Regency Marriages. Elizabeth Rolls

      By the end of the evening, Thea felt as though she had been boiled up in a copper with the sheets. She was exhausted, limp, by the time Almeria summoned the carriage to return to Grosvenor Square. But she had survived. She had renewed her acquaintance with a number of women who had been brought out in the same season as herself and had been accepted back into their number.

      Her public acceptance by Diana Fox-Heaton ensured that. Diana had accompanied her back to the drawing room. Several women she had known as a girl had come up to her, inviting her to various parties. She thought about Diana as the maid readied her for bed. They had not been close friends years ago, but they had liked each other. And Diana had gone out of her way to help tonight. She had warned her that rumours were circulating. Rumours that suggested Miss Winslow’s long absence from society might have very little to do with mourning a lost love …

      She shivered. Diana was married to Sir Francis—one of the very few people who could have any inkling of the truth. He had been a close friend of Nigel Lallerton’s, that was how she had come to know Diana. They had been part of the same circle. What would he say to his wife’s renewed friendship with her?

      She slipped into bed and blew out the lamp. Despite her exhaustion, sleep mocked her. Diana had been quite as outspoken as Richard on the subject of Lord Dunhaven … Francis says he simply wants a brood mare—and that no father of sense will give his consent to such a marriage. You know, there was all sorts of gossip when his wife died—but nothing could be done. No servant would ever speak out in a matter like that!

      Thea shivered. Aberfield, however, was willing to promote the match.

      A hard-edged face slid into focus. Dark eyes that usually spoke of cool control, self-discipline—eyes that had positively blazed with some violent emotion this evening. Heat flickered, tingling inside her—Richard must really loathe Dunhaven for some reason, she told herself. She didn’t think she had ever seen him so angry—except once when he was a boy, and his mother had just visited … She sighed. She hadn’t much liked Richard’s mother herself and she wondered what the new Lady Blakehurst was like … Richard seemed to like her, even if Lady Arnsworth didn’t.

      Richard walked back to Grosvenor Square in company with Braybrook. They had ended the evening in the card room, playing piquet for penny points with an added shilling for a game, and a pound a rubber. Richard had emerged ahead by a couple of pounds and half a bottle of brandy.

      ‘The sad thing is,’ said Richard, jingling the coins in his pocket, ‘that if I played for larger stakes, I’d lose resoundingly!’

      ‘Naturally,’ said Braybrook. ‘My father always said much the same; you only win when you can afford to lose. Pity he didn’t take his own advice speculating. Here we are—Arnsworth House.’

      ‘So it is,’ said Richard, inspecting the familiar portico.

      A faint scraping sound brought both of them swinging around sharply. A small dark shape detached itself from the steps leading down to the area and resolved itself into a boy.

      ‘What the devil are you doing there?’ demanded Richard.

      The lad hung back. ‘Would one of you be Mr Richard Blakehurst?’

      ‘What’s that to you, lad?’ asked Braybrook suspiciously.

      Richard shook his head. ‘It’s all right, Julian,’ he said. ‘Yes, I’m Mr Blakehurst.’

      ‘Note for you then, guv,’ said the boy, approaching. ‘From a lidy,’ and pushed the note into Richard’s hand. He was gone in a flash, racing off along the pavement and disappearing around the corner into Upper Grosvenor Street, before either of them could stop him.

      Richard stared after him with raised brows. ‘Idiot boy,’ he said. ‘I’d have given him sixpence. Wonder who’s writing me love notes?’

      Braybrook raised his brows. ‘Love notes, Ricky? You?’

      Richard grinned, breaking the seal and opening the note. ‘Do you think you and Max are the only men in London ever to—good God!’

      He stared in disgust. Who the hell had penned this filth?

      Braybrook twitched the note out of his hand and read aloud, ‘How many times will you tup the gilded whore tonight?’ In an expressionless voice, he said, ‘Charming, Ricky. Absolutely charming.’ He handed it back.

      Crumpling the note in his fist, Richard shoved it deep in the pocket of his coat. ‘Quite.’

      The burning question, of course, was just who was the gilded whore? He hoped, he very much hoped, that he didn’t know the answer.

      ‘Sure you won’t seek lodgings, old man?’ asked Braybrook.

      Richard shook his head curtly and limped up the steps, refusing to acknowledge the wisdom of the suggestion.

      Thea frowned at the note from Lady Chasewater, inviting her to drive her in the park the following day. Relieved that it wasn’t for that afternoon, Thea managed to persuade Lady Arnsworth that a quiet hour in the back parlour would be more beneficial than more shopping.

      Reluctantly, her ladyship consented. ‘Very well, dear. If you are quite sure it is necessary. You do look pale. And of course you must send a note accepting Laetitia’s invitation. She is very influential. And there must be no question of you not being able to attend the Montacute ball this evening, so I suppose …’

      Thea assured her that with a little quiet she would be perfectly ready to attend the ball and Lady Arnsworth departed.

      Telling Myles that she was not at home to anyone, Thea asked for a pot of tea to be brought to her in the parlour.

      Ten minutes later she was ensconced on a sofa with her writing box and sipping her tea. Peace descended in the familiar room. Faint sounds from the street and the mews reached her, but they seemed oddly detached, as though the house hung suspended beyond the noise.

      Hastily she wrote a note to Lady Chasewater, assuring her that she would be delighted to drive with her the following day. Then she summoned a footman to take the note. That done, she took out another sheet of paper to write to Aunt Maria.

      For a few moments her pen scratched away. Then it stilled as her concentration wavered and she gazed about the familiar room. Little had changed since last she had been there. It was not a public room, and the furniture was rather old-fashioned and crowded. Not a crocodile leg or sphinx in sight, as though the room had been forgotten when Lady Arnsworth redecorated.

      Of all the rooms in Arnsworth House, this was the one she had always known best when she visited as a child. Here Richard had spent his days after the riding accident that broke his left leg. Here, she had been introduced to him at the age of five, as a suitable chess opponent. She smiled, remembering. The twelve-year-old Richard had barely choked off the exclamation of disgust. He had, however, taught her to play chess.

      She laid the pen down.

      What was he really like now? She had known him as a boy, but did she know the man? Perhaps she did. No doubt he still loved dogs. And horses. The fuss there had been when he insisted on riding again after his accident! His mother and Lady Arnsworth would have kept him wrapped in cotton wool on the sofa if he hadn’t been so stubborn about it. She couldn’t believe that would have changed. Richard could make a mule look cooperative.

      Which probably meant he was in no danger of being