The Second Seduction of a Lady (3 page)

An insistent female voice brought him back to Somerset, where he had improbably encountered his lost love.

“Eleanor!” cried the girl. “This is Robert Townsend, our neighbor. Imagine! We met when we were little children but he hasn’t lived here in years. Now he has returned for his twenty-first birthday, and his guardian is to celebrate it with a grand ball!”

Eleanor’s presence was explained. She must be visiting relations in the neighborhood. She had a great many relations.

“Robert,” he said. “I see you’ve managed to get into trouble, as usual. I believe introductions are in order. I am already acquainted with Miss Hardwick.”

Robert knew how to behave when he wanted to. Despite his wet clothes he produced a bow and his most winning smile. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”

Eleanor curtsied. “You met my cousin in midstream, and I daresay you introduced yourselves. But now we are on dry land, let’s try for a little formality. Mr. Townsend, allow me to present Miss Caroline Brotherton.” Five years ago, he’d been charmed by her quips. Time had not changed that at all.

The girl, a pretty creature with a mop of damp red hair, shivering in an indecently clinging gown, curtsied without taking her eyes off Robert. Max coughed.

Eleanor’s voice turned from amused raillery back to frost. “Caro. This is Mr. Quinton. I believe he is Mr. Townsend’s guardian.”

“Only for three more weeks! How do you and Max know each other, Miss Hardwick?”

Max waited with interest to hear her answer.

“We met in Sussex several years ago. Our acquaintance was of the slightest.”

That was one way of putting it. Measured in time their acquaintance had, indeed, been slight.

E
leanor had hoped never to see Max Quinton again. But if she had to, there was a certain satisfaction in having pushed him into the river. Then he had the nerve to beg her pardon. The gall of the man! And he had the nerve to look extremely fine, even when dripping wet. And, unlike her, he had the presence of mind to fetch his dry coat for Caro, not the first time he’d demonstrated such chivalry. In the cool of a summer night, he’d draped his evening coat around Eleanor’s shoulders as they’d sat beside a Sussex lake.

Hurrying Caro home before she caught a cold, Eleanor continued to dwell on the way Max’s clothes clung to his well-developed sportsman’s physique. Unlike his friend Sir George Ashdown, loathsome husband to Cousin Sylvia, he’d kept his figure despite being past his first youth. Pretty good for nearly forty.

Who was she fooling? She knew quite well that he was thirty-five and a half, exactly five years older than she. Their birthdays were two days apart. It was absurd the way trivial facts lingered in the memory, facts as unimportant as what she had for dinner on Tuesday. Except that she couldn’t remember last week’s menu and she was annoyingly aware of Max Quinton’s preference for lamb over beef, for apple tart over syllabub. He preferred Shakespeare to the modern poets, the country to the town.

She had first seen him at the Petworth Inn, at an assembly initiating the week of the militia races. The cluster of officers who’d surrounded her, begging to stand up with her, had been a surprise. Though no wallflower, she’d never been a beauty, and at twenty-five she approached spinster or chaperone status. She put her sudden popularity down to the shortage of younger ladies owing to the sudden influx of officers at the humble provincial assembly. Nevertheless, she had enjoyed the unexpected attention. A sea of red coats and eager faces pressed around her. She’d been laughing, attempting to distribute her dances among the supplicants, when she noticed him.

A tall, broad-shouldered man, visible over the crowd, he’d stood a little apart, his evening dress marking him a civilian. With his craggy features and prominent nose, he wasn’t handsome by most standards. Lightly tanned skin spoke of a life lived outdoors. Locks of brown hair fell over a broad forehead and raked the collar of his coat. He’d regarded the proceedings with a careless expression. Perhaps it was the sobriety of his dress, but he struck her as a sensible man, in contrast to the soldiers strutting in their uniforms and swords.

Then she’d happened to catch his gaze. They looked at each other and his indifference turned to warmth. In the weathered face his eyes stood out very blue, as did white teeth revealed by a dawning smile. Her heart seemed to stop…

“I’m in love!”

Caro’s exclamation brought her back to the present.

“It’s true,” the girl insisted. “Who ever loved who loved not at first sight?” Caro’s ignorance of poetry didn’t extend to
Romeo and Juliet
. “No sooner did I lay eyes on Robert than I knew. I shall love him forever.”

“Nonsense!” Eleanor said. She was in a position to know.

“I shall! You don’t understand, Eleanor!”

Eleanor also knew better than to argue with an infatuated girl. “He seems very pleasant,” she said. “How delightful for you to meet an old playmate after all this time.”

Her attempt at painting Townsend as a callow youth failed to impress. From the vantage point of seventeen, Caro saw the twenty-year-old as the perfect romantic figure. And so she should. For a first flirtation, Robert Townsend was quite suitable, and as long as she kept an eye on her little cousin, it would be nothing more. While she realized that not every woman preferred spinsterhood, she thought disaster even more assured when marriage was entered too young. Sylvia had been seventeen when she wed Ashdown. Eleanor’s own mother had wed at the same age.

Caro chattered at her side. “Robert has been to Italy and France and Holland, you know? He writes poetry and knows all about art. Isn’t Robert the most beautiful name? Do you think Mama will let him call on us? I shall die if I never see him again. Die!”

“Since Mr. Townsend is visiting his estate, I expect we’ll meet him in the neighborhood,” Eleanor replied cheerfully. More cheerfully than she felt. Meeting Mr. Townsend also meant meeting his guardian.

“R
obert Townsend is back,” John Mathews stated the next morning. Elizabeth Brotherton’s son by her first marriage, John resembled his mother in character if not looks. His simplest remarks were always delivered with the weight of momentous opinions. “We won’t wish to pursue the acquaintance.”

Eleanor quelled Caro’s rising protest with a frown. She’d helped the girl creep into the house and change into dry clothes without being discovered. Somehow Caro had managed to keep silent for almost an entire day, but Eleanor wouldn’t wager a farthing on her continued discretion if she didn’t soon get a chance to meet her youthful neighbor.

“Why not?” Mrs. Brotherton asked. “I haven’t seen him since he was a boy, but we visited his late parents. Both your father and Mr. Brotherton approved of them.”

“I don’t like to gossip,” John said mendaciously, “but I hear shocking things about young Townsend. He was ejected from Oxford and has spent much of the time since in
France
.”

Mrs. Brotherton clutched her lace fichu. “Among those savages who murdered their king?”

“I believe he returned to England before that,” John admitted with some reluctance. “But his behavior and that of his friends has been the talk of London. And he collects pictures.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Eleanor asked. “Gentlemen of the highest rank are cognoscenti of art.”

“Portraits of one’s ancestors are all very well,” John said, only a hint of discomfort on his bland features revealing that he had no idea what she was talking about. “But word at the Corn Exchange this morning is that his taste runs to indecent subjects. I will say no more in front of ladies.” That was so like John, to hint at interesting news and then refuse to repeat it. “His guardian is with him, a Mr. Max Quinton. Said to be a very sound man who has kept the estate in excellent condition.”

Against her better judgment, Eleanor wanted to hear more.

“I don’t know any Quintons.” Elizabeth knew the peerage by heart and dismissed anyone who wasn’t in it with a sniff.” If young Townsend calls, I shall not receive him. He sounds like a poor influence for Caroline.”

John frowned. “I don’t think we can refuse the acquaintance altogether. He will be our neighbor. I shall call at Longford Hall and determine whether he is fit to be introduced to my mother. And sister.”

Mrs. Brotherton’s cold, handsome features creased into a rare smile. “Dearest John. What would I do without you?”

J
ohn returned from Longford with the news that Robert Townsend’s three fellow expellees from Oxford had joined him for his birthday celebrations, which were to include a grand ball. Although two of them were of negligible, even undesirable birth, the third was Viscount Kendal.

“The Earl of Windermere’s heir.” Trust Cousin Elizabeth to know. “Quite an eligible
parti
. Caroline may put up her hair and attend the assembly. As long as she gives me no reason to change my mind.”

“Will you stay for the ball, Eleanor?” Caro begged. “It won’t be fun with just Mama as my chaperone.”

Eleanor looked up the date. Three more weeks of possible encounters with Max Quinton. Her instinct was to make an excuse and leave immediately. But she had little confidence in Caro’s ability to maintain good behavior without help. She stiffened her spine. If she let Max Quinton drive her away again, she admitted he still had the power to affect her. She had every confidence in her ability to meet him again with polite mutual indifference. To do otherwise would be irrational.

“I had intended to leave that week, but my father won’t miss me if I remain in Somerset an extra day or two.”

M
ax had come to the guardianship late. In exchange for a fee, he’d overseen the estate for several years on behalf of the previous incumbent, a distant cousin. Upon the latter’s death he’d been appointed guardian for the last two years of Robert’s minority. Since the boy, having been ejected from Oxford, was in Europe doing a truncated Grand Tour, his skills in loco parentis hadn’t been much required or tested.

Now he found himself surrounded by youth, undisciplined boys whose Parisian junkets had ended when the French political situation slid into chaos. Despite their Latin tags, French phrases, and worldly knowledge of culture and politics, the boys still made Max think of a quartet of colts: handsome and bumptious. Colts with access to the dangerous toys of strong drink, cards, and dice.

Like most young animals, they needed fresh air and exercise, and this, in the declining days of his influence, Max was determined Robert and his friends would have. Not incidentally, calls around the neighborhood would bring Max into company with Eleanor Hardwick.

Finally, after five years, he’d met her again and no, it had not gone well. He’d made no headway at all in explaining what had happened, let alone excusing it. The trouble was, his actions were inexcusable. When Sir George had maliciously offered a pony to any officer who’d seduce his prissy cousin-in-law into a kiss, Max had been indifferent, his mild disgust drowned by Lord Egremont’s claret. When the gathered competitors had raised the stakes and each contributed his own twenty-five guineas to the pot, he’d been somewhat interested. At that time sports had been of overwhelming interest and women little. Marriage had been something he saw in an indeterminate future. His time was consumed by responsibilities: arranging the future of his younger brothers and sisters; turning his late father’s small estate into a flourishing enterprise.

But one look at Eleanor Hardwick and he was in. He’d wanted to kiss her more than he’d wanted to win the Petworth Stakes and that was saying a lot. Just as importantly, he
didn’t
want any of the other men to win. That should have tipped him off to his feelings. The surge of annoyance that possessed him when he contemplated any of the officers managing so much as a peck on her cheek should have alerted him that his bachelor days were numbered. But he was a man’s man and knew nothing of finer feelings. It took the best part of a week before he realized he’d found the lady of his dreams and marriage became his highest priority.

But when she’d discovered the wager, it was all over. In one interview and half a dozen letters he’d tried to explain that his intentions had changed. A fruitless endeavor. She wouldn’t even hear him out. When she pushed him into the river he’d thought he was finally over her, that the image haunting him for so long had been dispelled by cold water and frigid scorn. It took only dry clothing to shake his certainty.

Meanwhile, he had three weeks left as guardian to Robert Townsend, three short weeks to drum some sense into the boy’s clever but senseless head. He summoned him to the estate office to discuss some issues with the tenantry that had arisen since their arrival.

As usual when business was the subject, Robert looked bored. “Whatever you think is best, Max. You know better than I.”

“I do know better, but that’s because I’ve been running the estate. After your birthday the decisions will be yours. You have a competent steward, but there’s no substitute for the knowledge and attention of the owner.”

Robert sighed and pretended to listen, but clearly his mind was elsewhere. After half an hour, he stood up. “I can’t leave the fellows alone any longer,” he said. “What kind of a host would I be? They’re waiting for me to make up a table of whist.”

“Low stakes, I trust.” Max knew he should hold his tongue. The more he harangued Robert about his gaming losses, the more stubborn the latter became.

“Don’t be a bore, Max. Damian’s the only one of us with any money anyway. At least until I escape your pinchpenny ways. Marcus has been studying the odds. Hoyle on piquet, of course, but he’s also made his own calculations, especially for vingt-et-un and hazard. We’re all going to make a fortune.”

Robert wasn’t a bad boy, but his upbringing under his previous guardian had blended neglect and indulgence. Since his expulsion from Oxford he’d run in a wild set. Max cast about for a distraction. “We’ll have to find better ways to entertain your friends than dice and cards. A pity the stables are so poor here, but we should call on some neighbors.”