Azalea (23 page)

He seemed to devour her with his eyes, and
Azalea felt her skin crawl. While his manner in front of Lady
Beauforth was more restrained than it had been at Lord Kayce's
house, Azalea was more than relieved that he kept his visit brief.
After only ten minutes he took his leave with one last, lingering
look that made her feel unclean.

Before she could convey her opinion of him
to her cousin, however, Lady Beauforth began to express her
admiration of his lordship's person, as well as his many and
well-known worldly advantages.

"This is a greater conquest than you can
realize, my dear," she concluded after a lengthy and glowing
recital of Lord Drowling's assets. "I can tell you that I would
have been more than pleased to welcome his attentions towards
Marilyn, if he had ever shown the slightest inclination to bestow
them. He's as rich as Croesus!"

She fanned herself rapidly before
continuing. "But he has never been at all in the petticoat line. At
least not with, well..." She tittered self-consciously, her florid
cheeks pinkening.

Azalea understood quite well what her cousin
had left unsaid, but she remained silent, not wishing to encourage
Lady Beauforth in this flight of fancy.

"In point of truth,"
continued her cousin after a moment, "I've never heard of him
calling on
any
eligible girl before. I suppose it could be in deference to
Lord Kayce, for I hear they are as thick as thieves."

A singularly apt analogy, Azalea
thought.

"But even so, he seemed quite taken with
you. Why did you not mention his presence at Kayce's dinner party
before now?"

Azalea replied distractedly that she had not
thought it of any importance, and thereafter excused herself,
saying she wanted to finish writing a letter before nuncheon. She
was wondering how she would be able to prevent any further
attentions from Lord Drowling, since it was clear he would have
Lady Beauforth's unqualified support. Cousin Alice would no doubt
do all in her power to throw them together at every
opportunity.

She prayed that Lord Glaedon would return to
London soon.

* * *

The Earl, meanwhile, was making the most of
his time in the country, though not as his relations there had
expected. In fact, his grandmother considered his behaviour to
border on inhospitable.

For Christian spent every moment that could
be spared from his duties as host in his father's private library,
going through musty old papers and letters, searching for the Lord
only knew what.

When Lady Glaedon confronted him, demanding
to know what could be so important that it caused him to neglect
his guests, he merely replied that he had become curious about his
father's youth and was endeavouring to learn more of his deceased
parent through his letters.

The dowager pointed out
that any personal letters he found were likely to have been
written
to
the
late Earl rather than
by
him, but her grandson's attention had already
wandered back to the pile of papers on the table before him. She
gave it up for the time being and returned to their guests, to
attempt to compensate for their host's lack of
attentiveness.

Christian's persistent research was yielding
rewards, however. On leaving London nearly a fortnight before, his
emotions had been a turmoil of guilt and longing. He was firm,
though, in his intention of carefully examining his father's papers
in the hopes of learning something —anything —about Miss Azalea
Clayton.

He knew that the late Earl had corresponded
with the girl's grandfather regularly over the years, and it was to
Reverend Simpson's letters that he directed his attention. There
were more of these than he had expected, and what he was learning
from their perusal surprised him even more.

Christian had known that the two men had
served together in India. He found now that their friendship had
begun years before that, when both his father and Gregory Simpson
were mere boys at Eton.

Judging by the language in the letters,
there was virtually nothing they did not confide to one another.
Their separation when Gregory left for America was felt keenly by
both. These early letters gave Christian a great deal of insight
into Azalea's heritage, on the maternal side, at least.

Adele Simpson, Azalea's mother, had, by her
fond father's account, been a spectacular beauty. Fully
appreciating what she had bequeathed to her daughter in the way of
looks, Christian saw no reason to doubt his word. Gregory lamented
the fact that there were no young men even remotely worthy of his
daughter in the small college town to which he had removed, and
feared that she might become attached to some penniless student or,
worse, a farmer's son.

Reverend Simpson, it appeared, had not quite
embraced his new country's rejection of class distinctions.

Then Walter Clayton, eldest son and heir of
Lord Kayce, had appeared on the scene. He and Adele were
immediately drawn to one another, though she was only sixteen at
the time. While he fully approved of such a connection, as well as
the young man himself, Gregory was unwilling to allow his daughter
to marry at so young an age. Finally, however, he had been
persuaded to a formal betrothal.

Due to his father's illness, Walter had
returned to England shortly thereafter, but had promised to return
for Adele. Reading ahead two years, Christian found that Walter, by
then the new Lord Kayce, had kept his promise; he and Adele were
married in 1791.

At that point, Walter elected to remain in
America rather than take his new bride back to England as
originally planned, leaving his estates in the hands of his younger
brother. This development surprised Reverend Simpson, who hazarded
a guess or two as to its cause. He did not openly question it,
however, since he was grateful that his only child was not to be
removed across the Atlantic.

Reading between the lines, Christian was
able to infer that Kayce gradually became infected by the
republican spirit of the newly liberated colonies, a turn of events
of which his father-in-law did not entirely approve, it
appeared.

Sporadic news of the couple occurred in the
letters of the next few years, as the Claytons had resettled in the
near-wilderness west of Richmond to try their fortunes. Two
stillbirths were reported, then Azalea's birth in November of 1795.
Gregory travelled west to see his new granddaughter in the spring
of 1796 and sent a letter to the Earl a few months later singing
her praises.

Christian began to read the closely written
pages more carefully from that point on, grateful that his father
had chosen to retain all of his personal correspondence, though not
according to any particular system. It had taken him several days
to find and then chronologically order all of Reverend Simpson's
letters.

Herschel's name, and his own, had been
frequently mentioned, mainly in regard to enquiries after their
health and activities. The third letter after the one detailing the
remarkable cleverness and beauty of five-month-old Azalea, however,
mentioned what was apparently a years-old dream of both men—to
someday unite their families through the marriage of their
offspring.

Gregory pointed out that, as Howard had been
so disobliging as to marry much later in life than himself, that
dream, if it were ever to be fulfilled, would have to be through
his darling Azalea or some future daughter of Adele's. His tone was
less than serious, but Christian was much struck by this revelation
nonetheless.

There was to be no future daughter. When
Azalea was barely two years old, Walter was killed by a fall while
hunting, and Adele returned to Williamsburg with her baby
daughter.

News of Azalea was now liberally strewn
throughout every letter, and Christian read the accounts of her
childhood escapades with an absorption he found hard to explain. So
caught up in her history did he become that he was actually moved
to tears at the account of Adele's death and her five-year-old
daughter's uncomprehending grief.

Wiping his eyes, Christian glanced around
the library, glad that his grandmother had not chosen this moment
to remind him, yet again, of what was expected of the host at a
family gathering.

As it happened, that perceptive lady had not
believed for a moment in Christian's sudden acquisition of a
passion for family history. She had discovered, through an
investigation quickly and surreptitiously conducted during one of
his brief absences from the library, that his attention seemed
focused on a collection of letters from one Gregory Simpson of
Williamsburg, Virginia.

Lady Glaedon's curiosity was thoroughly
aroused but, as Christian himself seemed disinclined to be
communicative, she had to content herself with supposition. For
lack of a better confidante, she broached the subject to her
daughter, Lady Constance Highton, one evening when they were
alone.

"Connie, I've been meaning to ask you if
you've noticed anything... odd... in Christian's manner since he
arrived home."

Lady Constance, a handsome, middle-aged
matron, considered carefully before answering. "Well, Mama, he has
been quite as correct in his bearing towards me as ever, though I
will admit I have seen less of him than usual this Christmas."

The dowager regarded her daughter with some
impatience. She knew that Constance's understanding was not
absolutely of the first order, but she felt a need to discuss her
concerns with someone and she was unwilling to share them with
anyone less closely connected to Christian.

"I was not discussing his politeness,
Connie," she continued carefully after a moment. "I meant that he
has seemed rather... distracted of late."

"Oh! Yes, now that you mention it, I do
remember that just this afternoon at nuncheon I had to speak to him
twice before he would answer my question regarding the advisability
of new draperies in my small salon at the London house. Mr. Highton
favours cream, you see, but I have always felt that the blue and
buff we have there now more appropriately reflect—"

"Yes, of course, Connie, we went over all
that earlier, if you recall," the dowager broke in, forestalling
yet another complete cataloguing of the furnishings of her
daughter's small salon. "But we were discussing Christian. If I
were to hazard a guess, I would say his manner almost resembles
that of a young man in love. However, much as I have wished for
just that, I fear there must be another explanation."

"But why? Miss Beauforth is quite lovely."
Lady Constance frowned vaguely. "I must agree that if she has
captured his heart, 'twould be no bad thing. But even if she has
not, it is not quite the thing to be in love with one's spouse,
anyway. No doubt they will deal perfectly well together."

"Yes, yes, you are right, of course." The
dowager lapsed into discontented silence. Not even to Constance
would she voice her suspicion that Christian's preoccupation had
nothing whatsoever to do with Miss Beauforth. Nor would she confide
that she, herself, would be more pleased than dismayed if that
proved to be true.

If he had truly fallen in love with someone
else, she doubted she could bring herself to criticize his choice,
if only Christian were happy. And she doubted he would ever be
truly happy with Marilyn Beauforth. But would he cry off his
betrothal, even for love? Not for the first time she mentally
cursed that male code of honour with which all the men in her
family had been afflicted, often to their detriment.

If her guess were correct, who might the
lucky girl be? Could she possibly have some connection to those
musty old letters from America? It seemed unlikely.

"Well," she said briskly, bringing her
thoughts back to the present, "I suppose the most I can hope is
that he will confide in me. Pray don't mention this conversation to
Christian," she cautioned her daughter. "I am only guessing, after
all, and it is certain that he would not appreciate any
interference on our part."

Even as his grandmother and aunt discussed
him, Christian was immersed in his self-appointed research once
again. He had been charmed by Reverend Simpson's accounts of
Azalea's early childhood antics as well as impressed by the
evidence he offered of his granddaughter's exceptional abilities.
Christian began to understand why the girl was so able to hold her
own in the few arguments they had had; her unusual intelligence had
been augmented by an excellent education.

He read of her fascination with botany,
which had become evident by the time she was six years old, and
seemed to be the child's way of retaining some contact with her
departed mother. Her other absorbing interest appeared to be
horses, and he recalled with some amusement the near-lecture she
had given him on that topic their first morning in the Park. They
had more in common than he had ever realized.

Irresistibly, he remembered again her sweet
curves, her lustrous green eyes. He had tried to forget, but he
might as well have tried to stop his heart from beating. The very
thought of her, even after a fortnight's absence, still had the
power to stir his blood.

Now more than ever, he bitterly regretted
his betrothal to Miss Beauforth, made for the sake of maintaining
the family honour.

Finally, only two letters remained.
Christian had forced himself to read all of them sequentially,
although the temptation had been great to open the last letter at
the outset. It had been received by his father only a month before
their ill-fated voyage to the New World.

Christian had already discovered that for
some years his father had taken a discreet interest in Azalea's
English inheritance and the Kayce estates, at her grandfather's
request. Some problems had apparently arisen, and in the
second-to-last letter Reverend Simpson implied strongly that Kayce
was not to be trusted. He also mentioned his own failing health,
agreeing that the "steps" Lord Glaedon had recommended might be
necessary after all.