The Madcap (3 page)

Special experiences were one of her father’s weaknesses. He was a man who staunchly believed life was a
series of adventures. Certainly, most of his adventures
were in the form of business risks, but he had compiled
a lifetime of “experiences,” from the imported French
chef in his kitchen to the fleet of delivery wagons at the
sourdough factory where he’d been one of the first people to expand their business by taking their product right to people’s doorsteps.

“London, eh, Marianne?” Her father cocked an eyebrow at her. “What does your mother say to this?” He
looked down the table to where Elizabeth Addison sat,
still regal and lovely in her late forties, gracing the table
with the kind of innate dignity one can acquire only
through years of good breeding.

“London is a world away,” Elizabeth said pointedly,
shooting Marianne a questioning look. Marianne knew
very well what her mother’s veiled comment meant.
London was more than geographically a world away; it
was socially a world away too. London would take time
to understand and would take practice. She knew her
mother was skeptical. London would be no more welcoming of outsiders than New York had been. But there
was one difference: in London, Americans, particularly
rich Americans, were all the rage. Prince Albert adored
American girls and the peerage adored their daddies’
money.

“You must come too,” Marianne said, turning back
to her father. “The prince is obsessed with yacht racing.
He’s desperate to beat his nephew, Kaiser Wilhelm, at
Cowes this year. The Earl of Camberly was talking
about it in New York. He’s crewed for the prince before”

The mention of yachting was a far more powerful lure
for Cleveland Addison than was the prospect of hobnobbing with nobility. Still, Marianne noted that he looked suitably impressed at the mention of yachting and racing all in the same sentence. In addition to all else that
he was, Marianne’s father was a sporting man. In business or in leisure, he loved a good competition.

“I have been thinking of commissioning a new yacht.
There’s a boat builder out of Cherbourg who has an engine design I’ve been very intrigued with.”

Marianne could see the wheels of her father’s mind
working as the soup was removed and the fish set down
in front of him. “Well, Elizabeth, what do you say to a
stop in France first?”

Marianne looked demurely down at her napkin, casting a covert glance in her mother’s direction. “First? Before what?” she said obliquely.

“Why, before we head to London,” he answered, full
of bonhomie at the thought of his new yacht.

A frisson of excitement rippled through the table and
the rest of the meal was taken up with discussion of
London. The Greens had been there a few years past and
were eager to offer suggestions.

Marianne beamed, barely able to contain her elation.
She’d won round one. Her campaign to garner an English title was under way.

London, May 1890

Alasdair Braden, the fourth Viscount Pennington,
disguised a yawn with a sip of champagne from his
glass. He stood on the perimeter of the dance floor
with his friends, Gannon Maddox, the Earl of Camberly, and the American shipping magnate Lionel Carrington. All of them were doing their best to look cool,
no mean feat considering the crush of people at the
Bradley ball and the heat of the unusually warm spring
evening. It did not help Alasdair’s mood that he’d quarreled with his mother before he’d left her home in
Richmond earlier that day.

Quarreling with one’s mother was not an admirable
trait in a gentleman but neither was being a man of fiveand-thirty who let his mother run his life. He was the
viscount, after all. He should be the one to decide. He knew very well what his duties and obligations were.
How could he not, after having had them pounded into
his head since he was eight? It wasn’t that he didn’t
know his duty; it was only that he didn’t care to do his
duty with the woman his mother had picked out. He’d
long harbored hopes that he would make a marriage
that had less to do with duty and more to do with something more vivifying to one’s personal well-being. But
the time for such hopes was running out.

“You’re in a sour mood tonight,” Camberly commented, his eyes never leaving the dance floor where
his bride of two years danced with an aging baron.

“I was merely wondering who the richest girl in the
room was tonight,” Alasdair said with ennui. “Then I realized it’s the same every night. There’s no difference.”
He waved a languid hand at the dancers swirling on the
floor. “They’re all the same. The richest girl in the room
is still Pamela Hutchinson and she’s still engaged to the
Earl of Putnam’s son. Nothing ever changes”

“Did you quarrel with your mother again?” Lionel
nudged Alasdair with an elbow to the side, his face
splitting into a teasing grin.

Lionel’s good humor was instantly contagious and
Alasdair found his spirits lifting a bit. It was no secret
among the three of them that his mother was a consummate harpy. Alasdair chuckled. “She’s determined
to see me married by Christmas, and fancies a winter
ceremony at the old pile,” he said, referring to the Pennington seat in Devonshire.

“And who’s to be the bride?” Lionel inquired in
mock seriousness. They all knew-indeed it seemed
most of London knew-who had garnered his mother’s
preference as the next Countess of Pennington.

“Sarah Stewart, as always. Mother and Sarah’s father
have been keen to join the estates for years and Sarah’s
father has a respectable amount of blunt, at least
enough to keep the places going until the economy
takes an upturn” Alasdair took another sip, unwilling to
say anymore. Sarah was likable enough as a friend,
even as a cherished friend. He’d known her since his
childhood; fact was, he’d known her for her whole life.
He’d been twelve when he’d gone to her christening.
Therein lay the problem. There was something disturbing about having known one’s bride when she’d been in
her nappies.

Perhaps that was the whole problem with the entire
Season, he groused. Everyone knew everyone and
had for years. Alasdair knew, too, that he could no
longer wait for the perfect bride. The situation with
the estate had become dire. The luxury of remaining
unattached had come to an end. He had to use the last
asset he had and find a bride with extensive amounts
of money this Season. Unfortunately, that last asset
was himself and the august Pennington title.

The time had come for him to sell himself in matrimony. Of course, he had his pride. It wouldn’t look
quite that sordid on the surface. On the surface, it would appear that he was making yet another of the famous
alliances the peerage were known for amongst themselves. But on the inside he would know what had finally
dragged him to the altar and caused him to sacrifice
his dreams of building something more with a wife.

His mother might truly be a harpy but it was not
necessarily unwarranted. The family coffers were in
danger of running dry. The agricultural depression
had bled the estate, and although he hoped for an upturn, he had enough financial acumen to know the aristocracy would never be the same. Life as an idle, landed
gentleman, living off the rents of others was a thing of
the past. Relying on the land as a primary source of
income to support over-large estates was a dangerous
position to be in when one’s social status rested on
one’s ability to lavishly and regularly entertain Bertie,
Prince Albert. While Alasdair counted Bertie among
his close friends, he scrimped and economized in order to accommodate a royal visit. He was very much
hoping this year to avoid one altogether. He didn’t
want to need Sarah Stewart’s modest fortune.

Sarah Stewart, his passably pretty neighbor, was the
closest thing to an heiress he could find. Heiresses were
in short supply in England, thanks to primogeniture and
the male inheritance hierarchy. Alasdair knew that, for
the sake of his family’s security and position with the
royal family, he might not have a choice. Sarah Stewart
was fast becoming his only lifeline.

Regardless, he couldn’t help but feel one more nail
was being pounded into his proverbial coffin. He’d
once naively believed that when he became the viscount, he’d be able to take back his life, make his own
choices. But instead of freeing him, inheriting had only
served to stifle his own desires even further. There was
so little room for any expression of his own independence, his own wishes, in his life. At fiveand-thirty,
Alasdair Braden hardly knew who he was anymore
beyond the physical embodiment of the Pennington
title.

There was a flurry of commotion on the dance floor
and a space opened up in the middle as people cleared
out of the path of the oncoming dancers. Alasdair was
riveted. The whirling pair was magnificent, waltzing
in bold, sharp movements, their well-executed turns
creating a large circle for them to move in undisturbed.
They were dancing in the daring Viennese style, Alasdair soon realized. The woman was held far too close
to the man’s body for English standards, his arm not
merely at the small of her back but wrapped around
her waist to bring her near.

Alasdair recognized the man, Andrew Kentworth,
the dashing heir to a respectable barony. Kentworth
was young, but he should have known better. What
could he have been thinking to induce a young lady to
dance so perilously close to scandal? Then Alasdair
looked at Kentworth’s partner and knew precisely what the younger man was thinking. One look at the
spun-gold hair of Kentworth’s partner and Alasdair was
quite certain Kentworth wasn’t thinking at all.

In a room full of known commodities, Kentworth’s
partner was a newly lit candle burning brightly against
the stark sameness of the other dancers. In a room filled
with girls gowned in white satin and ridiculous frills,
she shone in a gown of pale blue elegantly worked with
a pattern of bronze swirls and curlicues. Instead of
placing the focus on ruffles and bows, the dress relied
on the wearer’s form for its elegance. The gown’s tailoring and high style bespoke Worth’s stamp. The light
from the chandeliers overhead glanced off the delicate
seed-pearl trim of the gown’s bodice and drew Alasdair’s attention to the dancer’s face.

She was enraptured by the dance and its breathless
speed. He could see it in the smile on her face, the tilt
of her chin as she looked slightly up at her partner, the
cobalt glow in her shining eyes as she passed by Alasdair where he stood on the perimeter. He was dazzled
by her. Intuitively, he knew he was struck by more than
the image created by the expensive gown and the pearland-diamond collar about her slender neck, or by the
rich pile of deep gold curls artfully pinned atop her
head.

She was no still-life mannequin, another pattern card
of English propriety. She was alive! Had he ever enjoyed a dance so thoroughly, found such pleasure in a piece of music? Been so completely true to himself in
any given moment?

He had not realized he’d stepped forward until he
felt Camberly’s firm hand on his arm and his low whisper at his ear, “Easy, Dair.”

“I must dance with her,” Alasdair said simply. He
stepped back from the floor but his eyes didn’t leave the
vision that had literally waltzed into his world. Never
could he recall having been so intensely smitten.

He wasn’t the only man who felt that way, Alasdair
discovered twenty minutes later as he pushed his way
through the throng that was gathered about her. But he
might have a slight advantage: he had the Countess of
Camberly to offer an introduction on his behalf. Alasdair had shamelessly cornered Camberly’s wife the
moment she’d returned from the dance floor. Audrey
had the uncanny ability to know everyone at any given
event and she did not fail him tonight. Not only did
she know the young lady, but she’d had the good fortune to meet her when Camberly and Audrey had been
in New York visiting her family last year.

“I never thought knowing an American would be
so helpful,” Alasdair murmured teasingly to Audrey
who nudged through the crowd beside him.

“We have our uses.” Audrey smiled, doing little to
hide her amusement over his agitation. “There, we’ve
made it.” Audrey drew him forward with her into the
inner circle standing around the lovely girl.

“Miss Addison, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” Audrey offered the girl her hand to shake in the bold
American custom. “Camberly and I enjoyed our visit
to New York. I hope you did as well,” Audrey said
smoothly. Alasdair noticed how she’d discreetly slipped
her name into the conversation to jog the girl’s memory
just in case. It certainly jogged the girl’s mother’s memory. Sitting beside the daughter was a woman of middle years bearing a strong resemblance to the beauty
beside her. She sat up straighter, her eyes brightening at
the mention of Camberly.

“Of course we remember you, Lady Camberly”

“My friend, Viscount Pennington, wished to make
your acquaintance, Miss Addison.” Audrey gestured in
his direction and Alasdair hoped he wasn’t smiling like
a smitten fool. Miss Addison was far lovelier up close
than she’d been on the dance floor. Her blue eyes
sparkled when she turned her gaze his direction. Alasdair took her hand and bowed over it. “Miss Addison,
it is a great pleasure to meet you. Might I prevail upon
you for the next dance?”