Читать книгу Dawn In My Heart - Ruth Axtell Morren - Страница 8

L ord Delaney approached Tertius as soon as he saw him alone.

“Well, how goes the courtship?”

Tertius hid a yawn behind his gloved hand. “Normal, I expect.”

“I must say you make a fine couple.” He cleared his throat. “You haven’t taken it amiss your father’s ordering you to marry and choosing your bride for you?”

Sky shrugged. “As long as my affianced has received the proper upbringing and is a virtuous young lady, the two of us should make out tolerably well together.”

Lane smiled. “You can rest easy on that score. Lady Gillian is a diamond of the first water. Your father has chosen the best of the season’s crop.”

Sky’s lip twisted. “I’m sure that was no hardship for him. Women are his specialty.”

Delaney laughed. “Lord Caulfield is an expert in the field of beauty and wit.” He rubbed his hands together. “Speaking of which, the evening is still young. What say we leave this establishment and find greener pastures?”

Sky raised an eyebrow at his friend. “What had you in mind?”

“Since you’ve been away from London so long, why don’t we start by getting you reacquainted with some of the—er—delights of town?”

“The only delights I recall are waking up with my head about to split open like a ripe melon and going to my father like a young whelp, begging him to cover a debt of honor incurred the night before.”

Lane chuckled. “London hasn’t changed much, but I trust you have. You are a man of means. You don’t have to go to your father anymore, do you, to cover your gambling debts?”

“That is one thing that has changed for the better. I also know how to hold my liquor,” he added as the two headed out of the ballroom.

“I have the most delicious thing to show you.”

“Yes? Whereabouts?”

“Drury Lane.” He removed his watch. “We’re in time for the second show. Come along. You shan’t regret it.”

Once seated in Lord Delaney’s box at the theater, Sky observed that the earlier show had been a performance of Richard the Third with Kean. He would have preferred seeing the debut of the actor who was causing such a stir on the London stage to the farce being enacted now.

“See, what do you think?” his friend asked him, leaning forward in his seat.

Taking up his opera glasses, Tertius regarded the players on the stage. He lingered on a pretty actress before replying to Delaney. “The one playing the maidservant?”

“Isn’t she divine? Look at that leg, that shapely calf!”

“Yes, she is the handsomest of the lot,” he said, continuing to eye the young woman who was retorting to a male actor. As she swiveled around, he gave her a slap on the backside. The crowd roared with laughter.

“Handsome? She’s beautiful. A goddess.”

Tertius nodded. She was beautiful, even beneath her painted face and atrocious wig. He recognized the classical features. Suddenly she looked straight at him and acknowledged his scrutiny with a saucy wink before performing a pirouette away from his end of the stage. He could say the wink wasn’t meant for him for all the attention she paid him after that. But he knew it was real. He had enough experience to know.

“I tell you,” Lane waxed on, “I shall have her before another fortnight is out. She has been holding off, but she won’t be able to resist me much longer. Everyone in town is vying for her affections. I have sent her flowers, candies, baubles. Yesterday, I sent her a pair of silver bracelets. I promised their duplicate in gold the day she allowed me to visit her after a show.”

“Has she replied?”

“Not yet. But I expect to receive word any night.”

“Well, let’s hope your gifts are not in vain.”

Lord Delaney’s hopes were not dashed. Before the end of the last act, a young errand boy delivered a note to his box. He smiled slyly at Sky after reading it.

“We are requested the pleasure of Miss Spencer’s company backstage after the performance.”

When the actors had given their last curtain call, Tertius followed Delaney along the dim corridor, as they wended their way past actors, stagehands and props. At the dressing-room door, the stagehand knocked and called out, “Your visitors, Miss Spencer.”

“Send them in.”

“Those dulcet tones, music to my ears,” Delaney murmured.

The small room was crammed with costumes and various other paraphernalia ranged along the walls. Sky shoved aside a silken garment to station himself by the door.

Miss Spencer swiveled about on the stool in front of her dressing table. Her amber locks tumbled behind her shoulders. She was draped loosely in an embroidered silk dressing gown.

“Good evening, Lord Delaney. Who is your friend?” she asked, her gaze lingering on Sky. He stared back at her until she gave him a coy smile with her carmine-red lips.

“This is the Earl of Skylar, lately arrived from the Indies. He was bowled over with your performance and threatened me with untold dire consequences if I didn’t escort him to meet you.”

“Indeed? We couldn’t permit that.” She held up a slim, white arm, allowing a pair of silver bracelets to fall from her wrist to her forearm.

“You flatter me with sporting so trifling a gift,” Delaney responded with a bow. “May I say your performance was magnificent tonight?”

“You may,” she answered, her focus on the worked bracelets. Suddenly she yawned, a large gaping yawn. “I’m famished. Would you care to escort me to dinner?”

Sky watched his friend’s unfeigned delight and anticipation. As she motioned the two of them to have a seat on a damask settee, she rose slowly and made her way behind a dressing screen. Lane lounged on the settee while Sky remained where he stood. He listened to their conversation as he watched the silk robe being tossed onto the top of the screen.

When Miss Spencer reappeared, she looked like a proper English lady in a long-sleeved muslin dress. Delaney helped her on with her cloak and together they went out to Sky’s carriage. At Miss Spencer’s request, he gave his coachman directions to the Shakespeare.

Despite the late hour the chophouse was full when they arrived.

“All the theater crowd comes here,” she told them, “but the owner always has a place for me.” They followed a waiter to a snug table by the mullioned windows. Golden candlelight glowed in the reflection from its uneven surfaces. The room was redolent with the smell of grilling meats and tobacco smoke.

They were soon served thick steaks smothered in oyster sauce and pots of porter. Sky relished each savory bite. For weeks he hadn’t been able to tolerate any but the blandest soups and broths during the last bout of fever. He shoved aside the memory, not wishing to dwell on the long, terrible ordeal, only relieved it was over.

Miss Spencer frequently waved to or called out greetings to fellow theatrical acquaintances.

When their main course had been cleared away, they enjoyed an apple tart. The actress listened tolerantly to Lane’s flattering remarks but mainly treated him with careless disdain.

“What brings your friend back from the Indies?” she asked Delaney with a sidelong glance at Sky.

“A death in the family,” Sky replied before Lane could speak.

“Oh, dear, not close, I trust?”

Sky cracked a filbert and offered it to her. “A brother.”

“The eldest,” added Lane. “You see before you the new Earl of Skylar.”

She took the nutmeat from Sky’s palm. “I see a gentleman of few words but deep thought.”

“And very deep pockets,” Lane added with a laugh.

She joined in his laughter. “Tell me, how is the theater in the Indies?” she asked Sky directly this time.

He shrugged. “Not to be compared to London, by any means.”

“Is there a chance for a working girl like me?” she asked.

“I think a girl of your talents would have a measure of success anywhere she chose to reside.”

“A measure only?”

“That probably depends on the efforts she puts forth.”

“I’m a very hardworking girl.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“My dear Miss Spencer,” Lane said, bringing her attention back to himself. Sky watched his friend strive to engage her, wondering if this young woman was anything like the series of dancers his father had enjoyed over the years of Sky’s youth. He hadn’t been back long enough to know whom his father was currently involved with. Sky had discovered long ago his sire was a very private man. He wondered if there was anyone privy to all his secrets.

Sky had hardly seen his father. When the marquess wasn’t at the races, he was at the gaming table or at someone’s house in the country round about London.

The three of them lingered over their table until two in the morning. When at last they rose, Sky gave instructions to his coachman to drop off Miss Spencer first at her residence. She gave him a very pointed look of open invitation, but he ignored it.

When she had left them, Lane closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the seat. “Have you ever seen such an exquisite complexion? And those eyes, they make you feel either you can conquer all or that you’re the biggest imbecile she’s ever come across.”

Sky had to chuckle at that. “She is, after all, an actress.”

“Ah, her talent!”

Sky hadn’t actually seen her act, merely prance across the stage, but he didn’t point this out to his enamored friend. He shifted against the squabs, feeling a vague discomfort. He had already begun to feel it in the restaurant, but now it grew stronger. The meal had obviously not agreed with him.

Just a bout of indigestion, nothing more. Probably bad oysters. He refused to think it could be anything else.

Certainly not a recurrence of the fever that had almost killed him.

“Pity you shall soon be leg-shackled, although I think Lady Gillian is a wonderful girl.” Lane gave a deep sigh. “But I wouldn’t want to miss the delights of a Miss Spencer.” He grinned wickedly at Sky in the darkened coach interior. “Of course, after a suitable period, the proverbial honeymoon, you can always keep an eye out for another such morsel.”

“Except for the fact I’m one of those who believes in the exclusivity of marriage.”

“What? You mean keeping one’s marriage vows?”

Sky pulled aside the curtain, not caring to enter into a discussion on his views of matrimony.

“Oh, come on, man, show me one London couple who keeps their vows after, say, five years of marriage.”

“I daresay one would be hard-pressed,” he admitted.

“Is this some West Indian custom you’ve picked up?”

Sky breathed in deeply, hoping that would ease the queasiness stirring in his stomach. “Let’s just say I would want to know my heirs are my own.”

Lane nodded. “Of course. But say after a time, once your lineage is secure…”

“There’s a small matter of pride. If I can’t satisfy my bride, I probably deserve to be cuckolded.”

Delaney laughed. “If only more gentlemen held that viewpoint.”

They fell silent as the carriage crossed Haymarket. Then Lane ventured once again, “What if, despite everything, your wife should stray?”

“Well, let us hope my marrying a young lady of high birth who knows little of the world will give me someone innocent enough to conform to my way of thinking.”

Lord Skylar appeared at Lady Gillian’s residence promptly at three o’clock the next afternoon. Gillian saw him descend from his curricle, hand his tiger the reins and give him some instructions, before striding toward the front steps. She sat ensconced in a comfortable chair at her bedroom window, having retired to her room with a book at half-past two and neglecting to mention to her mother that Lord Skylar would call.

Twenty minutes went by before she received a summons. During that time, she had paced and stopped in front of her full-length mirror a half-dozen times, wondering why her absence hadn’t been noted sooner.

She smoothed down the jonquil-yellow lawn dress and readjusted the moss-green ribbon tied under the bodice, knowing the colors enhanced her complexion and dark hair. Giving herself one final look in the glass, with a quick rearranging of her curls, she left the confines of her room.

She could hear voices through the drawing room door. Quietly she opened it, wanting to observe before being observed.

Lord Skylar sat forward on the striped settee, with his hands upon a cane, directing himself to Templeton. He looked perfectly at ease chatting with her.

“I know precisely what you mean,” he said to Gillian’s companion in an understanding tone. Gillian stared from his benign demeanor to her tormentor’s parched features, which reminded her of a desiccated fish. Templeton coughed and reddened, stammering something in reply. It was probably the first time someone had agreed with her on anything.

Her mother sat across from them, regarding Lord Skylar with an interested smile.

“Ah, there is Gillian at last,” she declared, turning to her.

Lord Skylar rose in a leisurely fashion and gave her a slight bow. “Good afternoon, Lady Gillian.”

He wore black, and she realized he was still in mourning for his brother. His appearance continued to unnerve her, those dark looks deepened by the dark garments he wore.

She gave him a brief nod. “Good afternoon.”

He waited until she had seated herself as far away from him as possible before taking his seat again.

“Lord Skylar has requested your company for a ride around the park. He was hopeful to find you at home today. I told him of course you would be available to him at any time. He has but to send round a note.”

Gillian gave Lord Skylar a tight smile, conceding him the victory. At least he hadn’t given her away. “Lord Skylar did mention paying a call this afternoon. It must have slipped my mind.”

“Slipped your mind!” Templeton’s disapproving tone intruded. “Good gracious, my lady. You have better manners than that. You owe Lord Skylar an apology.”

“She owes me nothing. I have found her at home and that is all that is required,” he drawled, returning Gillian’s smile with one of his one.

“I believe a ride is a delightful idea. It will give the two of you the chance to get better acquainted with one another,” put in her mother. “It is such a lovely afternoon.”

“As you wish, Mama.”

Lord Skylar rose again. “Then, as we have the duchess’s permission, I suggest we depart.” He approached her chair and held out an arm. “Shall we?”

As they were leaving the room, she turned toward her companion. “Aren’t you coming with us, Templeton?”

Her mother answered for her. “No, my dear. Since you are taking a drive with your betrothed and his groom, you have no need of Templeton.”

Gillian blinked at her mother. Before she could say anything, Lord Skylar led her out the door.

“Don’t forget your parasol and shawl, my lady,” Templeton called out.

Gillian was too amazed at her sudden freedom from Templeton to be aware of Lord Skylar handing her up into the close confines of the curricle. As he took the reins and whip from his tiger, she unfurled her parasol in the open carriage, aware all the while of how closely she sat beside him.

She watched his gloved hands as he maneuvered the curricle around the crowded square and was forced to concede he was a competent whip. He skirted the crested coaches parked in front of the stately residences while avoiding the oncoming vehicles clip-clopping toward them.

“You have a fine pair of grays,” she commented once they were away from the crowded streets of Mayfair and approaching the green expanse of Hyde Park.

“I can take no credit. They were Edmund’s. Not the pair that killed him,” he added.

“I’m sorry. It must pain you to think about your brother…the suddenness of the accident.”

“By the time I was informed, he was long dead and buried, but yes, it still came as a shock. I never expected him to go in quite that manner. An overturned coach…a broken neck…He was still in his prime and always had a strong constitution. I’d always expected him to live to his nineties.”

“You must have looked up to him,” she commented, wondering how it felt to suddenly inherit the place of an elder brother and heir. As an only child herself, she had always thought it would be nice to have a brother or sister, someone to turn to and confide in when there was no one else.

Lord Skylar glanced at her before fixing his attention back on the congestion in front of the park gates. “Everyone admired Edmund.”

She glanced at his profile. The words were spoken as a statement of fact. Before she could comment further, she noticed they were passing the gates without turning in. She sat up. “Where are you taking me?” she demanded as they continued down Knightsbridge.

“Oh, to a little farmhouse in Kensington Village,” he drawled, not taking his eyes off the crowded thoroughfare. “I thought I’d make love to you all afternoon and then return you to your mama in time for tea.”

“Turn this vehicle around immediately!”

He grinned wickedly, sparing her only a glance, and she realized her mistake. She sat back and fumed. “That’s not amusing.”

“My apologies. You are easily repelled by any mention of the physical aspect of our relationship. It seems to bring out the worst in me. I ask your pardon.”

Instead of replying to him, she craned her head around to take a last look at the park gates and gave a little sigh of regret.

“I hope you’re not too disappointed with the change in plans. I have found the park choked with traffic. They’ve turned it into a veritable fairground since the victory,” he said in disgust.

She turned back to settle in her seat. “I have scarcely seen the celebrations. Mother shares your opinion and deems it best to avoid the crowds.”

When he made no comment but continued, focused on the road, Gillian fell silent, deciding to make the most of the outing. Tilting her head back, she breathed deeply of the warm June air, which was filled with the smells of vegetation from the park alongside and baked pastries from a nearby hawker selling meat pies. The sharp tang of leather from the curricle’s seat reminded her of drives with her father.

She wished anew they could ride in the park, where her acquaintances might see her in this smart vehicle. It was well sprung and polished to a brilliant shine. Her hands caressed the supple leather seat. What a difference from riding in the closed landau with Templeton.

Suddenly, she laughed, looking upward past the leafy trees to the powder-blue sky and soft white clouds beyond.

Skylar gave her a brief look. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Freedom from my jailer.”

“The redoubtable Miss Templeton?”

“The very one.”

“If I had to select a companion to guard a young lady’s virtue, I do believe I would have chosen Miss Templeton.”

Gillian gave him a sidelong glance. “She has been my shadow for the last three years.”

“Tell me,” he asked, stepping up their speed as the traffic thinned, “are you in need of such an assiduous guard?”

Her smile disappeared and she looked away. “It is Mama’s desire to protect me. That is why I was astonished she let me go on this ride without Templeton.”

“Your mother trusts the contract drawn up between our solicitors. She knows the Pembrokes won’t renege on an agreement once they’ve given their word. What transpires between now and the wedding date does not unduly concern her.”

“Since you are going to behave with absolute propriety, I suppose Mama’s trust is not misplaced,” she answered with a firmness she was far from feeling. When he gave her no such assurance, Gillian turned to study the scenery along the Kensington Road.

She decided she would enjoy her outing and not let Lord Skylar’s unusual manner unsettle her. He was a gentleman, otherwise her mother would not have agreed to the match. She must believe that.

When they arrived in the village of Kensington on the outskirts of London, he took her to a small tea garden set in the middle of pastures where cows grazed peacefully. Gillian looked about her in delight at the quaint establishment surrounded by flowering gardens. Small round tables covered in pretty linen tablecloths were set up both in the main dining room and out in the gardens.

She readily agreed when he suggested they sit outside.

“Mmm.” She inhaled the fragrance of moss roses, pinks and sweet pea growing in a profusion beside their table.

He helped her into a chair, and a waitress brought her a glass of lemonade and a pot of tea for him. Sky asked her to bring them a selection of their cream-filled pastries.

“What a charming place. I’ve never been here before.” Gillian looked at the man seated across from her, against the backdrop of flowers, the drone of bees and the twitter of birds. “It’s not the sort of place Mother would frequent.” Nor you, she added silently.

“I’m glad it’s still around. I have scarcely had a chance yet to explore all my old haunts. My mother would bring me here as a boy when I was home on holiday. I used to dream of the syllabub made with their cream.”

She eyed him, finding it hard to imagine this austere looking man clad in black ever being a little boy craving sweets.

“These look scrumptious,” she said, preferring to turn her attention to the fruit tarts heaped with whipped cream the waitress set before them. She put one on her plate.

“The place is famous for its cream and butter,” he explained, nodding to the cows grazing in the lawn beyond the garden. “I don’t know how much longer it will be around. Everyone prefers Vauxhall, from what I hear.”

Her eyes lit up. “How I’d love to go there!”

He raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t been? In all your three seasons?”

“Mother thinks it vulgar. She believes it is only a place for the lower classes to go for their trysts.”

He sat back, crossing his long legs, his fingers playing idly with a teaspoon. “Some would say the same thing of tea gardens. We have the place practically to ourselves. The lower classes must indeed all be at Vauxhall.”

She looked around at the airy yet intimate surroundings. It did seem ideal as an out-of-the-way place to meet a sweetheart. Her thoughts went unbidden to other times, times she thought long dead and dormant, when she had been desperate for such a place. She turned her attention to the pastry in front of her. She was in a different position in life now. Older. Ready for a home of her own.

She took a bite of the warm tart and savored its buttery crust and rich custard hidden by the sweet strawberries and fresh cream atop it.

“You’re not having any?” she asked with a glance at his empty plate.

He shook his head. “You go ahead.”

“I should think you could use some of these pastries,” she commented, remembering her mother’s mention that he’d been ill.

“Are you of the opinion as most that I am in need of ‘fattening up’?”

“You are quite thin. Is that just natural or—or…” She hesitated.

“Have I been ill?” he finished for her, taking a sip of his tea.

“Mother mentioned something of it.”

He nodded. “Yes. I was ill.” He did not elaborate. After a moment, he asked her, “Tell me, Lady Gillian, what do you expect from this marriage?”

She washed the taste of strawberries and cream from her mouth with a swallow of lemonade and set down her glass, wondering at the directness of the question.

When she didn’t answer right away, he said, “Come, you agreed to this arrangement between our parents. Despite all their interests in our union, I don’t believe your mother would force you against your will. You have seemed less than willing up to now.”

“Well, that’s due solely to your—your somewhat less than gentlemanly manner.”

“I was somewhat caught by surprise by my father’s announcement. I had no more stepped off the ship than he was insisting on my marriage. I beg your pardon if my manner has offended you. I was still adjusting to the notion of having my bride already picked out for me.”

“You objected to the match?” she asked curiously. “You’ve reached your majority. Surely your father can’t make you marry someone you don’t know.”

He leaned back in his chair and focused his gaze on a fat bumblebee hovering over the stalks of blue delphinium. “After considering all his persuasive arguments, I had to concede his point. I am not getting any younger. Edmund’s death taught us all that we can depart at any moment. Without an heir—” He shrugged. “Our estates are entailed. If I expire without leaving a male heir, all our lands pass to a cousin. The mere thought brings on an attack of gout to my poor sire.”

“But wouldn’t you want to choose your own wife?”

“I am afraid I have neither the inclination nor energy at this point in my life to sort through all the young ladies of marriageable age presently making their debut in society. The mere thought is both exhausting and excruciatingly tedious.”

“You certainly don’t believe in flattery,” she replied, not sure whether she should be insulted or amused at his description of the Marriage Mart.

“Since most of the candidates would have been merely after my title and fortune, it makes things much simpler to select a young lady who is already possessed of these assets.”

“But to marry a virtual stranger—” she began.

He gave her a humorless smile. “My father is a philanderer, an inveterate gambler and, above all, a lover of pleasure. Whatever my opinion may be of his way of life, I cannot fault his taste in women. He is a connoisseur of the fairer gender.

“When he promised I would be pleased with his choice, I could not but agree to have a look at you. He sang your praises. I can’t say you displease me, fair Lady Gillian.”

Her name sounded like a caress in the softly pronounced syllables, his dark eyes appraising her.

“Is he as good a judge of horseflesh?” she asked evenly, once again inclined to feel affronted.

He looked amused. “He’s an excellent judge of horseflesh.”

“Then I should be flattered.”

He shrugged. “That’s up to you. I’m merely telling you that my father has an eye for beauty and the finer things of life.”

She squirmed, feeling he could see things she had revealed to no one. When she didn’t answer right away, his tone gentled. “I have told you my reasons for agreeing to the match. Can you not confide something to me?”

Not ready to do any such thing, she persisted with the topic. “If you have such confidence in your father’s opinion, why were you so ungracious the first evening we met?”

He raised a dark eyebrow in inquiry.

“Oh, come, my lord, you remember perfectly well how you behaved, looking me up and down as if I were a mare. Telling your father I’d do.”

He smiled, his forefinger playing with the contours of his mouth. “That was not against you. My father and I, how shall I put it, don’t like to concede the other a point scored. I would no more admit to him he is right than I would wear a spotted waistcoat.”

Not quite mollified, but beginning to understand him better, she nodded.

“That still leaves why you acquiesced to your mother’s choice.” His soft tone intruded on her thoughts.

“I want a home of my own,” she finally admitted, looking down at the doily under her glass.

“A home of your own,” he answered, surprise edging the low timbre of his voice. “I would not consider you homeless.”

“I want to be mistress of my own household.”

“Well, you will have ample opportunity as the Countess of Skylar.”

“It is what I have been trained to do. I know I would do it well.” She felt her face warm as she spoke the next words. “I want to have children of my own and bring them up. You are right when you say I am tired of playing the debutante. I would like my life to serve some purpose.”

“I think we will suit,” he said finally. “I, too, want to run my father’s estates and prove I can manage them well. I need a wife for that. A good one. I want a woman I can trust. She may play hostess for me whenever she wants. I want to devote my time to my estates and to taking my seat in Lords. I can grace whatever parties she chooses to give, but I don’t intend to become caught up in the social whirl.

“I expect my wife to remain faithful to me, as I will to her.”

She met his gaze. His dark eyes seemed to be probing her, willing her to confess any tendency toward waywardness. Would they ferret out her past secrets or only demand future fidelity?

She said nothing. He continued. “I will be frank with you, my lady. I have not led the life of a saint. I sowed my wild oats here in London before I was banished across the Atlantic.” A faint smile tinged his lips, though his tone was bitter.

“In the Indies I dedicated myself to turning around a failing plantation. I have just ended a six-year relationship with a wealthy island widow. It was not a love union, merely a mutually agreeable arrangement. I left no illegitimate children behind.

“Forgive my frankness to your maidenly ears. I do not wish to offend your sensibilities, but I want to make it clear I ended any entanglements and fully intend to honor my wedding vows once I take them. I expect my future wife to do the same. Do you understand me?”

Her face had blanched at his unvarnished confessions. Did he expect the same of her? A complete disclosure of her past conduct?

Perhaps with his confession, he was making it clear the past was behind him and he would behave differently as a husband. Her heart lightened. The past didn’t matter. She, too, intended to honor her wedding vows, despite her mother’s advice, no matter how distasteful they seemed to her at the moment.

She swallowed. “Yes, I understand you. I, too, will—” she almost choked over the words “—honor our wedding vows.”

He sat back, as if relieved some decision had been taken. “Good. I will tell my father to have the betrothal announced and the banns posted. We can discuss a date with your mother.”

He raised his glass to hers. “Let us toast our future union.”

She raised her glass slowly to his, keeping her eyes fixed on the two glasses, preferring not to meet Lord Skylar’s penetrating dark gaze.

After that, as if deliberately seeking lighter topics of conversation, Lord Skylar took her for a stroll about the gardens. He spoke to her of the different plant life in the tropics. They drove back to London in the late afternoon. Gillian had long since put the serious part of their conversation out of her mind and focused on the enjoyment of the day. As they neared London once again, she felt a sense of regret that the outing would soon be over.

She enjoyed watching Lord Skylar’s handling of the curricle, as she had her father. The two would have liked each other, she realized, and she felt a passing sadness that her father would not have the chance to meet her future husband.

Lord Skylar turned to her. “Would you like to take a turn?” he asked offering her the reins. Her eyes widened. Most men were so proud of their skill with the ribbons and so protective of their precious vehicles and horses, they would never allow a female companion to try her hand. She smiled and nodded, taking the reins from him.

She had her own low phaeton with its pair of ponies, but it had been a while since she’d handled a pair of horses. She kept the horses at a steady pace, glad they were still on the outskirts of the city. Lord Skylar seemed in no hurry to have the reins back. As the streets became more congested, he finally took them back.

“You handle the ribbons well. Who taught you?”

“My father. We often rode together.”

“Do you know anything of horseflesh?”

She nodded again, surprised anew.

“Maybe I’ll take you to Tattersall’s with me. I’m looking to buy my own horse now I’m back in England. Everything in our stables is either Father’s or Edmund’s.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Gillian spied a movement on her side of the road. She craned her neck to see around the coach passing them at that moment.

A dog dashed into the street to avoid a man’s whip. Without thinking, she grabbed Skylar’s arm. “Stop the carriage!”

“What the—” he began, as his pair pranced at the sudden jerk to the reins. Not waiting to find out what she’d caused, Gillian jumped out of the curricle before it had come to a complete stop.

“Lady Gillian!” She heard his sharp command, but she paid it no heed. She dodged traffic and ran toward the dog. Just before a coach ran it over, Gillian lunged at the dog and grabbed its neck.

Hearing the neighing of horses almost on top of her, she dragged the dog back with her.

“What are you thinking of doing, old fellow?” she crooned into its ear as her hands patted his neck, afraid to let it go. “You could have gotten yourself killed. We couldn’t have that. No indeed! There. You come back off the road with me.” As she reached the edge of the street, she noticed the crowd around her. Astounded faces ringed her.

“Miss, are you all right? You almost got run over. If the coachman hadn’t stopped in time—”

Not removing her hand from the dog, still feeling its trembling beneath her fingertips, she realized the full extent of the situation. Coming from behind the onlookers was Lord Skylar, his jaw set.

The crowd parted for him and he came straight to her.

“Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. Before he could say anything more, she turned to look for the man who had caused the commotion, as far as she was concerned. He stood behind a table, selling trinkets.

She marched toward him. “How dare you, sir! Taking a whip to a poor, defenseless dog. You should be whipped yourself.”

The man looked at her in astonishment. “Why—why, that cur’s been pestering me. It’s a worthless stray. Ought to be taken out of its misery.”

Her outrage knew no bounds. “I’ll have you reported. I’ll see you—” Before she could utter her threat, she felt Lord Skylar’s hand on her arm.

“The lady is understandably distressed with the near miss she had. Her nerves are overset—”

She opened her mouth at Lord Skylar’s cool tone. “My nerves! I’ll show you nerves.” Wrenching her arm from his grasp, she went in search of the dog. She found him cowering behind a stack of crates. “Come on, boy. Don’t be afraid.” She petted him, crouching down to his level once again. “We’ll take you away from this place, from that awful brute…”

“She means no disrespect,” she heard Skylar say to the vendor in a soothing tone. “Here, this should cover any damages. We’ll take the cur away from here.”

Then he was standing over her. “We’d better remove ourselves from the premises if we want to avoid a riot. The man’s an unemployed soldier. He’ll soon have the crowd on his side.”

“Come on, boy,” she coaxed the dog, her hand urging it forward. The dog was gazing at her with limpid brown eyes the color of topaz, and she fell in love with it.

She gave a last outraged glance at the man with the stall and only then noticed his missing leg, and the crutch he leaned against. She shuddered and turned in search of the curricle.

Lord Skylar pointed to where he had left it on the other side of the road, his tiger holding the reins. “We shall have to cross the street.”

Gillian looked at him expectantly.

“What is it?”

She motioned to the dog. “Aren’t you going to carry him? We mustn’t risk his getting run over again.”

She almost laughed at the expression on Lord Skylar’s face as he looked down at the dog.

With a lengthy sigh, he finally stooped down and lifted the dog in his arms.

“Don’t hurt him,” she begged Lord Skylar.

“I hope you’re addressing the dog and not me,” he said dryly.

With a doubtful look at the curricle’s immaculate interior, Skylar dumped the animal onto a rug on the floor. “We shall have to have the vehicle fumigated,” Skylar told his tiger.

“Yes, sir,” he answered, unable to aid his master as he held the horses.

After helping Gillian in, Lord Skylar climbed in, shoving the dog out of the way of his feet in the confined space. The dog whined pitifully.

“Be careful! He’s been mistreated enough.”

“I believe it’s a she, not a he,” he answered shortly as he took the reins from the groom and waited only long enough for the man to jump up in back before setting the carriage in motion.

He handed her his handkerchief with barely a glance. “You might want to wipe the dust from your face.”

“Oh—” She took it from him, wondering that he’d even noticed her face in the entire fray. She scrubbed at her cheeks.

“Where are we going?” she asked as she watched him turn into the park gates.

“We can drop the mutt in the park. Either that or drive back to Kensington. Perhaps I could bribe a farmer to take it off our hands.”

She twisted around in the tight space and glared at him. “We shall do no such thing. How do we know they will take care of it properly?” She laid her hand on his forearm, her outrage turning to entreaty.

“I would suggest, my lady, that you refrain from interfering with my driving a second time. If you did not cause an accident just now, or break your neck, I cannot guarantee your safety another time.”

She removed her hand. “Didn’t you see that man? What he was doing to this poor animal?”

“No, I was watching the traffic, a fact you can be thankful for. Otherwise, all three of us would probably have been thrown from the vehicle.”

Finally conceding the folly of her jump, she said, “I’m sorry for the suddenness of leaving the curricle, but the man was whipping this poor dog, and he—she’d—run into the street. In another second she would have been run over by that closed carriage.” Her voice broke at the thought of what might have happened. She sniffed into the large handkerchief, appalled at her reaction.

“Spare me from emotional women,” Lord Skylar muttered.

“At least I’m not being heartless!”

“Excuse me. Next time I’ll jump out alongside you with no thought for anyone else on the road.”

She ignored his sarcasm. “This dog needs medical attention. Look at that wound.” She bent over, noticing the gash from the whip. “Can’t you take her home with you and have your stableman look at her?”

It was his turn to look at her in outrage. “Home with me? That flea-ridden creature? For all we know, it’s rabid.”

She looked down at her knotted handkerchief. “I can’t—that is, Mother wouldn’t allow it into our house, not even into the stables. I—I’ve taken in some stray cats and keep them there, but Mama doesn’t even know about them. I don’t think I could keep a dog hidden for very long.”

Lord Skylar remained silent, but after a moment she heard him give another pained sigh. When she dared look around, she saw with relief that he’d turned around and was leaving the park. She said nothing but dabbed at her nose, being careful not to sniff audibly.

“My father’s mastiffs will probably eat her for breakfast.”

She glanced at him in alarm. “You mustn’t let them! Can’t you keep her apart from them?”

He said no more until he stopped in front of her house. She bent over one last time and petted the dog until Lord Skylar came around to her side of the carriage. She did not look at him as he helped her down.

“You’re sure you’re not hurt?” he asked curtly.

She nodded.

“You’d best change your dress before your mother sees you.”

She glanced down at her light-colored muslin. Dust and dog prints stained it.

“She might have second thoughts of allowing you to go on another outing with me if she sees your dirty and disheveled condition from a simple turn in the park.”

As he spoke, he took her arm and propelled her toward the front entrance. A footman opened the door before they reached it. Lord Skylar released her and stepped back. “Good afternoon, my lady.”

She looked back at him and bit her lip. “You won’t let the other dogs hurt it?”

“We’ll muzzle them until they get used to this mongrel.”

“You’ll let me know how she gets on?”

“You’ll hear from me.” With a final tip of his hat, he turned and made his way back to the curricle.

Her attention went to the dog, whose chestnut head peered out the side. She gave it an encouraging smile and wave. “I’ll see you soon,” she said, not at all sure she would be able to keep her promise.