorelands’ soiree last night. How was it?”
“Dreadfully dull, but Mooreland is one of Papa’s closest friends, so I was somewhat obligated to endure it. But it was made all the more delightful by what I saw.”
“And that was?” Isabella purred as she finished off the last of the pink square.
“The Marquis of Alynwick caught red-handed kissing Lord Larabie’s new wife. And his hands … Well, I can tell you, his hands were really quite busy—one was beneath the lady’s skirt, and the other was wandering quite wildly over the bodice of Lady Larabie’s pink frock.”
“No!” Isabella gasped. “I cannot believe it. The Marquis …” She swept a glance between Elizabeth and Lucy. “Why, I thought him a gentleman.”
The excitement that seemed to glow in Elizabeth’s gaze dimmed. She tried to hide it, Lucy saw, by sitting forward and gently reaching for her teacup.
“I’ve never known Alynwick to be anything but an egotistical rake,” Elizabeth answered. “I see his shocking way of living his life has not changed.”
Elizabeth’s face was pale, the pink of her lips all but drained away. Lucy had done it now. She had shocked poor Lizzy with the gossip. It was rather scandalous for a man to be caught with any woman in such a way at a ball, but a married woman—one who was not his wife. Well, it was rather unseemly and to repeat it at tea, really was very common. And Elizabeth was the daughter of a duke, after all, whose manners were quite above reproach.
“And Lord Larabie?” Isabella asked, cutting into Lucy’s worries.
“Oh, he came charging down the hall and they fought. Fists flying, tailcoats waving in the tussle. Lord Pickett and Mr. Downing had a devil of a time separating them, and Lady Larabie stood there screeching like a cat that had its tail caught in a mousetrap.”
“My word, I had no idea that Alynwick was such a rake!” Isabella gasped.
“Believe it,” Elizabeth whispered, her voice so soft, her gaze distant, and perhaps a touch unfocused. “He is a disreputable heartbreaker.”
There was pain and sadness in Elizabeth’s eyes, and even though she could not see, she raised her chin high and gazed straight ahead of her, right where Isabella and Lucy sat.
“If there is anyone who knows how much of a rake the Marquis of Alynwick is, it is me.”
“Tell us!” Lucy demanded as she set her teacup and saucer down onto the table. “All of it, Lizzy, every sordid detail!”
Elizabeth smiled, and Lucy could not help but feel that something strange had shifted between them. “The day is dull and dreary, so let us make the most of it by playing a game, hmm?”
“What kind of game?” Isabella inquired.
“Truth or dare, shall we? Now then, for the price of my story, I shall extract either truth or a dare from …” Elizabeth paused for a moment as her fingers raked through Rosie’s soft white fur. “Yes, I think I shall require that from … Lucy.”
Nothing good would come out of this game. Lucy could sense that much, and what was more, she was certain that Elizabeth knew she was hiding something. She didn’t want to play, but knew that to disagree to it would cast more speculations. Besides, she dearly wanted to know how the very proper Elizabeth knew the Marquis of Alynwick was a wicked rogue.
“Very well,” she agreed. “I will accept your truth or dare.”
CHAPTER FOUR
SUSSEX FOUND BLAKE’S CLUB to be, thankfully, empty at this time of the afternoon. Servants buzzed about, preparing tables in anticipation for the crowd that would shortly arrive and not leave until well into the early-morning hours. Soon, he and Black would depart before they could be observed by anyone who might know who they were, or might find interest in seeing them together.
Part of being a Guardian was not to let anyone know you were one, and that meant keeping a polite distance from one another. As far as anyone in the ton suspected, Sussex, Black and Alynwick were acquaintances through their Masonic Lodge, and through the nature of their peerage. Anything closer would not be assumed, for they took great pains to never be seen socializing outside of any tonnish or Freemasonry events. They especially did not meet at any of the fashionable clubs in Mayfair. For them, it was Blake’s in the remotest part of Bloomsbury. Mostly the clientele were poets and writers, and the odd actor. People whose thoughts were altruistic, not peers who were plagued by ennui and the constant stream of gossip that made the monotony of a title bearable.
“Where the hell could he be?” Sussex snarled before taking a sip of strong, bitter coffee which had grown cold in the half hour they had waited for the recalcitrant Marquis of Alynwick. The brew needed more sugar—he adored sugar. Having never been allowed it as a child he had developed something of a sweet tooth in adulthood. Dumping more spoonfuls into the mug, he stirred it, took a sip and slammed the cup down onto the table once more.
“Where is he?” he growled irritably.
The pressed news sheet across the table from him rolled down, and Black’s blue-green eyes peered out