A Summer to Remember

Chapter 3

Despite the lateness of her return home from the ball, Lauren was up at her usual time the next morning to accompany Elizabeth on her daily walk in Hyde Park. The air was brisk and chill, though it promised fair for later in the day.

“Exercise does feel good,” the duchess said as they approached the house on their return. “I feel remarkably fit despite a growing ungainliness, and I am quite sure it is the walking and fresh air that does it, despite Lyndon’s anxieties.”

Marriage suited Elizabeth, Lauren reflected. She had wed for the first time just seven months before. Pregnancy suited her too. There was a new glow about her.

The footman who opened the door to their knock bowed deferentially as he stood aside to allow them in. “A bouquet has been delivered for Miss Edgeworth, your grace,” he said. “Mr. Powers had it carried into the salon.”

“For me?” Lauren asked in some astonishment.

But Elizabeth was laughing as she took Lauren’s arm and turned her in the direction of the visitors’ salon, which led off the hall. “A bouquet the morning after a ball?” she said. “Goodness me, Lauren, you have a beau.”

“Nonsense!” Lauren winced. “I daresay it is from Mr. Bartlett-Howe. He danced with me twice last evening and led me in to supper. But I did try not to encourage him. How very embarrassing.”

“A gentleman’s admiration need never embarrass you, Lauren,” Elizabeth said, “even if you cannot return it.”

Lauren bit her lip when she entered the salon and saw the handsome bouquet of at least two dozen red rosebuds amid lavish sprays of fern, already arranged in a crystal vase. She crossed the room and picked up the card that was propped against the vase. She hoped fervently he had not made a cake of himself with extravagant sentiments.

“They are quite lovely,” Elizabeth said from behind her. “Roses must have been difficult to find this early in the year. And exorbitantly expensive, I daresay. Poor Mr. Bartlett-Howe. He is so very earnest and worthy.” But there was a tremor of laughter in her voice.

“Alas,” the writing on the card said, “I could find no violets to do justice to your eyes.” The signature was scrawled in a bold, careless hand. “Ravensberg.”

His laughing gray eyes, his devil-may-care smile, his slender grace, his male vitality, the indefinable air of danger that clung about him—Lauren had seen them all behind her closed eyelids as she had tried to fall asleep after the ball. And she had pictured the same man half naked in his skin-tight breeches, uttering shocking profanities. And holding a young woman in his arms and kissing her with obvious enthusiasm.

“The flowers are not from Mr. Bartlett-Howe,” she said. “They are from Viscount Ravensberg. I waltzed with him last evening.”

The duchess looked over her shoulder at the card. “Oh, goodness,” she said gaily, “he is smitten indeed, Lauren. He has complimented your eyes. Who is he? The name is not familiar.”

“He told me,” Lauren said, replacing the card against the vase, “that he sought an introduction to me to discover if my gown matched my eyes in color. Have you ever heard anything more absurd?”

“He does not sound like the sort of gentleman the Earl of Sutton would present to you.” Elizabeth’s voice still shook with amusement. “It must have been Joseph, the rogue.”

“It was Lady Mannering,” Lauren said. “Aunt Sadie and Wilma almost had the vapors. They told me after I had danced with him that I must cut his acquaintance if he should presume upon it again. Uncle Webster called him a black sheep. Joseph told me he was a cavalry officer until recently. He is heir to the Earl of Redfield.”

“Ah.” Elizabeth nodded. “Yes, of course. The earl’s eldest son died a year or two ago, I remember.”

“Elizabeth?” Lauren turned to look at her, and she could feel her cheeks grow hot. “He is the gentleman who was fighting in the park last week.”

“Oh, dear.” But Elizabeth, after the first moment of surprise, chose to laugh again rather than blanch with horror. “Poor Lauren. You must have felt trapped indeed when Lady Mannering presented him and good manners forced you to dance with him—to waltz with him, did you say? And now he is sending you flowers. I did notice on that infamous occasion, of course, that he is a remarkably handsome young man.”

“Not extraordinarily handsome.” Lauren flushed. “Next time I see him, if there is a next time, I shall incline my head just so, thank him for the roses, and make it perfectly clear that I desire no further acquaintance with him.”

“You depress pretension so well,” Elizabeth said, her eyes dancing with merriment. “There is no more perfect lady than Lauren Edgeworth.” She linked her arm through her niece’s. “Now, let us go for breakfast. I shall have a footman carry the vase up to your sitting room so that you may be reminded for the next few days that there is a gentleman in town who is so lost in admiration for your eyes that he searched for flowers to match them in beauty—and was forced to settle for roses instead.”

“It is no laughing matter, Elizabeth,” Lauren said reproachfully, though she smiled despite herself and then chuckled.

Kit jumped down from the high seat of his curricle in Grosvenor Square and tossed the ribbons to his tiger, who had already scrambled down from his perch behind and rushed to the horses’ heads. Kit approached the front door of the Duke of Portfrey’s town house and rapped the knocker. He had ascertained ahead of time that this was one of the afternoons on which the duchess was regularly at home to callers.

At least Lauren Edgeworth was beautiful, he thought. Extremely lovely, in fact, even if one discounted those extraordinary, almost smoky violet eyes. She was no young girl, of course, but then the dignity of extra years enhanced her good looks rather than detracting from them. He was almost thirty himself and was not remotely interested in simpering young misses. Miss Edgeworth bore herself with proud grace and wore on her face the sort of perpetual half smile he had seen on certain Greek statues. Last evening she had given the distinct impression that she was immune to charm and humor and even the mildest attempt at flirtation. He had been somewhat disconcerted by her chilly demeanor, if the truth were known.

But therein lay the challenge.

The door opened, the ducal butler bowed with such stiff hauteur that the uninitiated might have mistaken him for the duke himself, and Kit tossed his card onto the silver salver the man held.

“Viscount Ravensberg to call upon Miss Edgeworth,” he said and stepped boldly into the hall.

It was to be easier than he had expected. Perhaps so few visitors were turned away on these at-home days that it did not even occur to the butler to carry the card upstairs first to ascertain that the lady was willing to receive him. Or perhaps the butler recognized his name as the sender of roses this morning and assumed his visit in person would be welcome. Or perhaps it had not occurred to Portfrey—as it doubtless would have to Anburey—to leave instructions that he was to be denied admittance if he called.

“Follow me, if you please, my lord,” the butler said with another bow before leading the way to the staircase.

The sound of voices engaged in polite conversation wafted from the drawing room as soon as a footman opened the doors at their approach. The butler stepped into the doorway.

“Viscount Ravensberg for Miss Edgeworth, your grace,” he announced.

An unnatural silence fell as Kit strode into the room. He recognized Sutton and Attingsborough in one swift glance about the room. And he saw too that Lauren Edgeworth, seated in the middle of a group close to the window, was rising to her feet, a look of astonishment on her face. A handsome lady of regal bearing—despite the visible evidence that she was breeding—was hurrying toward him, her right hand outstretched, a smile of polite welcome on her face. Kit bowed to her.

“Your grace,” he said and took her offered hand in his.

“Lord Ravensberg. How delightful.” If she was shocked at his appearance in her drawing room or chagrined with her butler for allowing him up without question, she was too well bred to show it.

“Ravensberg?” The Duke of Portfrey, whom Kit knew by sight, had come to stand beside his duchess. He was rather more poker-faced than she.

“I have come to pay my respects to Miss Edgeworth. She was gracious enough to dance with me last evening,” Kit explained. The room, he was aware, was half filled with visitors. Most of them were still gaping at him rather as if Portfrey’s butler had just committed the faux pas of ushering the chimney sweep into their presence. This moment, he suspected, would be discussed with some relish in a few more drawing rooms before the afternoon was out.

Miss Edgeworth came toward him herself, then, and the duke and duchess returned their attention to their other visitors. Those same guests had recovered their manners and were resuming their interrupted conversations.

“How kind of you to call, my lord,” she said. “Thank you for the roses. They are exquisite.”

If the roses were in front of her face at that particular moment, he thought, they would surely freeze upon their stems, her gaze was so cold.

“It was not merely the reflection of your gown, then,” he said softly, dipping his head a little closer to hers. “Today you wear green, but your eyes are still unmistakably violet.” She looked every bit as lovely as she had last evening even though her dark, glossy hair was dressed with a great deal more simplicity today.

She showed not the slightest pleasure in the implied compliment.

“Do have a seat, my lord,” she said with gracious condescension—a stranger would surely have mistaken her for the duchess. She turned and indicated an empty chair in the midst of the crowd of young people among whom she had been sitting. “I shall fetch you a cup of tea.”

When she took her place again, he noticed that she sat very straight, her spine not quite touching the back of her chair. She launched into conversation about music, and a spirited discussion of various composers and the relative merits of different solo musical instruments followed.

Kit did not attempt to participate but amused himself by observing the other members of the group. His appearance had obviously discomposed several of them. The red-haired Lady Wilma Fawcitt was looking prunish, Sutton haughty, Attingsborough watchful and faintly amused. The skeletal young man whose name had escaped Kit for the moment was looking irritated, George Stennson openly hostile. Miss Edgeworth seemed the only one who was serenely unaware of his very existence. Kit sipped his tea.

“Miss Edgeworth,” he said at last, taking advantage of a brief lull in the conversation, “would you allow me the honor of driving you to the park in my curricle later this afternoon?”

He was gazing directly at her and so was fully aware of the momentary widening of her lovely eyes and parting of her lips. The next moment she was looking coolly back at him, her expression politely bland. He was sure she was about to refuse him. Perhaps he had proceeded too precipitously. How would he win his wager if she said no?

“Oh, I say,” the skeletal, still unidentified young man said indignantly, “I came to ask the same favor, Miss Edgeworth, but thought to do the correct thing and wait until I could speak privately with you when I took my leave. I was here before Viscount Ravensberg,” he added feebly.

Kit raised his eyebrows. “I do beg your pardon,” he said. “Did I do the incorrect thing? Having spent so many years of my adult life away from England, I must confess myself unsure of the finer points of etiquette.” With his eyes he laughed at Lauren Edgeworth.

“Oh, I say!” The anonymous gentleman sounded distinctly uncomfortable. “I did not mean to imply—”

“I believe,” Attingsborough said smoothly, “it might have been for this afternoon that you and I made our appointment to drive to the library together, Lauren. You will refresh my memory if I am wrong.”

“Sutton has quite set his heart on taking you and me for a turn in his new barouche after tea, Lauren,” Lady Wilma said with a toss of her red curls. She tittered. “I am quite counting on you to act as my chaperone.”

Kit continued to smile into Lauren Edgeworth’s violet eyes, which had not wavered from his own. There was not the faintest suggestion of an answering smile there.

She looked away. “No, you are wrong, Joseph,” she said. “It was not for today. And you certainly do not need a chaperone when riding in an open carriage with your betrothed, Wilma. Perhaps some other day, Mr. Bartlett-Howe? Thank you, Lord Ravensberg. That would be very pleasant.”

He had the other members of the group to thank, of course, Kit realized as he rose to take his leave. He was quite certain she had been going to refuse him until they had all rushed in so gallantly to rescue her from the horror of being obliged to drive out with a notorious rakehell. She might be cold and imperturbably self-contained, his intended bride, but she was not immune to a challenge.

It was an intriguing thought.

“Until later, then, Miss Edgeworth,” he said, bowing to her, nodding affably to the group at large, and then strolling across the room to take his leave of the Duchess of Portfrey.

He grinned as he ran down the steps outside the house a few minutes later and summoned his tiger, who was walking the horses about the square. Breaching the formidable defenses of Miss Lauren Edgeworth was going to be a challenge worthy of his best efforts. He must hope, perhaps, that all her relatives and friends would come to his assistance by persistently warning her against him and attempting to shield her from him—the idiots.

But for a while at least later in the afternoon he would have her all to himself.

Lauren sat straight-backed beside Viscount Ravensberg, holding her parasol over her head with both hands to shield her complexion from the harmful rays of the sun. She was unaccustomed to riding in a sporting curricle, and she felt very far above the ground and alarmingly unsafe. But it would be unladylike to show a lack of trust in the skill of the gentleman plying the ribbons by clinging to the rail beside her.

The gloved hands that held the ribbons were slim. They were also demonstrably capable of controlling his high-spirited and perfectly matched pair of grays. His legs, encased in tight, biscuit-colored pantaloons and supple, highly polished Hessian boots, were slender but shapely and well muscled in all the right places.

Shocked at the direction her thoughts had taken, Lauren flexed her hands on the handle of her parasol and looked determinedly away from him as he turned his team with effortless skill between the gateposts into the park. It was the fashionable hour, the time of day when the beau monde turned out in large numbers to parade on horseback, on foot, and in a variety of different carriages, intent upon seeing and being seen, upon imparting and ingesting all the latest gossip.

Lauren was about to provide them with a new topic, if Wilma was to be believed. She had raised a number of eyebrows by consenting to waltz with the infamous Viscount Ravensberg last evening. Yet now, just the day after, she had agreed to drive with him in the park. In a sporting vehicle, no less. Without a maid. Wilma had quite untruthfully declared herself speechless and had called upon Joseph, Lord Sutton, and Elizabeth to talk sense into Lauren. Only Lord Sutton had complied with her request. Miss Edgeworth must invent some indisposition and send down her regrets when Viscount Ravensberg came to fetch her, he had advised. She would not, after all, he was certain, wish to put her spotless reputation in jeopardy simply because she was too courteous to give a rogue the cut direct.

“If anyone has anything to say on the subject of Lauren’s reputation,” the Duke of Portfrey had said with languid hauteur, directing his quizzing glass at Wilma’s betrothed, “he may address himself to me.”

Lauren’s lips quirked with unexpected amusement at the memory. But really, would she be here now if everyone had left her alone to make her own response to Lord Ravensberg’s invitation? She had never thought of herself as a willfully stubborn person. Was she? Certainly she had avoided the parade in the park since her arrival in London. But there was no need to continue to do so. She had faced the ton last evening. And it was unexceptionable to drive out in public places with a gentleman who had been properly presented to her, even if he was a notorious rake.

“Well, Miss Edgeworth.” Having negotiated the tricky turn into the park, the viscount turned his head to look at her. “We seem to have exhausted the topic of the weather.”

Lauren twirled her parasol. She had been unmannerly enough to allow their conversation to lapse. She wondered briefly if he had practiced that particular look before a glass until he had perfected it—that laughter-filled expression that started in his eyes and sometimes did not even reach his mouth to become a proper smile. It was quite disconcerting and interfered considerably with her thought processes. It was one of those things that made a rake appealing to women, she supposed.

“Your father is the Earl of Redfield, my lord?” she asked.

“I am his heir,” he replied, “the elder of his two surviving sons. My elder brother died almost two years ago.”

“I am sorry,” she said.

“So am I.” He flashed her a rueful glance. “The last time I saw Jerome I broke his nose and my father banished me from Alvesley and told me never to return.”

Gracious! Lauren was intensely embarrassed. That it might be true was shocking enough, but why would he air such very dirty linen before a stranger—and a lady, at that?

“I have shocked you.” The viscount grinned at her.

“I believe, my lord,” she said with sudden insight, “you fully intended to do so. I ought not to have asked about your father.”

“Let me return the favor,” he said. “You have lived most of your life at Newbury Abbey, but you have no blood relationship to the family there. Who is—or was—your father?”

“He was Viscount Whitleaf,” she said. “He died when I was two years old. Less than a year later my mother took me to Newbury and married the Earl of Kilbourne’s brother.”

“Indeed?” he said. “And does your mother still live?”

“They left on a wedding journey two days after their nuptials,” she told him, “and never returned. There were occasional letters and packages for a number of years and then . . . nothing.”

The smile was gone from his face when he glanced at her this time. “You do not know, then,” he asked her, “whether your mother lives or has died? Or your stepfather?”

“Certainly they are both dead,” she said, “though where or when or how I do not know.” It was something she almost never spoke of. She had locked away the hurt, the sense of abandonment, the feeling of incompletion, a long time ago.

They were drawing closer to the press of carriages and horses and pedestrians that were making the slow circuit of the daily parade.

Lauren determinedly changed the subject. “Do you come here often?” she asked.

He laughed across at her. “You mean apart from the mornings,” he asked in his turn, “on or close to Rotten Row?”

She could feel herself flush and twirled her parasol again. More and more, she was convinced that he was no gentleman. He had seen her, then? And was not ashamed to admit it? No gentleman . . .

“You ride there in the mornings?” she asked.

But he was unwilling to have the subject turned. “That kiss,” he said, “was a milkmaid’s way of thanking me for felling the three thugs who had accosted her and demanded certain favors she was unwilling to grant.”

Was that what the fight had been all about? He had taken on three men in order to defend a milkmaid’s honor?

“It was ample reward,” he said before she could frame the words with which to approve his motive even if not his actions. He was deliberately trying to shock her—again, she realized. Why? He touched his whip to the brim of his hat as two ladies rode by with their grooms, their eyes avid with curiosity.

“A gentleman,” Lauren said with prim reproof, “would not have asked any payment at all.”

“But how ungallant,” he said, “to refuse a reward freely offered. Could a gentleman do such a thing, Miss Edgeworth?”

“A gentleman would not so obviously enjoy himself,” she said and then glared at him indignantly when he threw back his head and laughed—just when they were close enough to a vast crowd of their peers to draw attention. She twirled her parasol smartly, but there was no chance of further conversation on the topic. Why had she allowed herself to be drawn anyway?

The following fifteen minutes were spent driving at a snail’s pace around the circuit taken by other carriages and riders, smiling and nodding, stopping every few yards to converse with acquaintances. Wilma and Lord Sutton were there, of course, as was Joseph. There were a few other people Lauren knew, Elizabeth’s friends whom she had met during the past three weeks, and others to whom she had been presented at the ball last evening. And there were a number of Lord Ravensberg’s friends, who rode up beside the curricle to exchange pleasantries with him and to be presented to her.

It was not a difficult occasion to endure. Having made a public appearance last evening, she no longer felt the dread that had kept her in virtual hiding for over a year. It was a bright, sunny day and she was enjoying herself far more than she ought—and far more than she would have in Mr. Bartlett-Howe’s company, she thought treacherously. But how could the viscount have openly referred to that scandalous fight in the park when he should be properly mortified to realize that she had witnessed it? He had fought in a woman’s defense—in a milkmaid’s defense. Most men would not even have noticed the distress of a woman so far beneath them in rank.

Most gentlemen within hailing distance acknowledged him and seemed genuinely pleased to see him. Most ladies either openly ignored him or nodded to him with distant hauteur. But many of them, old and young alike, stole covert glances at him. He was indeed a gentleman whom it was impossible not to notice. He exuded vitality, laughter, and a careless disregard of sober propriety. And she was the only woman with whom he had danced last evening. She was the one he had invited to drive with him this afternoon. She, Lauren Edgeworth, the very personification of sober propriety.

The thought ought not to be flattering at all.

Viscount Ravensberg steered his curricle clear of the crowds before they had made the complete circuit. Soon, she thought, disappointed despite herself, they would be back in Grosvenor Square and she must make clear to him that she would not welcome any further attempt to make her the object of his gallantry. But there was a question she could not resist asking, unmannerly as it might be.

“Why did you invite me to dance last evening?” she asked him. “And why only me? You left immediately afterward. Why did you send me roses on the strength of that single encounter? Why did you ask me to drive with you this afternoon?”

Oh, dear. More than one question, all of them unpardonably rude. And she had plenty of time in which to realize the fact and feel increasingly uncomfortable. So uncomfortable that she did not immediately notice that he had turned his curricle, not onto the main thoroughfare leading out onto the streets of London but onto another path that led deeper into a less traveled, more wooded area of the park. By the time she did notice, it was too late to protest. This would certainly be remarked upon, she thought—first she had waltzed with a notorious rakehell, then she had driven with him, and now she was allowing him to drive off alone with her.

“Perhaps you have not looked at yourself in a glass lately, Miss Edgeworth,” he said at last.

“But Lady Mannering’s ballroom was filled with ladies lovelier than I,” she said. “And most of them considerably younger.”

“I cannot answer for your youth,” he said, “but I can for your beauty. If you did not realize that you were by far the loveliest lady at the ball, then indeed you have not looked at your reflection lately.”

“How absurd.” She had never had a great deal of patience with flattery. Or with ladies who fished for compliments. Was that what she had just done? If so, she had been served well. The loveliest lady at the ball, indeed! The path dipped into a hollow bordered on either side by giant oak trees, whose branches met in an arch over-head.

“It is your eyes that make you uniquely lovely, of course.” He slanted her a look. “I have never seen any others of quite their color or beauty.”

This was all highly improper. But she had only herself to blame.

“You knew who I was, I suppose,” she said. “Someone had pointed me out to you. You knew what happened to me last year. Was it curiosity, then?”

He angled a penetrating look at her. “To dance with a bride who had been abandoned at the altar?” he said. “I hope the park at Newbury is a large one. My guess is that Kilbourne must be constantly whipping himself all about its perimeter at his foolishness in having married someone else, doubtless on a momentary impulse, and so having lost the chance of having you.”

She despised herself for taking comfort from his words. For longer than a year she had felt so . . . unattractive. “Well, you are wrong, sir,” she said. “His marriage to the countess was and is a love match.” They were driving in a cool, verdant shade. Lauren lowered her parasol to her lap though she did not close it.

“And yours to him would not have been?” Again that swift, penetrating look.

Lauren raised her chin and stared straight ahead. How had she trapped herself into this? “That is an impertinent question, my lord.”

He chuckled softly. “My humblest apologies, ma’am,” he said. “But Kilbourne’s loss is my gain. I asked you to dance because even across Lady Mannering’s ballroom I was struck by your loveliness and felt compelled to discover who you were. I sent the roses because after waltzing with you I could do nothing else but return home and lie awake half the night thinking of you. I called upon you this afternoon and invited you to drive with me here because I knew that if I did not see you again you would haunt my waking thoughts and my sleeping dreams for the rest of the summer.”

Lauren’s eyes widened with shock, but by the time he had finished speaking she was glaring at him in speechless anger. How foolishly gullible did he think she was?

“My lord,” she said with all the cool dignity with which she had armed herself for most of her life, “no gentleman would so mock a lady. But then I have been warned that you are no gentleman, and with my own eyes I have beheld that it is true. Now my ears tell the same story. I would be obliged if you would return me to Grosvenor Square without further delay.”

He had the gall to look across at her and chuckle softly. “You did ask, you know,” he said, rearranging the ribbons so that they were in his right hand. With his left he possessed himself of one of her hands and raised it to his lips. “It would have been ungentlemanly of me to lie to a lady, would it not?”

“I suppose,” she said with icy dignity, “you expected me to be easy prey to this blatant gallantry, Lord Ravensberg, since I am an abandoned bride. You thought to have some sport with me. You have failed. I came to town to offer my companionship to the Duchess of Portfrey, who is awaiting a confinement. I did not come to parade myself in the marriage mart. I am not in search of a husband and never will be. And even if I were, I would not fall an easy prey to such as you.”

“To such as I.” They were headed back in the direction of the park gates, she realized suddenly. “Have they told you very dreadful things about me, then, Miss Edgeworth? But of course they have. And with your own eyes you have seen me brawling half naked in the park and kissing a milkmaid. I have confessed to breaking my brother’s nose and suffering the indignity of banishment from my boyhood home. I perceive that my chances of pursuing an acquaintance with you are remote indeed.”

“Absolutely nonexistent.” They drove clear of the shade of the trees and the sun beamed down on their heads as if in mockery.

“You have broken my heart.” He turned his face to her again and gazed soulfully into her eyes—except that even now she could see laughter lurking in the depths of his.

“I doubt you have one to break,” she retorted.

Neither of them spoke again after that. When the curricle came to a halt before the duke’s door several minutes later, Lord Ravensberg’s tiger came darting across the square, where he had been left earlier, and ran to the horses’ heads. Lauren had no choice but to retain her high seat until his lordship had descended and come around the vehicle to help her alight. But even this he did not allow her to do with dignity. He set his hands on either side of her waist and swung her down to the pavement. He did not, as she expected for one horrified moment, allow her body to slide down his, but even so she was a mere few inches away from him when her feet found the ground. She looked at him, her face tight with indignation again.

“Thank you for the outing, my lord,” she said with icy politeness. “Good-bye.”

His smile lit his whole face with merriment and devilry. “Thank you.” He released his hold on her waist and made her an elegant bow. “Au revoir, Miss Edgeworth.”

The front door was already open, Powers having noted her return home. Lauren walked up the steps and into the hall with unhurried dignity. She did not look back as the door closed behind her.