A Waltz in the Park Read online

  “Just a few words. I won’t go into it now, it’s quite a long story.”

  She glanced at him with a curious look of yearning. “And one that contains pain, pathos and a bit of adventure, I’d wager, too.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “All the best stories do. All you need now is a happy ending.” Her distracted gaze wandered south again. “What color would you call that waistcoat?”

  Surprised, he glanced down. “I don’t know.” He lifted a shoulder. “The color of eggplant?”

  “Eggplant . . . Yes, that is a good word.” She shaped it with her mouth. Or perhaps, plum?” Shaking her head, she looked up and continued. “Perhaps you and my cousin can exchange stories then, when you see her at the ball.”

  “When?” he asked with irony. “After that reception, I’d say the more likely choice of words would be if I see her at the ball.”

  She bit her lip. “You might be correct, at that.” She raised a delicate brow at him. “But something tells me that would not be the end of it. I feel sure that you are more stubborn than Cousin Rosamond.”

  She looked ahead again and took a step away.

  “Yes, hurry on.” He waved a hand. “You are right. I am stubborn. Don’t worry,” he added ironically. “We will meet and talk again.”

  She stopped and looked over her shoulder at him. “Don’t you see? I very likely should worry about that. But I don’t.”

  With that cryptic statement, she turned and hurried away. Vickers watched until he saw her rejoin the trailing end of Lady Rosamond’s party—without the countess ever knowing she’d been gone.

  Thoughtful, he turned away—only to break out a real smile at the sight of Hestia Wright drawing close in her small, open carriage.

  “Hestia! You’re back!”

  “Indeed.” She returned his smile, but there was something . . . reserved . . . worried, perhaps . . . there too. “Would you care for a ride home?”

  “I would, thank you.” He climbed up and settled in the opposite seat. “And your expertise, too. Tell me everything you know about the Countess of Mitford.” He settled in, throwing an arm across the back of the seat and making himself comfortable. “And her cousin.”

  ***

  Her first slip.

  Addy listened to Rosamond fuss and fume and thanked Providence that Great-Aunt Delia had not accompanied them to the park. She’d done her best to follow the older woman’s advice. She’d spent these last weeks acting as refined as any properly well bred girl of the ton. She’d been everything quiet, prim and proper.

  Until today.

  A few minutes in Mr. Vickers’ company and she’d reverted back to her old ways. Oh, she’d managed to hide all the excited flutterings he stirred up, and to quell the dozens of questions she was dying to ask. Where had he been these last weeks? Why did he look so solemn? How had he come by that tiny scar above the arch of his brow? She’d managed to swallow them all—but she’d acted too forthright, too outspoken, nonetheless.

  “I vow, what is the good of being a widow if I still must act as if I were restrained by a leg shackle,” Rosamond fretted. The group of her friends had dispersed and the two of them were now strolling home to Cavendish Square. “I know I promised strict propriety, but it’s growing tiresome.”

  Addy’s mouth quirked. “It hasn’t done you any harm. The ton has applauded the mending of your ways for the sake of your family—and you still generate interest from men like Vickers.”

  “True.” Rosamond preened, just a bit. Then she glared. “And yet it hasn’t done you much good at all.”

  Also true. Parts of Society just couldn’t get past the scandal of her parents’ marriage—to them she’d always be tainted. The rest seemed willing to forgive and forget—especially after someone came up with that nickname. Then suddenly everyone wanted an introduction. The men clamored for dances, the ladies wished to be seen with her. But it was all so stilted and superficial. Everyone, be they friend or foe, seemed universally unwilling to look past her reputation to see the girl inside.

  “It’s not like I haven’t tried,” she protested. “Perhaps we’ve overdone it with the strictly proper behavior. They’ve dubbed me with that ridiculous name, and everyone who deigns to look past my family’s past treats me as if I’m made of ice. Like that nice Mr. Nowell. He comes around and seems happy to spend a little time in my orbit, but . . . nothing goes beyond the pleasantries. Neither he—nor any of them—will ever take a peek beyond my outer surface.”

  Rosamond groaned. “Not you, too, with the astronomical talk. I realize Lord Worthe’s lectures are popular, but his enthusiasm is slowly turning us all into scientists.”

  “He does make it all sound more interesting than I might have imagined.”

  “Never mind that. What am I to do at his engagement ball, when Vickers comes looking for his dance?”

  “Dance with him?” Addy suggested.

  Heaven knew she’d like to. And not just because he was beautiful and quick with a quip and made her feel quite out of her depth and a little reckless with it. There had been that moment when he’d accused her of inspiring murderous impulses—it sounded just like something her father would say and made her feel as if he, at least, had sneaked a peek and seen a bit of her true self.

  “And risk my mother hearing of it? Vickers is still a rogue and a rake—and enough of an excuse for her to cut off our funds like that!” She snapped her fingers. Her tone turned aggrieved. “If you’d just hurry up and catch a husband!”

  “I am trying.”

  But though enough of society wanted to know her, it seemed no one wished to marry her. The only gentleman to come up to scratch with an actual proposal had been Lord Nolan—and everyone in the ton knew that he was only looking for mother for his unruly brood. It was a measure of her desperate state that she’d actually considered him—until she’d mentioned adding her infant sister to his litter of six and he’d flatly refused.

  Then, so had she.

  “Try harder,” Rosamond insisted. “As long as you have no prospects, I must behave like a spinster too. It’s hardly fair, especially with a man like Vickers hanging about. I can only put him off for so long.”

  Addy nodded, but in her heart she acknowledged that her experience of the Season had nearly put her off the idea of marriage. Was this all there was? Dispassionate maneuverings for the highest title? Unacknowledged competition for the largest dowry? Social niceties but no real interaction? It was all so discouraging and disheartening. No wonder her mother had dug her heels in and created a scandal until she won permission to marry the man she loved.

  Addy didn’t even have that option. No man she’d met had even come close to inspiring that sort of palpable reaction.

  She brushed away a quick vision of Vickers. No use pinning any hopes there. In fact, more and more she’d been harboring rebellious thoughts about arranging a life on her own. She held back a sigh. The finances wouldn’t be a problem. She could move back home, or even into the village house in the Cotswolds that had been part of her mother’s marriage parcel. Her allowance would cover her and little Muriel very well. She could raise her sister as she’d been raised, with the real education and the wider outlook that her mother had wished her daughters to possess. She could have a garden, and her books, a few friends. Perhaps they could occasionally travel in to Town to visit the museums and the theater.

  It sounded lovely and peaceful, and yet—it just wasn’t done. Girls like her were set on one path—and it led straight to the altar.

  Her family would object. Society would object. She’d be pitied . . . and possibly scorned.

  And it still felt like her best alternative.

  As difficult as finding a mate was proving to be, forging a life without one would be infinitely more so. For it to materialize into the slightest possibility, she’d have to manage the thing respectably.

  She would need help. Such a departure would require a special situation, a great deal of p
ersuasion—and if she was to have any chance at social acceptance—a veritable sparkling diamond of a pristine reputation.

  She and Rosamond heaved simultaneous sighs.

  Suddenly her cousin brightened. “Unless,” she said with excitement. “What if Vickers has reformed as well? He hasn’t been seen about much this Season. He hasn’t been frolicking with the demi-monde or frequenting his usual gaming hells or the races. Perhaps his father finally won that battle and convinced him to give over his rakish ways.”

  “Then your dance will not be nearly as much fun,” Addy remarked.

  “Oh, think larger, girl! What an interesting couple we should make. Only imagine the splash we cause in Society! How everyone would talk. We’d be on every guest list, for Seasons to come.” The idea kept Rosamond happy and occupied for several blocks. Until the intersection with Oxford Street, where she let out a horrified gasp and clutched Addy’s arm.

  “Nooo,” she moaned. “Damn it all!”

  Addy gasped. “Rosamond!”

  “Oh, why?” her cousin groaned. “Why could it not have worked out the way I’d only just imagined it? It would have been perfect. But no—the willful man! Look!”

  Addy searched until she spotted the problem. Vickers again. Her heart leaped, but he never noticed them. He was seated in a small, fast moving carriage, listening intently as an astoundingly beautiful woman spoke, half a smile on her face.

  Confident. Competent.

  Like bubbles the two words bounced their way up and out of her, popping onto the surface of her mind.

  Virile.

  Another one. She shivered, so startled and grateful she was. This was how it used to be, back when her stories lived just below the surface. When words and scenes and people jostled for space in her brain, kept her company and amused both her and her friends and family.

  Suddenly she realized just what she was seeing. Vickers. With a beautiful, blonde woman.

  “Wait!” Addy stared. “Is that . . .”

  “Hestia Wright,” sighed Rosamond bitterly. “And if he’s still hanging about her skirts then he’s not changing his ways, after all.”

  Hestia Wright.

  “Do you not understand, Adelaide?” Rosamond had grown petulant again. “This means that I cannot keep company with him, after all.”

  “But his reformation was just an idea you struck upon,” Addy reminded her absently. “Your own invention.”

  “Well, he should strike upon it!” her cousin exclaimed. “Truly, it would be the best of all worlds. I could keep the notice and acclaim I’ve had this Season, and still have a man like that at my side?” She sighed and continued, but Addy didn’t hear any more complaints.

  Hanging about her skirts. Hestia Wright’s skirts.

  Abruptly all the cosmos around Addy adjusted. Puzzle pieces clicked into place, almost audibly. Answers to questions slid home like the parts of a well-oiled lock. Perhaps, just perhaps, all of her hopes might come true. The dark, difficult horizon suddenly looked brighter, colored with a multitude of possibilities.

  Suddenly, Addy couldn’t wait for Lord Worthe’s engagement ball.

  Chapter Three

  Addy dressed carefully for the event, choosing her wardrobe as carefully as a knight donning armor. Her violet gown might not stop a lance, but its fitted bodice displayed her curves perfectly and the color darkened her eyes and lent them a more mysterious hue.

  She entertained the stray thought that what she should wear was one of those scandalously short, tight outfits she’d seen on the trick riders at Astley’s Amphitheater. Tonight’s work was certainly going to take a similar level of luck, balance and poise.

  She tapped her foot, enjoying the lovely, celebratory air of the evening. Lord Worthe was only recently known to the ton, but Miss Jane Tillney was a favorite. Everyone’s delight for the happy couple spilled out into the event. Addy had danced nearly every set, watching the crowd all the while, but she’d seen no sign of Vickers yet.

  When she had a chance, she went to ask after Rosamond. Her cousin, making the most of the white lie she’d told in the Park, had commandeered a throne-like chair, from which she was holding court.

  “Am I well?” she whispered behind her fan in answer to Addy’s question. “Look about you! Somehow, turning Vickers away in the Park has made me more interesting to a number of other gentlemen!” Her eyebrows rose high in astonishment. “Who could have predicted it?”

  “Who, indeed?”

  “Even if Vickers hasn’t reformed, things might grow a tad more interesting. Now,” Rosamond said, raising her voice and tapping Addy with her fan. “I am growing a bit chilled. Would you fetch my shawl for me? There’s a dear girl.”

  Addy heard someone ask about the scandal of her parents’ marriage as she departed, but she didn’t mind. Most everyone knew the tale and any suitor of hers must show himself quite above it. She delivered the shawl and positioned herself a bit apart, taking the opportunity to scan the crowd before her once more.

  Which was why she startled so violently when the voice came from behind her.

  “Good evening, Miss Stockton.”

  With a gasp, Addy spun about. Vickers. He’d come from a shadowed corner near a servant’s doorway. Bright candlelight spilled over him as he stepped into the open, illuminating that marvelous bone structure and picking out the light flecks in his dark eyes.

  “Good heavens.” He could have been a bold, elegant sculpture, come to life.

  He stared and she knew a moment’s triumph when he seemed unable to look away from the embroidery trailing the neckline of her gown.

  “I’m sorry,” he managed after a moment. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  She nodded, not quite able to return to normal, herself.

  “I meant, rather,” he continued, “to ask if you would honor me with this dance.”

  Now she stared—in horrified dismay. “What? Good heavens!” she repeated. “No! Absolutely not!”

  He blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “No! Are you mad? You cannot dance with me.” Frowning, she cast a quick, furtive glance toward Rosamond. “That is—do you still wish to have that discussion with Lady Mitford?”

  His brow furrowed. “Yes. It’s why I’m here.”

  “Then you must not dance with me—or anyone else.” She pointed her chin in her cousin’s direction. “At least, not until you have procured her hand for a dance. If you hope for any chance with her, you must listen. Go now, before she sees you here.”

  She started to reach a hand out toward him, but stopped herself in time. “If she rejects you, Mr. Vickers—”

  He reared back, then glanced over at the countess, surrounded by her entourage. “She won’t reject me.”

  “If she does,” Addy insisted. “Then you must only seem indifferent.”

  “She won’t,” he repeated.

  She only nodded. “Off you go. Be charming. Request the supper dance—or offer to take her for a slow stroll upon the terrace. Anything else and she’ll turn you away.”

  She bit her lip. “Go on,” she urged.

  Still scowling, he took a step backward.

  “Go,” she waved him away. “Before she sees you.”

  With a nod, he turned away.

  Addy settled in to watch. There. The scene had been set, and hopefully she’d established her role. Rosamond’s actions were easy to predict. All she could do was wait and see if Vickers played according to the script.

  “Dear me. Yes, I did promise you a set, didn’t I?” Lady Mitford sounded almost bored. “I’m afraid I only have the supper dance left.”

  Vickers bowed. “I’d be honored to have the supper dance.”

  “But you see . . . my injury is paining me so . . . I meant to leave before the supper dance begins.”

  Vickers clenched his jaw. He had no need of the Stockton chit’s advice. His natural inclination was to freeze out the Countess—who was obviously engaging him in a game he had yet to identify. “How di
sappointing,” he drawled. Straightening, he gave her a nod. “Perhaps another time.”

  “Mr. Vickers,” she said quickly.

  “Yes?” It was a cold question asked over his shoulder as he’d already turned to go.

  “Perhaps you might assist me to my carriage? When the time comes?”

  He hesitated, tempted to punish her for the odd bit of cat and mouse she’d embarked them on. But he wanted to speak to her about his father quite badly. He stifled a curse and gave her a smile instead. “Of course. Until then.”

  He strode away fighting irritation—and trying to stifle a sense of intrigue. Turned down by two women in a matter of minutes. A first, even for the wicked, debauched Vickers. But while he felt sure he could beat Lady Mitford in whatever game she was playing . . . it was her niece who sparked his interest.

  What was she up to? Searching, he found her on the dance floor—where she quickly looked away after meeting his gaze. So. She was watching him. And clearly she was also—quite artfully—trying to manipulate him in some way. He found the notion appalling—and yet somehow adorable as well. Few men of his acquaintance possessed the stones and fortitude to take him on—and this pretty little girl not only made the attempt, she began to show some skill.

  Adeptly she maneuvered herself throughout the evening, keeping him in her sights, watching him without seeming to do so. Really, he was almost charmed. As the evening wore on, he tired of the game and decided to take pity on her. He waited until the refreshment table was depleted and forgotten, then wandered over there—alone and in plain view.

  It didn’t take long until her seemingly random course through the room led her near.

  Good girl.

  He watched her come. On the whole, he was enjoying himself. Only one thing grated on his nerves. That look of dismay she’d displayed when he asked her to dance—that had been real. It bothered him. And as he’d spent years molding himself into a man who lived on cunning, controversy and confrontation, he acted in character. When he found a sore spot, he poked it.

  Even when it was his own.

  “So glad you found your way over here, Miss Stockton,” he called. “There is still a bit of buttered crab here. Can I interest you in a bite?”