Richard thought a moment. "So far, it's been a game—the chase, the conquest. But lately...you know how Lord Dinsmore has been after me to marry. I have resisted, of course. Why should I give up this delightful life I lead?"
"Why should you indeed?" Sidney cynically observed. "Women, drinking, gambling, more women...the word 'decadent' comes to mind."
"Exactly." If Richard was the least insulted, he gave no indication. "But on the other hand, I am sick to death of my cousin plaguing me, so lately I've been thinking, why not marry? Then I shall do what most men do—take a wife, get her with child, then go about my 'decadent' life just as before."
"Not every woman would have you on those terms."
"My dear boy, what woman would not have me? Aren't I titled and soon to be rich? My dear cousin grows more feeble by the day. Not that I want him to go, mind you, but facts are facts."
"The fact is, you can hardly wait for your cousin's demise." Sidney did not bother to hide his annoyance.
"Well, it's true, isn't it?
I could marry any woman I chose, but where's the fun in that? I enjoy the challenge–the chase. So I shall choose a woman with spirit like Lady Flora, who's not only beautiful and charming but has a munificent father who will doubtless provide an obscenely generous dowry. I'll have my fun with her, marry her, get her with child, which will thrill my dear cousin no end and stop him plaguing me. Then I shall be free to resume my carefree life while my obedient wife stays home and produces a pack of little Dashwoods to carry on the family name." Laughing aloud, Richard slapped his friend on the back. "A fine scheme, don't you think?"
"You are despicable."
"Now there's a true friend," Richard answered warmly. "One of the things I like best about you, Sidney, is you always say what you think."
True enough, thought Sidney
. But that's not all I'm thinking
. Despite the comradery of the Four-in-Hand club in which they both took an active part, despite the history of their friendship which extended back to before he could remember, there were times he could barely tolerate his wayward friend. Richard had been a sweet child, obedient, pleasant, never whining, but when he reached his teens, he began to change into the arrogant, uncaring man he was today. Sidney suspected the death of Richard's parents in a carriage accident when he was twelve was much to blame.
After that, Richard went to live with Lord Dinsmore. A military man, highly respected if not revered, the Earl tried to instill in his late cousin's son the importance of a high moral character. That is, when he was around. The trouble was, Dinsmore was away much of the time, fighting one war or another, leaving Richard to be raised by servants and a doting Lady Dinsmore who, having never had children of her own, caved in to his every whim.
Now Lady Dinsmore was dead and his guardian, Lord Dinsmore, back at Pemberly Manor to stay. Dinsmore had returned a hero, battered and scarred from the ardors of battle, but too late for any favorable influence on his ward. Richard's unsavory character had already formed, set in a mold of self-indulgence, arrogance, and greed.
Which I have ignored up to now
, Sidney mused
, but no longer can I countenance such behavior.
Richard would always be a friend, but surely not his best friend, and it would be better, as time went by, that they drift apart. Not easy, though, considering that Vernon Hill, Sidney's own estate, lay adjacent to Pemberly Manor, which some day would belong to Richard. It was inevitable their paths would cross from time to time. If they did, fine. Considering Richard had once saved his life,
he could never completely turn his back on the man, no matter how unprincipled he became.
Richard inquired, "So what did you think of Lady Flora?"
"Attractive...personable enough." That would suffice. He would not mention this morning on the beach when something intense flared deep within him that moment he had first seen Lady Flora Winton standing in the surf, a sea breeze stirring her wealth of auburn hair, the wet folds of her bathing costume clinging like a second skin to her alluring curves.
My God, but it had been a while since he'd felt that overpowering urge for a woman. In fact, he could not recall ever receiving such a jolt. And so out of the blue
. Since Hortense died, he had not exactly lived the life of a monk, but never anything serious. Up to now, he simply had not been interested.
Having seen Lady Flora only once, and at a distance, he was surprised at the number of times throughout the day that thoughts of her kept popping into his head. Each time they did, he tried to convince himself that up close she would doubtless look quite ordinary.
But not so. Up to now, he'd found the task of beginning a dance with a young lady about as exciting as pulling on his boots. Tonight, though, he'd had a rather interesting reaction when Lady Flora Winton floated into his arms, smelling of lilac, her face perfection with its delicately pointed chin, full, rosy mouth so temptingly curved, soft cheeks of rose and pearl, straight, up-tilted little nose, and dark violet eyes, fringed with long, dark lashes. There was intelligence in those eyes, as well as humor. They were bright with energy and life. He had begun the dance with a first-time-ever heightened awareness he held a desirable woman in his arms, and he'd felt her beguiling presence right down to his fingertips.
From there, it got better—or worse, depending how he looked at it—when he discovered he might as well be guiding a piece of dandelion fluff, she was so light, truly a marvelous dancer. Most disturbing, though, was that in a room full of low-cut gowns exposing soft white flesh which he had long since learned to ignore, when they began the dance, he found the
close-up view of her bosom disturbing in a way he'd never known before. He was keenly aware of her in every way.
S
he'd ignored him. Sidney could almost laugh at the irony. Richard wasn't the only bachelor considered a good catch. Since Hortense died, more than one aggressive mother had thrust her daughter at him, visions of a fine marriage to a wealthy and titled widower on her mind. He avoided them all like the plague.
As for Lady Flora—enough
. From this moment on he would entertain no more thoughts of her. He had more pleasant things to think about.
Richard interrupted his thoughts. "Lady Rensley mentioned they're having an at-home tomorrow afternoon."
"Are you suggesting we call?"
"Of course, old boy. Want to come along? I fancy I'd like to see the beautiful Lady Flora again."
"You mean, throw her another crumb?"
"You needn't be sarcastic," Richard answered congenially. "You should come. I know you detest the very thought of matchmaking, but perhaps the sister? A bit on the plump side, I suppose, and rather plain, but, still, her dowry is quite attractive."
Sidney's first impulse was to give Richard a polite but firm no. But he caught himself as an image of Flora's face filled his head. What would it hurt to see her one more time? Just once, then never again. Besides, if he got to know her better, he might find some major flaw that would surely cure him of this irrational obsession.
"I'll come along, Richard, if you insist," Sidney answered with scant enthusiasm. With any luck, he would find Lady Flora prone to silly gossip, or perhaps she talked too much, or was a braggart, or at the very least, slurped her tea.
* * * *
F
lora loved the comfortable home her family leased each summer. Sitting atop a gently rolling hill, the rambling old house afforded a fine view of green fields surrounded by a forest of trees. In addition, one could find a magnificent view of the sea from both the terrace and the low French windows of the drawing room. On an ordinary day, Flora was eager to arise the moment she awoke. She would dress and go downstairs where, on days warm enough, the family would take breakfast on the terrace, enjoying the always breath-taking view.
Not this morning, though. Instead of springing from her bed, Flora snuggled deeper into her covers and thought of last night and Lord Dashwood. How crushed she had been when he hadn't danced with her
. How overjoyed when he claimed the final dance. "I saved the best until last," he'd said, thus sending a vast wave of relief coursing through her. Was she falling in love? She had been attracted to one man or another from time to time, but no man had caused the feelings Lord Dashwood had stirred within her last night.
Amy, still in her nightgown, entered and perched herself on the side of Flora's bed. "Wasn't it lovely last night?" she asked, her gray eyes clear and bright. "Now, tell the truth—are you interested in Lord Dashwood? I saw you looking at him all evening."
Flora returned a noncommittal "Hmm." Amy might be naive, but she didn't miss much.
"And then I saw he danced the last dance with you," Amy babbled on, "and he was looking at you as if he was most interested." She clasped her hands in front of her. "Oh, how exciting! He is such a catch. What did he say? Did he—?"
"He is absolutely mad for me and begged me to marry him. We are eloping to Gretna Greene tonight."
Amy looked startled, then giggled. "Oh, you are not
. Just the same, wouldn't it be lovely if you married Lord Dashwood?"
"That's not likely to occur
. Since I shan't be attending the Season this year, I doubt I'll see him after we return home."
Amy looked thoughtful. "Then perhaps you should reconsider."
"About another Season? You know when I make my mind, I mean it."
"Must you always be so stubborn?" Amy sighed, then brightened. "At least you'll see Lord Dashwood when he attends our at-home this afternoon."
Despite herself, Flora felt her heart give a little leap. Offhandedly she remarked, "Oh, yes. I do recall now Mama invited him."
"As well as that friend of his—that rather rude man who looked so aloof and hardly danced."
Flora only half listened. Already her mind had drifted. Lord Dashwood must come. She desperately wanted to see him again. As for his friend, she hardly remembered...what was his name? Ah, well, no matter.
When she finally arose, the morning proceeded in its usual tedious fashion. After breakfast, at exactly nine o'clock, she took her usual short walk with her mother and Amy—down to the first oak tree and back, the same every day. At precisely eleven, her mother and Amy took up their petit-point and Flora, because of her short-comings in needle-work, was allowed to read.
Because of the at-home, their usual afternoon schedule of either receiving visitors or paying visits was changed. The relaxed pace of the day disappeared. Instead, there was an extra fuss as they changed for afternoon, Flora donning a white muslin tea gown with a double row of flounces around the hem, trimmed with pink satin. Under their mother's fidgety direction, Flora, Amy, and the parlor maid scurried about the drawing room, plumping out cushions that Lady Rensley imagined hollowed, straightening slightly rumpled seat covers, shifting a foot stool that for some unfathomable reason had been moved an inch from its appointed place.
"Everything looks fine," Flora assured her nervous mother, as she smoothed a slightly disturbed small hearthrug.
Amy whispered, "I wish she wouldn't have these at-homes. She near kills herself with worry."
Flora heartily agreed. Lady Rensley reveled in her at-homes, and never failed to hold them, whether at their London town house; Sweffham Park, their country home; or here in Brighton. But she never relaxed and enjoyed herself. Instead, she worried that the silver would not be polished to its highest possible glow, or that the lemon wedges would not be cut exactly straight, or one of her fine china cups might contain some infinitesimal crack. Will that be me some day? Flora often wondered. When and if she married, would she end up like her mother, worried about every little thing?
I do not want to be like my mother
, she thought dismally.
Never.
Lady Constance Boles was the first to arrive, followed by an elegantly dressed collection of Lady Rensley's lady friends. They were deep in a predictable and utterly boring discussion of furniture, china, and ormolu when there was a stir, and every female eye in the room turned to the door. Flora could almost hear the swift intake of breath. It was as if a shining god had dropped from the heavens as Lord Dashwood appeared, resplendent in top hat, serge spencer jacket over a waistcoat, drill trousers, and a magnificently tied cravat over the high starched points of his collar. He carried a heavy walking stick and wore kid gloves and leather Hessian boots with a tassel. He also wore a devastatingly charming smile.
Amidst tittering admiration he strode into the room and bent with courtly deference over Lady Rensley's hand. "My dear Lady Rensley," he said in his mellow, deep voice, "how utterly kind of you to invite me." His gaze swept the room. "Ah, a room full of lovely ladies. I must meet each and every one." He noticed Flora as she arose to greet him. "Ah, Lady Flora." Bending low again, he kissed her hand. "How delightful to see you." For the fraction of a moment, his gaze swept over her, soft as a caress. His eyes met hers, insolent, compelling. She felt a tingle down her spine. His eyes were sending a message that clearly said,
I'm interested in you. I want to see you again.