Miss Richardson Comes Of Age (Zebra Regency Romance) Page 6

“Strangely enough, I did not. Both of them were fighting so hard. And Thorne at least finally won his battle. Took him a year and more to do so. And by then, he was the earl.”

  “I see why you admire him so,” she said.

  “And do you see why that Bennet person’s portrait of him is so unfair?” he asked.

  She swallowed. “Yes. I think so.”

  Thorne turned his mount around and tried to erase from his mind the image of honey-brown-blond curls and intelligent brown eyes. Well, she was cooperating. That was all he required of Miss Richardson. He still suspected she knew more of this Bennet and her—or his!—writings than she let on. But Thorne Wainwright was a patient man.

  Now that he had become somewhat better acquainted with her, he admitted to very mixed feelings. So, she was not a fortune hunter out to trap an innocent youth. But what was her game? She was not in the first bloom of youth—not if this was her third Season. Why had she spurned Luke’s offer? She had turned down Beelson, too, he had learned—and Beelson had a title to offer. Well, rejecting a titled nobleman might be unusual, but rejecting a man like Beelson was simply a sign of good sense.

  Connection with the Rolsbury title might be considered a tremendous coup in many quarters. Moreover, she and Luke seemed—at the moment at least—to get on well enough. There was still the fact that Luke was far too immature to marry. The boy deserved a chance to grow into his manhood—not just be thrust into it by responsibility for a wife and children.

  Oh, you want him to gain maturity? some inner voice of cynicism asked. Then find a war to which you can dispatch him. Nothing like seeing your companions chopped to pieces to produce instant adulthood.

  Another voice, equally cynical, broke in. Experiencing a little self-pity, are we, Rolsbury? You chose your life. Perhaps Luke deserves the same privilege of choice.

  He does not need to be hurt by a woman, though. Thorne distinctly—and painfully—recalled another young Wainwright suffering just such hurt. Lady Diana Santee had been the reigning debutante of the Season before Thorne went off to the Peninsula. She had reveled in the attentions of every eligible male of the ton. Thorne had been ecstatic when she seemed to single him out to receive her favor. But he had been plunged into the depths of despair to learn that she had used his suit to bring the Marquis of Everdon up to scratch.

  There had, of course, been other women from time to time—most particularly a certain Spanish señorita during the long siege of San Sebastian, and a Belgian woman during the occupation leading up to Waterloo. Only lately had he extricated himself from the cloying tentacles of a sometime mistress—a widow in another town in the midlands. He had vowed hereafter to deal only with “professionals.”

  Every man knew woman problems were simply a part of growing up. So—where did he come off, trying to keep Luke insulated from such?

  Lifetime habits were hard to ignore, though. And all his life Thorne had protected Luke and their sister Catherine. He had been hardly more than a boy himself—Luke’s age now, in fact—when he had rescued his schoolgirl sister from an unscrupulous fortune hunter. No wonder he had leaped to conclusions about Miss Richardson.

  Well, he might have been wrong about Miss Richardson being a fortune hunter, but there was something about her.... And he damned well was not wrong about that pesky novelist. As an aspiring member of Parliament, he could not openly attack Emma Bennet in London drawing rooms. Doing so would keep the talk alive and serve to inhibit his efforts as a lawmaker. However, as a sometime literary critic he might find a way to do so.

  Not that he had been much of a literary critic heretofore. During his long convalescence after Waterloo, he had begun to submit articles to The London Review, a high-toned magazine that featured articles on matters of government, politics, literature, and social history. At first his work had been confined to matters of military history, but then he had branched into reviewing a number of scholarly tomes.

  “You want to do what?” Henry Watson, editor and publisher of the Review, had been bowled over by Thorne’s proposal.

  “I thought I might do a review of popular fiction—you know, the sort of stuff women seem to snatch up at Hatchard’s and other bookshops.”

  “I had no idea you even read that stuff,” Watson replied. “Are you not the very man who turned his nose up at even that superb book, Pride and Prejudice, when it came out?”

  Thorne and Watson were friends of long standing, despite Watson’s family background in trade and Rolsbury being heir to a respected title. At boarding school Watson had been an object of ridicule and even brutality—until “Thorny” had become his champion. The two later maintained their friendship, though Thorne had gone to the new military academy at Sandringham and Watson had entered university. It was Watson who brought the injured Major Wainwright out of his deep depression following his injury. Watson simply gave him something useful to do. Thorne began to take pride in what he could do instead of lamenting what he could no longer do.

  Thorne grinned at his friend now. “Well, I have not really changed my mind about those works in general—though I do admit to liking that particular lady’s portraits of her minor characters.”

  “But you want to immerse yourself in such stuff?”

  “My idea is to expose much of it for the sheer drivel that it is.”

  “Ah, I see. That Emma Bennet got under your skin, did she?”

  Thorne pretended to take umbrage. “Hank, you always were too sharp for your own good!”

  “Whoever she is, Miss Bennet does not know you—that much was obvious. But—Lord!—what a laugh that piece was!”

  “Yes. Well . . .”

  “If you want to write it, I will surely print it, but do you really think it the wisest course of action?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I mean, the talk will eventually die down—will this not just keep it alive?” Watson asked.

  “Perhaps. But I cannot leave it unanswered.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you could do so.”

  The plan for both Wainwrights to be seen as being on easy terms with Miss Richardson went forward. At the Bradleys’s ball, Luke stood up with her not once, but twice. However, it was not dancing with Luke that dominated her just-before-sleep thoughts later. No. Her mind dwelled on Lord Rolsbury.

  Standing on the sidelines, talking with Harriet and Marcus, Annabelle found herself searching the ballroom. She spotted Rolsbury in a group that included at least two hopeful misses and their ambitious mamas and was startled to realize she had been looking for him. He glanced her way and caught her gaze. Their eye contact sent an increasingly familiar tremor coursing through her body. Soon, he seemed to excuse himself and approached Annabelle and the Wyndhams.

  In elegant evening attire, the Earl of Rolsbury was quite the most attractive man in the room, she thought. His ever-present walking stick merely added a touch of vulnerability to what might otherwise be seen as polished perfection. Annabelle had already overheard—and inexplicably resented—certain females gushing over his appearance and spinning tales of his bravery.

  “Good evening.” His smile included all three of them, but Annabelle surmised that it turned only her own knees to jelly. Try not to be such a peagoose, she chastised herself.

  The four of them engaged in polite small talk for a few moments. Then the musicians swung into a waltz that had maintained its popularity the last few years. Harriet gave her husband a speaking look.

  “Yes, dear.” He spoke as a beleaguered husband, but there was a hint of laughter in his voice. “Will you excuse us?” he asked politely of Annabelle and Rolsbury.

  “Do you mind, Annabelle?” Harriet asked.

  “Of course not.”

  “Did I miss something here?” Rolsbury asked when Marcus and Harriet had taken the floor.

  Annabelle laughed softly. “No. Well, perhaps. You see, Marcus and Harriet danced to that tune the night they were betrothed.”

  “I see.” An uncomfortable silence settled
on them, then Lord Rolsbury cleared his throat and said, “If you’ve no partner for this dance, would you mind sitting it out with me?”

  “Oh, I thought you’d never ask.” She gave him a nervous smile and again felt herself reacting to his very presence.

  He took her elbow and steered her to a seat nearby. “It has been so long since I attended one of these affairs, I have quite forgotten how to behave.” He grinned at her. “Do we discuss the music or the weather or the amazing success of our hostess?”

  She laughed. “So! You do have a sense of humor.”

  “You doubted such?” She could tell his offended tone was a sham. “I shall have to take Luke to task for that.”

  “No, no, no.” She waggled an admonishing finger at him. “You cannot lay blame on Luke. A man whose nickname is ‘Thorny’ may not hold others responsible for the impressions he leaves.”

  He sat back and gazed at her with amused curiosity. “And just how did you come to know of that sad misrepresentation of my character?”

  “Well—” She could not admit to having discussed him with her friends, could she? “A little bird told me?”

  “Oh, I doubt that. My errant brother shall have to answer for that, too.”

  “Luke is innocence itself in this affair,” she said and then immediately regretted her choice of words.

  “ ‘Betrayed’ innocence?” His voice still held a hint of amusement, but it was more serious.

  “I did not intend—”

  “I know. ’Tis I who cannot seem to let go of it.” He shrugged. “And eventually I shall find this writer and take her—or him—to task for that piece of work.”

  Annabelle felt a shiver run through her and she prayed silently for his failure in that endeavor. Aloud she said, “That sounds needlessly vindictive. Miss Bennet has probably gone on to other things by now.”

  “Perhaps. But she leaves unfinished business in her wake.”

  “Well, I wish you luck,” she said, wondering at the ease with which she told that lie.

  The dance ended, Harriet and Marcus returned, and Lord Rolsbury took his leave. She stared after him. “Unfinished business” indeed!

  Another trip to book shops convinced Thorne that he now possessed a complete inventory of Miss Emma Bennet’s published works. He also purchased a sampling of works by other popular writers and began mentally to plan his essay on the sort of second-rate stuff that generally appealed to women. He had composed several brilliantly skewering sentences by the time he reached home.

  However, it was late in the evening before he was able to start his research. He decided to begin with a writer other than Emma Bennet. After all, he had read one of hers recently and he hoped that he might at least appear to be objective in his appraisal of these works in general. He therefore started with another Emma—the novel Emma, now known to have been written by Jane Austen.

  He found himself caught up in the machinations of Emma Woodhouse. He laughed aloud as she tried with the best of intentions—and with disastrous results—to control the lives of those around her. Thorne was struck by the fact that he knew people exactly like the vicar’s self-important wife and Emma’s indolent father. It was very late indeed before Miss Austen allowed the Earl of Rolsbury to retire.

  The next evening he dressed carefully for a planned visit to a meeting of the London Literary League.

  “This group might help you prepare that piece you are working on,” Watson had told him. “In fact, you may want to join them permanently when you are in town. The meetings are conversazioni held in various homes.”

  Thorne snorted. “What? You see me sitting around with a gaggle of middle-aged matrons discussing the latest Gothic novel from the Minerva Press?”

  “I think you will find the League quite different from the image you have in mind.”

  “Very well,” Thorne said. “I shall look in on one of these meetings if you can secure me an invitation.”

  Watson had produced an invitation for the next such affair to be held at the home of Lady Gertrude Hermiston. It was not to be an ultra-formal affair, but Thorne had no desire to appear the country bumpkin Emma Bennet had presented to the world. He donned a pair of gray Cossack trousers, a white waistcoat, and a dark blue coat. Having adjusted his lordship’s neckcloth yet again, Hinton finally expressed his approval and sent him on his way.

  As he was relieved of his cloak and hat in Lady Hermiston’s entrance, Thorne heard voices and laughter. Well, at least he would not be the only gentleman here—and had Watson not said he would be here as well? The butler showed him to the drawing room where he discovered some twenty-five or thirty people in attendance, fully half of them of his own gender.

  Watson came forward and two women turned quickly toward the door as Thorne’s name was announced. He masked his surprise at seeing Lady Wyndham and Miss Richardson at such a gathering, though he did recall their interest in political matters at the Harts’ party.

  “Allow me to introduce you to our hostess first,” Watson said, guiding Thorne over to the very group that held Lady Wyndham and Miss Richardson.

  Lady Hermiston was a tall, gray-haired woman with an intelligent look in her hazel eyes. She was dressed rather fashionably in a soft green gown but wore none of the feathers fancied by so many women of her age group.

  “Lord Rolsbury. How nice to meet you,” Lady Hermiston said politely, but she gave him an intense look. “I believe you know my niece, Lady Wyndham, and Miss Richardson.”

  Her niece. Ah, that explained their presence at such a gathering. He greeted the other women politely.

  “A number of people are eager to meet you, my lord,” Lady Hermiston said. “One in particular—Mr. Watson, you know de Quincey.”

  “Thomas de Quincey?” Thorne asked in pleased surprise. She nodded and Thorne said, “I had hoped to meet him in London. I have enjoyed his essays tremendously.”

  “If you like essays, perhaps you know Mr. Charles Lamb’s work?” Lady Wyndham asked.

  “Yes, I do. Do not say he is here, too?”

  “Over there.” She nodded in the direction of a group standing some distance away. “He and his sister have been cornered by Lady Mansfield and her daughter. Annabelle, we must go and rescue the Lambs in a moment.”

  Miss Richardson smiled and nodded, but did not say anything. He thought it unusual for her to be quite so reticent in conversation.

  Lady Hermiston continued to identify certain of her guests. “Mr. Southey, our poet laureate, is here. In a short while, Mr. Stephenson will be discussing his ideas for a new transportation system—on rails, mind you.”

  “I have heard of his experiments—with some sort of steam-powered locomotion, I think?” Thorne said, deeply impressed with not only the level of intellect in the company Lady Hermiston had gathered, but also the eclectic nature of their interests. Where did Miss Richardson fit in, though?

  “It will never work,” Watson said.

  “I beg your pardon?” Thorne was annoyed at his own inattention.

  “That rail thing. It will never work.”

  “I think it does work even now—in mines, for instance,” Thorne said.

  “Oh, yes, but only on a small scale and using horses or donkeys as the source of power,” Watson argued.

  The two men excused themselves to make Rolsbury acquainted with more of the company. Lady Hermiston went to attend to some hostess duty. Moments later, Thorne saw Lady Wyndham and Miss Richardson in conversation with the Lambs.

  He found himself torn between wanting to linger at this group or that and the desire to meet as many of these people as possible. It occurred to him again that Luke had the right of it—he needed to get out more. He had not realized how starved he was for just such stimulating discourse.

  Annabelle had been shocked to see Lord Rolsbury turn up at Aunt Gertrude’s gathering—she had not thought of her hostess as “Lady Hermiston” in years. Actually Lord Wyndham’s aunt by marriage, the lady saw herself—and was readily acce
pted—as very much a member of the family of Marcus Jeffries, Earl of Wyndham. Aunt Gertrude also knew of Annabelle’s relationship to Miss Emma Bennet, for Lady Hermiston had been present at Miss Bennet’s “birth.”

  As might be expected, there were mixed reactions to Mr. Stephenson’s remarks.

  “It will never work,” Mr. Watson repeated.

  “A whole network of rails throughout England?”

  “Preposterous! ”

  “What a marvelous idea.”

  “Who will pay for it?”

  Annabelle had been only mildly interested in the concept of rail transportation, but she listened with increasing interest as Mr. Stephenson outlined the advantages of such. Faster, less expensive, and more—these words dotted the engineer’s speech. When it was over and the questions had died out, the company drifted back into small groups to discuss the prospect of rail transport and then to push on to their own favorite topics. Annabelle found herself unexpectedly standing next to Lord Rolsbury at the refreshment table.

  She hesitated only a moment when she saw him obviously considering the struggle of trying to cope with a plate and a glass—and his walking stick. “May I offer you my assistance, sir?”

  He gave her a look of mild chagrin. “I seem in need of it.”

  She took charge. “You take the glass; I can handle both plates and my glass.” She looked around. “Ah. There is a free spot at that small table over there. I shall join you as soon as I manage to snatch one of those apricot tarts before they are gone.”

  He did as she said and stood waiting for her to join him. As he leaned near her to push her chair in, she caught a faint scent of the woodsy-pine aroma of what must have been his shaving soap. He even smells like the outdoors, she thought.

  “Here. I brought you one, too.” She placed a tart on his plate.

  “Thank you.” He gave her a teasing grin. “Partial to apricot tarts, are you?”

  “Oh, yes! They are above all my favorites.”

  “I shall keep that in mind.”