Authors: Georgie Lee
Chapter Sixteen
T
he day bloomed bright and warm for Lady Menton’s garden party. Cecelia sat with a small circle of country matrons under the large white canopy, tired but happy after a night spent in Randall’s arms. His throaty laugh carried over the party from where he stood with Sir Walter on the far side of the patio and she watched him, his manner free of the arrogance and conceit she’d seen at the assembly. She wanted to go to him, to stand beside his lithe body and savour the sound of his deep voice, but decorum demanded they maintain their distance.
The matrons laughed and Cecelia realised once again she’d lost the thread of the conversation. Tired of pretending to possess an interest in the discussion of flower beds, she rose, taking up her empty glass. ‘I think I’m in need of more lemonade.’
Walking out of the shade of the canopy, she moved to the table of refreshments on the patio, trying not to stare at Randall, but unable to keep from throwing looks in his direction. More than once he met her gaze with a wink, just as he had this morning over breakfast and again in the carriage. She struggled to hide her bright smile as she looked over the selection of food and he returned to his conversation.
‘They’re making excellent progress,’ Lady Ellington remarked, coming to stand next to Cecelia, the lace edge of her parasol swaying.
The clatter of bowling pins drew her attention across the grass to where Mr Menton and a group of other young people applauded Theresa’s efforts. Like a dutiful suitor, Mr Menton hurried across the lawn to retrieve the ball, his eyes never leaving hers as he strolled back and held it out to her. Theresa took it, their hands lingering a minute before she moved to try again.
Across the patio, Lady Menton watched them with pinched eyes.
‘I don’t think Lady Menton shares our enthusiasm,’ Cecelia observed.
‘Come, then, we’ll have a chat with her. I know something of what makes the woman tick and can mention enough titled friends and connections to have her grovelling at our feet.’ Lady Ellington led the way across the portico to Lady Menton, something of Randall’s confidence in her comment and her walk.
The baronet’s wife watched their approach with a mixture of forced gaiety and stern disapproval, her eyes travelling up and down Cecelia, inspecting her deep-red dress as if assessing whether a horse were fit to purchase.
‘Good day, Lady Menton,’ Lady Ellington greeted. ‘You’ve been blessed with beautiful weather for the party.’
‘Indeed.’ Lady Menton struggled to smile as she stood, looking torn between acknowledging an inferior connection and impressing her better.
‘And doesn’t your son look happy.’ Across the lawn, Mr Menton and Theresa laughed as his ball rolled wide of the pins. ‘Oh, did you hear about Lady Tollcroft and Lord Vernon? I received a letter from the Duchess of Cliffstone about it just the other day.’
Cecelia covered a smile with her hand, noticing how many titled people Lady Ellington had managed to squeeze into the one sentence, but it achieved the desired effect. Lady Menton perked up, looking a little too eager to know the stories.
Cecelia barely heard the gossip as Lady Ellington related it with her usual flourish. She could only focus on Randall as he laughed with the baronet, more at ease today than she’d ever seen him in London. As if feeling her watching him, he tossed her a wide smile. Touching the pendant lying outside her dress, she knew, despite all her previous denials and refusals, and all the tiny fears still pestering her late at night, that she loved him as much today as she had ten years ago.
Then Randall scowled, focusing on something behind her. She turned to see a gentleman and his tall wife step out from the house, accompanied by another young man Cecelia didn’t recognise.
‘Ah, there is Lord and Lady Hartley and Lord Malvern,’ Lady Menton announced. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I must welcome them.’
Lady Menton swept past them to greet the new guests.
‘No wonder she enjoys such little success in town.’ Lady Ellington shook her head. ‘She has the conversational skills of a parrot.’
‘Shall we see what the gentlemen are discussing?’ Cecelia suggested, eager to be by Randall’s side and to know what about the Hartleys and Lord Malvern bothered him.
‘You go ahead. I don’t wish to interfere in your and Randall’s enjoyment.’ With a conspiratorial wink, Lady Ellington made for the bowlers.
Smiling in spite of her concern, Cecelia walked to where the gentlemen stood listening to Sir Walter describe his new horse.
‘She’s a fine mare and I expect a long line of winners from her,’ Sir Walter bragged. ‘Are you a horsewoman, Mrs Thompson?’
‘I am.’
‘Then you must have Lord Falconbridge bring you to see her once she arrives.’
A footman stepped up next to Sir Walter. ‘Lady Menton requests your presence inside.’
Sir Walter patted his generous stomach. ‘If I must, I must. If you’ll excuse me.’ He walked off with the footman just as Lord Hartley came to join them.
‘Lord Falconbridge, I’m glad to see you here today. Good to know I’m not the only exile from London.’
‘I wouldn’t call it an exile.’ Randall moved a touch closer to Cecelia, his arm brushing hers. ‘Why aren’t you in London?’
‘I wish I was, but as you predicted, Morton’s tongue forced him back to the country.’
‘You shouldn’t have accompanied him.’
‘I didn’t have a choice. Seems all my wife’s relations are determined to trouble me this Season. Morton’s cousin decided to elope with a veteran from Waterloo, some captain covered with medals. Created something of a scandal. Thankfully, she sneaked off before I had to pay for the dresses she ordered from the local modiste. Now, if only Morton would decamp to Gretna Green and save me the pain of his company.’
Randall and Cecelia exchanged a knowing look, the full scandal behind Theresa’s new wardrobe revealed.
‘Where is your
illustrious
nephew now?’ Randall asked.
He looked around, then shrugged. ‘I don’t know, probably into the port in the dining room. Don’t worry, I expect to be thoroughly embarrassed by him before the day is through.’
‘In that case, it’s time for me and Mrs Thompson to explore Lady Menton’s excellent grounds. I don’t think I can tolerate Malvern’s wit.’
‘You aren’t the only one.’ With a roll of his eyes, Lord Hartley took his leave.
‘Mrs Thompson, there’s an excellent Greek temple by the lake full of pagan gods waiting for worshippers.’ Randall held out his arm, his eyes hot and inviting. ‘Shall we become heathens?’
‘I’d love nothing better.’ She laid her hand on his coat, eager to worship with him.
They started off but only made it a few steps before Cecelia’s shoe caught the hem of her dress. The gown pulled and she heard it rip before she stopped, looking down to where the hem hung ragged.
‘I’m afraid the gods will have to wait.’ She frowned, annoyed at their time alone together being delayed. ‘I’m sure one of the maids can help me with this.’
‘Then I’ll wait here for my nymph to return.’ He flicked his teeth with his tongue and Cecelia nearly forgot the hem. As much as she wanted to follow him, she couldn’t risk ruining the dress. She didn’t have the money to replace it.
Lifting the skirt a little to keep it from dragging on the grass, she ventured inside in search of a maid. Her eyes struggled to adjust to the darker room as she moved through it and into the Gothic hallway just beyond. She looked back and forth, thinking to go right when a woman’s voice caught her attention. She followed the sound, hoping it might be a maid when a snippet of conversation made her freeze.
‘Mrs Thompson is a nobody,’ came Lady Menton’s high voice, ‘and she’s trying to foist off her cousin on our son.’
Cecelia crept closer to the door of the room where the voices emanated. It stood slightly ajar and she leaned against the wall, out of sight to listen.
‘She’s a close friend of the Marquess and his family,’ Sir Walter responded. ‘A man like Lord Falconbridge could do a great deal for Adam. You want him in Parliament. The Marquess could get him there.’
‘If Lord Falconbridge were married to her, it would be different. I spoke with Lord Malvern and he told me about the rumours circling her. I won’t throw Adam away on the cousin of Lord Falconbridge’s whore, not when there are other wealthy young ladies with more reputable connections.’
Cecelia didn’t wait for Sir Walter’s response, but stole away from the door, fear following her as she struggled to find her way back out of the house. This was how it had begun in Virginia, people whispering in corners, repeating General LaFette’s awful lies. She struggled to breathe as she tried first one room and then another, not finding the sitting room she’d come in through. If it happened again, if everyone turned against them, where would they go, how would they survive?
She finally turned into the empty sitting room overlooking the back portico and pressed herself into the shadows next to the door. Rubbing her trembling fingers over the gold pendant, she fought to steady herself against a barrage of anger, shame and discouragement.
Outside, Randall’s deep voice cut through the muffled murmur of the guests. She hurried out of the room and down the steps to him, not caring who saw her or what they thought. Randall loved her and he’d protect her. She only needed to speak with him and settle all the worries making her chest tighten.
Seeing her, he hurried across the grass to meet her. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I can’t speak of it here. Let’s walk down to the lake.’
They turned, ready to leave, when a man’s slurred voice rang out over the party.
‘Lord Falconbridge, I see you’re enjoying the delights of the country.’
Cecelia’s back stiffened and she turned with Randall to find the young man who’d entered with the Hartleys staggering towards them.
‘Who is that?’ she asked, gripping his arm.
‘Malvern,’ he growled, lacing his hands behind his back.
‘You’ve been missed in London,’ Lord Malvern announced in a loud voice, glancing back and forth between her and Randall. Far behind him, Lord Hartley nearly dropped his plate on the bowling green before shoving it at his wife and rushing towards them.
‘Mrs Thompson, I presume.’ Lord Malvern offered a wobbly bow, then struggled to straighten. ‘You’ve made quite a name for yourself this Season as Lord Falconbridge’s light o’ love. Had I known your name sooner, I might have won a tidy sum at White’s.’
Randall rushed at the man, who stumbled back, nearly banging into his uncle. ‘You will apologise to the lady at once, or I will demand satisfaction.’
Lord Malvern’s mouth opened and closed as though struggling to form some witty response which might spare him the apology and the meeting at dawn. It never came and his uncle slapped him hard on the back. ‘Apologise or I’ll blow your stupid head off myself.’
Lord Malvern’s bravado wilted and with a childish pout he turned to Cecelia. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve caused offence, Mrs Thompson.’
She didn’t reply, shaking too hard with anger and embarrassment to trust her voice.
‘And the Marquess,’ his uncle insisted.
‘My apologies to you as well, Lord Falconbridge.’
Lord Hartley grabbed Lord Malvern by the arm and dragged him away.
It was then Cecelia noticed everyone watching them, including Lady Menton, who bit her nails as if a flock of sheep had just tromped though her party. Cecelia could practically hear the word
whore
whispering through her mind and everyone else’s.
She swallowed hard, searching for Lady Ellington, but she didn’t see her or any other kind faces in the crowd, only hard stares and disapproving looks. Whatever they thought of her and Randall, it had found an outlet in Lord Malvern’s insolence and not even decorum or respect for Randall’s rank could keep their thoughts from showing on their faces.
‘Come with me,’ Randall said, taking her by the arm and drawing her back towards the path.
She followed him into the shade of the trees, leaving the party behind, but not her shame. Not even Randall’s firm grip could shield her from the sting. She’d spent so much time in London maintaining her reputation, only to watch it slip away in one nasty remark. Unlike General LaFette’s lies, nothing Lady Menton and Lord Malvern had said was untrue. Cecelia and Randall were lovers and now everyone knew.
She glanced up at Randall, the tight set of his jaw and his hard eyes frightening her more than Lady Menton’s comments.
The path opened on to the shore of a small lake with a Greek temple perched on the opposite side. They could see nothing of the house from here, but through the trees, the occasional high voice from the party drifted down to them. Randall let go of her and marched to the edge of the water, his body stiff, and she felt him pulling away.
* * *
A breeze rippled across the water’s surface, pushing small waves over the pebbled shore to nip at Randall’s boots. His hands moved to his back, but he caught himself and forced them to hang at his sides. His fingers tightened into fists until they shook with the pressure, the tension rising to his elbows before Cecelia’s hand slid over his knuckles.
‘Randall?’
He eased open his fingers.
‘Malvern will regret what he said today.’ He stroked her cheek, her stricken face making his blood boil. ‘How dare he try to humiliate me. I’ll rip him to shreds in every gaming room and club until he’s driven from London.’
‘Why? He only said what many were thinking, including Lady Menton. In the house, I heard her tell Sir Walter I was your whore.’
‘Who is she to judge us?’ he sneered. ‘The daughter of a merchant with nothing to recommend her except a willingness to bow and scrape before her betters and weasel her way into society.’
She let go of his hand. ‘She’s only doing it to help her son, the same way I’ve helped Theresa.’
‘She’ll ruin him with all her grasping. Insulting you is like insulting me. Doesn’t she know I could raise or lower her son with a few words?’
‘She doesn’t just want standing, but a respectable match for him. At the moment, Theresa and I can offer neither.’
‘Of course you can. Increase Miss Fields’s dowry.’ Randall began to pace, the small stones shifting beneath his boots. ‘If Lady Menton is foolish enough to toss it away, then I’ll see to it your cousin has a hundred other suitors clamouring for her hand.’