[This is Heyward's first encounter with Lady Angeline
Dudley, and it is not an auspicious one for him, though it
leads her to fall in love with him and to decide that he is
the man she wants to marry. She is very scandalously alone
in the taproom of an inn on the way to London, her maid
being asleep upstairs. She is waiting for the arrival of
her brother, the Duke of Tresham, who is to take her the
rest of the way to London for her come–out Season.
She is looking out the window and does not know that there
is a man in the taproom behind her.]
Edward Ailsbury, Earl of Heyward, was feeling more than
slightly uncomfortable. And he was feeling annoyed that he
had been made to feel so. Was it his fault that a young
woman who was clearly a lady was in the taproom with him,
quite alone? Where were her parents or her husband or
whoever it was that was supposed to be chaperoning her?
There was no one in sight except the two of them.
At first he had assumed she was a stagecoach passenger. But
when she had made no move to scurry outside when the call to
board again came, he noticed that of course she was not
dressed for the outdoors. She must be a guest at the
inn, then. But she really ought not to have been allowed to
wander where she had no business being, embarrassing
perfectly innocent and respectable travelers who were trying
to enjoy a glass of ale in peace and respectability
before continuing the journey to London.
To make matters worse—considerably worse—she
was leaning forward and slightly down in order to rest her
bosom on her forearms along the windowsill, with the result
that her back was arched inward like an inverted bow, and
her derriere was thrust outward at a provocative angle.
Indeed, Edward found himself drinking his ale less to slake
the thirst of the journey than to cool an elevated body
temperature.
It was a very shapely derriere.
And to make matters even worse, if that were possible, the
dress she wore was of fine muslin and clung to her person in
places where it would be kinder to innocent males for it not
to cling. It did not help that the dress was of a bright,
luminous pink the likes of which shade Edward had never
before encountered in a fabric or anywhere else for that
matter. The woman could have been seen with the naked eye
from a distance of five miles. He was considerably closer to
her than that.
He was further annoyed over the undeniable fact that he was
ogling her—or one part of her anatomy, anyway. And,
while he was ogling her with his eyes, his head was fairly
humming with lascivious thoughts. He resented both
facts—and her. He prided himself upon always treating
ladies with the utmost respect. And not just ladies. He
treated women with respect. Eunice Goddard had once pointed
out to him during one of their many lengthy
conversations—not that he could not have worked it out
for himself—that women of all walks of life were
persons, despite what the church and the law might have to
say to the contrary, and not mere objects to cater to man's
baser instincts.
He respected Eunice's opinions. She had a fine mind, which
she had cultivated with extensive reading and thoughtful
observations of life. He hoped to marry her, though he
realized that his family might find his choice
disappointing now that he was Earl of Heyward instead of
plain Mr. Edward Ailsbury.
His carriage—his ancient embarrassment of a carriage,
which his mother had begged him to bring to London because
she could never seem to get comfortable in any newer one she
had ever ridden in—was ready to leave, Edward could
see through the window over the pink lady's head. He had
intended to eat something as well as drink before resuming
his journey, but she had ruined that plan. It was not right
for him to be here with her—though it was not his
fault that he was placing her in such a potentially
compromising position. And it was not his fault that the ale
was not cooling his blood one iota.
Though Eunice might argue with that, about its not being
his fault, that was. The woman had done nothing to provoke
his reaction, after all, beyond being herewith her bright,
pink–clad derriere elevated in his direction. And he
could have gone to the dining room to eat, though he would
then have felt obliged to order a full–blown meal.
He set his not–quite–empty glass down on the
counter as silently as he could and straightened up. He
would leave and take his grudge against her with him. He had
not even seen her face. She might be as ugly as sin.
An unworthy, spiteful thought.
He shook his head in exasperation.
Butthen, before he could take a step toward the outer door
and freedom from temptation and other ills, the door opened
from the outside and a man stepped inside.
Edward recognized him, though he clearly did not recognize
Edward. That was hardly surprising since Edward was quite
unremarkable in his own person, and his title had been
lending him consequence only for the past year, since
the death of his far more imposing and charismatic older
brother. And the year of mourning had been spent at Wimsbury
Abbey in Shropshire, where Edward had stayed to familiarize
himself with his new duties and gird his loins for
the inevitable removal to London this spring to take his
seat in the House ofLords—and to take a bride, a step
his female relatives deemed essential despite the fact that
he was only twenty–four years old. Maurice and
Lorraine had produced only one daughter before Maurice's
demise, and the succession must be secured. Edward was the
spare of his particular generation. He had two sisters but
no other brothers.
The new arrival was Lord Windrow, a member of Maurice's old
circle of friends and acquaintances, and as wild and rakish
as the best of them. Tall and handsome, neither of which
attributes Edward shared to any noticeable degree,
Windrow moved with an indolent swagger and regarded the
world from cynical eyes over which his eyelids habitually
drooped as if he were about to nod off to sleep at any
moment. He was dressed in the height of fashion.
Edward would have liked nothing better than to nod genially
at the man and be on his way. But he hesitated. The pink
lady was still present and was still posed as before. And if
he had ogled her, what would Windrow do?
It was absolutely none of his business what Windrow might
do, Edward told himself.And the pink lady was certainly
none of his concern. Let her look to the consequences of her
own indiscretions. Let her family look to them.
Besides, this was the public taproom of a respectable inn.
No real harm would come to her.
He urged himself to be on his way.
But he found himself instead resting his elbow on the
counter and picking up his glass again.
Confound his misplaced sense of social responsibility. The
fact that Eunice might applaud him for staying was no
consolation.
The landlord appeared behind the counter and served Windrow
with a tankard of ale before disappearing again.
Windrow turned to survey the room, and his eyes alit almost
immediately upon the pink lady. But how could they not
unless he was totally blind? He leaned back against the
counter, resting his forearms back along it while clutching
his tankard in one hand. Hi slips pursed in a silent
whistle.
Edward was all the more annoyed at the blatantly sensual
look on the man's face because his own must have looked very
much like it just a few minutes ago.
"Sweetheart, "Windrow said softly, obviously having
dismissed Edward as a man of no account whatsoever—or
perhaps he had not even noticed him, "may I persuade you
to share my ale? Better yet, may I persuade you to share it
and a meat pasty?There is only one
comfortable–looking chair over by the fireplace, I
see, but you may sit on my lap and share that too."
Edward frowned at him. Could he not see that the woman was
a lady? The evidence was glaring enough in the fine muslin
of her dress, despite the bright shade, and in the intricacy
of her coiffure of dark hair. He glanced at her,
expecting to see her stiffen with horror and fright. She
continued to stare out the window. She either assumed that
the invitation was directed at someone else,or—but
was it possible?—she simply did not hear the words at
all.
He should leave, Edward decided. Right now.
He spoke instead.
"I doubt you know the lady," he said. "Calling her
sweetheart, then, would be inappropriately impertinent."
Maurice had often called him, affectionately enough most of
the time, a staid old sobersides. Edward half expected to
see dust emerge from his mouth along with the words. But
they were spoken now, and he would not recall them if he
could. Someone had to speak up for defenseless female
innocence. If she was innocent, that was.
Windrow's head swiveled slowly, and just as slowly his lazy
eyes swept Edward from head to toe. His perusal aroused no
discernible alarm in him.
"You were speaking to me, fellow?" he asked.
Edward in his turn looked slowly about the room.
"I must have been," he said. "I see no one else present
except the two of us and the lady, and I am not in the habit
of speaking to myself."
Slight amusement showed in the other man's face.
"Lady," he said. "I take it she is not with you. Shies
alone, then. I wish she were a lady. It might be mildly
less of a yawn to frequent London ballrooms and drawing
rooms. You would be wise, fellow, to address yourself to
what remains of your ale and mind your own business."
And he turned back to regard the woman's derriere again.
She had changed position.Her elbows were now on the sill,
and her face was cupped in her hands. The effect of the
change was to thrust her bosom into more prominence in
one direction and her derriere in the other.
If she could only step back and see herself from this
position, Edward thought ,she would run screaming from the
room and never return, even with a dozen chaperons.
"Perhaps this lady would care to sit in my lap while I call
to the landlord to bring her a pasty and ale so that she may
share with me,"Windrow said with insolent emphasis. "Would
you, sweetheart?"
Edward sighed inwardly and moved one degree closer to an
unwilling confrontation. It was too late to back off now.
"I really must insist," he said, "that the lady be treated
with the respect that any female ought to be accorded as a
matter of right by anyone claiming the name of gentleman."
He sounded pompous. Of course he sounded pompous. He always
did, did he not?
Windrow's head turned, and his amusement was quite
unmistakable now.
"Are you looking for a fight, fellow?" he asked.
The lady seemed finally to have realized that she was the
subject of the conversation behind her. She straightened up
and turned, all wide, dark eyes in a narrow, handsome face,
and all tall, shapely height.
Good God, Edward thought, the rest of her person more than
lived up to the promise of her derriere. She was a rare
beauty. But this was no time to allow himself to be
distracted. He had been asked a question.
"I have never felt any burning desire to enforce gentility
or simple civility with my fists," he said, his tone mild
and amiable. "It seems something of a contradiction in
terms."
"I believe," Windrow said, "I have the pleasure of
addressing a sniveling coward. And a stuffy windbag. All
wrapped in one neat package."
Each charge, even the last, was an insult. But Edward would
be damned before he would allow himself to be goaded into
adopting swashbuckling tactics just to prove to someone he
despised that he was a man.
"A man who defends the honor of a lady and who expects a
gentleman to behave like one and confronts him when he does
not is a coward, then?" he asked mildly.
The woman's eyes, he was aware, had moved from one to the
other of them but were now riveted upon his face. Her hands
were clasped to her bosom as though she had been struck by
some tender passion. She looked remarkably unalarmed.
"I believe," Windrow said, "the suggestion has been made
that I am not gentleman. If I just had a glove about my
person, I would slap it across your insolent face, fellow,
and invite you to follow me out to the inn yard.But a man
ought not to be allowed to get away with being a coward and
a stuffy windbag, gloves or no gloves, ought he? Fellow, you
are hereby challenged to fisticuffs outside." He jerked his
thumb in the direction of the inn yard and smiled—very
unpleasantly indeed.
Once more Edward sighed inwardly.
"And the winner proves himself a gentleman worthy of the
name, does he?" he said. "Pardon me if I disagree and
decline your generous offer. I will settle for an apology to
the lady instead before you take yourself off."
He glanced at her again. She was still gazing fixedly at
him.
He had, as he was fully aware, backed himself into a tight
corner from which there was no way out that was not going to
prove painful. He was going to end up having to fight
Windrow and either give him a bloody nose and two black eyes
to take to London with him, or suffer his opponent to dish
out the like to himself. Or both.
It was all very tedious. Nothing but flash and fists. That
was what being a gentleman was to many of the men who
claimed the name. Maurice, unfortunately, had been one of
them.
"Apologize to the lady?" Windrow laughed softly and with
undisguised menace.
That was when the lady decided to enter the
fray—without uttering a word.
She seemed to grow three inches. She looked suddenly regal
and haughty—and she shifted her gaze to Windrow. She
looked him up and down unhurriedly and appeared to find what
she saw utterly contemptible.
It was a masterly performance—or perhaps a mistressly
one.
Her wordless comment was not without its effect even though
Windrow was half grinning at her. Perhaps it was a rueful
grin?
"I misjudged you, alas, did I?" he asked her. "Because you
were alone in here and leaning nonchalantly on the
windowsill and dressed like a bird of paradise, I suppose. I
cannot persuade you to share a pasty and a glass of ale with
me? Or to sit on my lap? A pity. And it would seem I cannot
persuade this sniveling coward to defend your honor or his
own with his fists. What a sad day to have encountered when
I had such high hopes of it when I awoke this morning.There
is nothing for it, I see, but to resume my tedious journey
and hope for a brighter tomorrow."
And he pushed himself away from the counter, setting down
his empty tankard as he did so, and would have sauntered out
of the inn without a word more or a backward glance. He
found an obstacle in his path, however. Before he
could reach the door, Edward was there ahead of him and
standing in front of it, blocking the way.
"You have forgotten something," he said. "You owe the lady
an apology."
Windrow's eyebrows rose—and amusement suffused his
face again. He turned back to the roomand made the lady a
deep and mocking bow.
"Oh, fair one," he said, "it pains me that I may have
distressed you with my admiration. Accept my humble
apologies, I beg you."
She neither accepted nor rejected them. She gazed coldly at
him without relaxing her regal demeanor.
Windrow winked at her.
"I shall look forward to making your official acquaintance
at some future date," he said. "It is my fervent hope that
that will not be far in the future."
He turned to Edward, who stood out of the way of the
door.
"And likewise for you, fellow," he said. "It will be a
distinct pleasure."
Edward inclined his head curtly to him, and Windrow left the
inn and closed the door behind him.
That left Edward and the lady in the taproom together
again. But this time she knew he was there and so the
impropriety could not be ignored or even silently
fumed over. He was freshly annoyed with her—and with
himself for having become embroiled in such an undignified
episode.
She was gazing at him, the regal demeanor vanished, her
hands clasped at her bosom again.
Edward inclined his head curtly to her and made his way
outside. He half expected to find Windrow lying in wait for
him in the yard and was almost disappointed to see no sign
of the man.
Less than five minutes later he was inside his carriage
again and on his way towardLondon. Ten minutes after that,
the carriage passed a far smarter one—ofcourse, it
would have been difficult to find one
shabbier—traveling with reckless speed in the opposite
direction. He caught a glimpse of the coat of arms
emblazoned on the door. The Duke of Tresham's. He breathed
a sigh of relief that at least he had been spared having to
encounter that particular gentleman at the Rose and Crown in
addition to Windrow. It would have been the final straw.
Tresham was not his favorite person in the world. And, to
be fair, he did not doubt that he was not Tresham's either.
The duke had been another of Maurice's friends. It was in a
curricle race against him that Maurice had overturned
his own and killed himself. And then Tresham had had the
effrontery to turn up atMaurice's funeral. Edward had made
his opinion known to him there.
He wished anew that he could have stayed at Wimsbury Abbey.
But duty called inLondon. And there was consolation, for
Eunice was there too. She was staying with Lady Sanford, her
aunt, and he would see her again.
It struck him suddenly that Tresham was driving in the
opposite direction from London. Perhaps he was on his way to
Acton Park. Perhaps he was going to remain there throughout
the spring. It was something to be hoped for.
Who the devil was that lady back at the inn? Someone needed
to take her in hand and teach her a thing or two about what
was what.
But devil take it, she was a rare beauty.
He frowned as he shifted position in a vain attempt to get
comfortable.
Beauty was no excuse for impropriety. Indeed, beauty called
for more than usual discretion.
He still felt entirely out of charity with her, whoever she
was. Unlike Windrow, he did not look forward to making her
official acquaintance. He hoped rather that he would never
see her again. He hoped she was traveling away from London
rather than toward it.
Preferably to the highlands of Scotland.