March 1816
Lucas Paine, Marquess of Basingstoke, was classically
handsome, with his thick dark blond hair, clear blue eyes
and leanly muscled body. He dressed impeccably, had
excellent manners, cherished his widowed mother and was good
to his dogs.
He tipped his hat to all when out on the strut, and he
belonged to the best clubs. An accomplished horseman and
premier whip, he was also no stranger to the boxing saloons,
where he excelled, although he would say that he was better
with the rapier than his fists. He did not take snuff,
affected no airs, graciously danced with all the
wallflowers, flattered the dowagers and never gambled above
his considerable means.
If there was even a breath of scandal still attached to the
memory of the marquess's late sire, that scandal did not
touch the son.
In fact, as his friend Fletcher Sutton, Viscount Yalding,
pointed out that mid-March day as the pair sauntered along
Bond Street, one eye on the low, threatening sky, if the
marquess could only manage to control the weather, he would
be elevated to the status of near-god.
Both Lucas and Fletcher knew the reason for this pervasive
unpleasant weather, the near constant rain and cold, the
lack of sunshine. Although it boggled the mind to believe
that a volcanic eruption nearly a year ago and halfway
around the world in some benighted spot called Tambora could
cause such prolonged misery for most of England and Europe.
"You're quiet," Fletcher said as they paused to unfurl their
large black umbrellas, for the mizzle had moved on to a
drizzle that was sure to become a steady downpour in a few
minutes. "Still chafing at what Lord Harper said yesterday
at White's? That wasn't nice of him, Lucas, saying he'd
heard cheerier speeches at funerals, and then he and his
friends all but turning their backs on you. Although I will
admit he had a point."
Viscount Yalding was referring to the incident that had
taken place at one of London's premier clubs. Lord Harper, a
buffoon even in the best of times, had made a comment about
the "ruffians and other low creatures accosting him for
coins each time he stepped outside."
Lucas—surprising even himself—had launched into an
impassioned defense of the cold and hungry and frightened
populace, and had even warned the gentlemen within earshot
that if no steps were taken to assist their fellow
countrymen the consequences could be serious.
It had been a very good argument, perhaps even bordering on
the inspired. Not that anyone had listened.
Lucas looked at his friend, one eloquent eyebrow raised.
"The day I am cast in the glooms by that buffoon's opinions
I shall have to race home and slit my throat."
Fletcher acknowledged this with a tip of his head. "All
right, what is it, then? The weather? No sense repining on
that, according to you, as it's not going to change any time
soon. Your new boots pinch? But they're Hoby's, correct? So
that can't be it. Yet you look like you've just watched your
very last friend walk away from you, which you haven't,
because I'm still here. In fact, please feel free to make a
cake of yourself again any time you wish, and I'll stand up
on my chair and cry hear, hear as I lend you my
support."
"Is that so? How gratifying, Fletcher, truly. Except I'm now
left to wonder if you are pledging your support or hoping to
goad me into making a cake of myself again, as you so
tactfully put it."
Viscount Yalding, a handsome young man of five and twenty, a
man with a sparkle in his light brown eyes and a pair of
impish dimples in his cheeks, threw back his head and
laughed aloud. "And that's the real beauty of the thing,
because you'll never know which, now will you?"
"You know what it is, don't you, Fletcher? We don't learn.
It wasn't that long ago that our dear Prince Regent was
hatching escape plans, sure his loyal subjects were going to
rise up the way the French did against their king. Now,
thanks to that damnable volcano, we face high prices and
farmers losing their positions, our brave soldiers
suffering, our children falling sick because there are no
fresh vegetables for them to eat. We're not preparing for
that eventuality, or its inevitable result. Civil unrest."
"Yes, yes, I remember what you said, but please stop now.
Not the cheeriest thing I've ever heard, to quote Lord
Harper. And you're not completely correct, Lucas. Our
government is taking steps, although probably not in a
direction you'd approve— Watch out!"
Lucas looked down the flagway to see a young woman running
toward him, looking back over her shoulder at another young
woman who had stopped beneath a canvas awning to wait for a
female servant to raise an umbrella.
"Oh, don't be so missish, Lydia. The coach is just down
here—you won't melt. It's only a little— Oof!"
Lucas caught the female by the upper arms and held her in
front of him, saying, "Steady there, young lady. And far be
it from me to stand in the role of teacher, but it is
usually deemed equally important to see where you are going
as where you have been."
The female, who stood only as high as his chest, lifted her
head so that her face was visible beneath the wide brim of
her bonnet, and looked him square in the eyes.
When had he seen eyes like these? Had there ever been eyes
like these, so darkly blue as to be closer to sun-washed
violet, so alive, so fearless and amused, daring him to—to
what? The heart-shaped face in its frame of wonderfully dark
hair, the perfectly centered nose, the slightly bee-stung
lower lip, the single dimple that came and went in her right
cheek. The skin that spoke of fresh peaches doused in cream,
and sprinkled with a dusting of freckles that invited him to
touch, to trace them with his fingertips, the tip of his tongue…
"Yes," she said, biting that bottom lip between her fine,
small white teeth for a moment as she ran her gaze over his
features, "I believe I can see the wisdom in that statement.
Although, as I already know where I've been, I'm always much
more interested in what lies ahead. You may let me go now."
Lucas, a man who could not remember the last time he'd been
flustered, and knowing the answer was never if the
other person involved was a female, was finding it difficult
to think of anything to say.
"Lucas?" Fletcher gave his friend a gentle jab with his
elbow. "She says you can let her go now."
He brought himself under control, but not without conscious
effort. "Yes, of course. Forgive me, young lady. I merely
wanted to be certain you hadn't been injured by our… collision."
"I believe I shall survive, sir, thank you. Ah, and here is
my sister, frowning, and with a good scolding eager to
escape her lips as she points out, for at least the tenth
time, that we are not at Ashurst Hall anymore, and I cannot
just behave as if London is our familiar village. Although I
don't see why not, do you? It's not as if a person is likely
to encounter anyone too dastardly right here on Bond Street."
"I wouldn't say that, miss. We could be quite dastardly, I'm
sure, if we just put our minds to the thing," Fletcher said,
winking at Lucas, who believed his friend was enjoying
himself entirely too much.
"Ashurst Hall, you said?" Lucas pursued, turning back to the
young beauty, whose luscious skin was now lustrous with the
misting rain. She was fresh as a strawberry just plucked
from the fields, yet the intelligence evident in her eyes
told him she might be young, but she was neither shallow nor
silly. "Then I may assume that the Duke of Ashurst is known
to you?"
"You might assume that, yes. Rafael is our brother. And now
that you have the advantage of me…?"
"A thousand pardons," Lucas said as the beautiful young
blond woman who'd been addressed as Lydia joined them
beneath their now trio of umbrellas. Sisters? Yes, he could
see the resemblance, but at first blush this one seemed to
lack the dangerous fire of her sibling. "Lady Lydia, if I
heard the name correctly? Please allow me to introduce
myself and my friend here."
"My lords," Lydia said moments later, dropping into a
graceful curtsy while motioning for her sister to do the
same. "And in return may I present my sister, Lady Nicole
Daughtry."
Nicole. From the Greek, Lucas was fairly certain,
and meaning "victorious people." Yes, it suited her. He
could see her riding at the front of her own army, rather
like Eleanor of Aquitaine. The queen, to inspire her troops,
was rumored to have ridden bare-breasted.
Lucas shook off that disquieting thought and bowed to the
young woman.
"A distinct pleasure, Lady Nicole."
"Yes…" she said, smiling at him as if she totally agreed
that the pleasure was his, the minx. It was difficult to
believe that the duke let this one out without a leash. She
looked down the length of his body and back up again. "Did
you happen to notice, my lord, that you're standing in a
puddle?"
Fletcher gave a bark of laughter as Lucas looked down to see
that a drainpipe aimed toward the gutter had been emptying
rainwater the entire time they'd been standing here, and a
dip in the flagway had served to collect quite a bit of that
rainwater around his new boots.
"Why, yes, Lady Nicole, I did know that. I've made it a
point to always stand in puddles. They're rarely crowded,
you understand."
The dimple appeared, and that small, quick bite at her lower
lip came and went almost before Lucas could see it. Almost.
"But I'm standing in it, too, my lord."
All right. If she wanted to play, he would not disappoint
her. "Which now makes it our puddle, doesn't it,
Lady Nicole?"
"I'm not sure. As my twin here could tell you, I have never
been all that comfortable with sharing. You might wish to
step back, my lord."
She was giving him a warning? Him? He was the
Marquess of Basingstoke, and she was a young miss fresh from
the country. He should be warning her, although of what, he
couldn't be sure.
Fletcher nervously cleared his throat. "Yes… ah, um, yes
indeed. Well, stap me if I haven't just remembered
something. We have that appointment, Lucas, as I recall.
Going to be late, and you know how his lordship frowns when
we're late. And the ladies will take a chill, there's that,
as well. We shouldn't keep them."
"Indeed, no, we shouldn't," Lucas said, agreeing with his
friend's fib, as he already had a plan in mind to see Lady
Nicole again. He turned to Lady Lydia, who might not have
much influence over her sister, but who probably could be
relied upon not to scramble his brains and tie his tongue
into knots. "It would be our distinct pleasure to wait on
you ladies tomorrow, if your brother will give his
permission for the four of us to drive out to Richmond.
Would you be amenable to such an arrangement, Lady Lydia?"
"If she knows what's good for her, she will," Lucas heard
Lady Nicole whisper under her breath as she covered her
mouth with one gloved hand, and once again Fletcher cleared
his throat, this time to cover a laugh, no doubt.
"I should imagine you will have to apply directly to our
brother, my lord," Lady Lydia said, earning herself a weary
shake of the head from her sister. "We dine at home in
Grosvenor Square this evening, and if you and Lord Yalding
are free, we would be honored if you'd join us. You can ask
him then."
Lucas glanced toward Lady Nicole, who was now looking at her
sister in some astonishment. He quickly agreed, thanked Lady
Lydia and then escorted the ladies to their waiting coach,
the one with the ducal crest on it.
"What a mischievous piece of work that one is," Fletcher
said as they watched the coach pull off into the light
afternoon traffic. "And what was all that ridiculousness
about puddles? Not that it wasn't all innocent, I suppose,
but I was beginning to feel like a voyeur, listening to the
pair of you. She's nearly a child, Lucas. Not your usual
sort at all."
"A child, Fletch?" Lucas turned to head to his own coach,
for he needed to go back to Park Lane, spend some time alone
to consider all that had just happened to him. "That one has
never been a child."
"No, I suppose some females are like that. But they aren't
usually sister to a duke, if you take my meaning and no
offense intended. And I'm supposed to be keeping the other
one occupied so that the two of you can keep on speaking
whatever private language you were spouting back there?"
They both handed their umbrellas to the waiting groom, who
would return them to the nearest umbrella shop to be dried
and refolded and be supplied with replacements. Umbrella
shops were probably the most prosperous enterprises in the
city this year.
"If you wouldn't consider it a hardship, yes."
"Absolutely not," Fletcher said. "Lady Lydia is a beautiful
young woman. Such a contrast to her sister, though, don't
you think? It would take a special eye to see her quiet
beauty when matched up against the fire and flash of Lady
Nicole."
"And you have a special eye?"
"Hardly," Fletcher said as they settled into the coach. "As
you well know, I can't afford one. Although I have observed
that your mood has improved by more than half since our
encounter with Lady Nicole. I thought you said you weren't
chafing about that business at White's."
"I'm sorry. Although I will admit that I am rather
disappointed in my fellow man at the moment. Nobody wants to
hear anything but good news. We'd rather close our ears and
eyes and go on repeating the same mistakes over and over again."
"Well, I agree with you there, I suppose, at least with that
business about making the same mistakes. For instance,
m'father might have thought to learn that a Faro bank in a
gaming hell is a harlot's tease. We all could have benefited
if he'd taken that particular lesson to heart. But that's
not what you mean, is it? You're angry with the way we're
treating the populace."
"More than I thought I could be, yes. An iron fist is never
a good ruler, Fletcher, when a helping hand benefits us all
in the end. Why can't our fellows in the House of Lords see
that?"