The Last Waltz Page 9

  “How absurd, my lord,” she said.

  It was harmless stuff, Christina thought. Surely it was all harmless. And then she looked up to find the viscount turning around, his quizzing glass all the way to his eye now, and looking directly at her.

  “Ah,” he said, “I have just realized that I am parched. And that I must be in the presence of the countess, for whose absence on the terrace earlier Wanstead apologized most profusely.”

  Christina inclined her head and lifted the teapot to pour him a cup. “I am,” she said.

  He made her a formal and elegant bow. “Harry Vane, Viscount Luttrell, very much at your service, my lady,” he said.

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord,” she said. Yes, definitely, he too had been one of Gerard’s friends.

  Mr. Frederick Cannadine, younger brother of the married John Cannadine, also introduced himself and accepted a cup of tea while Mr. Milchip continued to converse with Margaret.

  Perhaps not quite so harmless after all, Christina was thinking. For a few moments Viscount Luttrell had surveyed her through his quizzing glass. In those few moments she had felt as if all her clothes were being expertly stripped away from her body. And in his lazy eyes after he had lowered his glass and made his bow and presented himself she read a deep, knowing appreciation.

  She felt a thrill of very feminine gratification. And then she despised her own pleasure.

  Chapter 7

  AN hour or more passed before the guests began to drift off back to their rooms to rest before getting ready for dinner, or to supervise the unpacking of their luggage, or to write a letter or two. It was dizzyingly pleasant, the earl found, despite his earlier misgivings, to see Thornwood filled with cheerful, chattering people, to know that they would all be there over Christmas. A house party had been an inspired idea by whoever it was who had first thought of it.

  He had amused himself while mingling with his guests and making sure that they were all well supplied with tea and dainties in trying to imagine one of the young ladies present as his countess, as his hostess for any future entertainment of this sort. There were only two real possibilities, of course, since he had already ruled out Margaret. He would definitely feel more comfortable with Jeannette as his wife, he thought as he watched her conversing and laughing with people she had not met until today. And yet perhaps Lizzie Gaynor would fit more naturally into the role of countess—if he were to stay in England. If he went back to Canada, of course ...

  If?

  He tried not to let his imaginings distract him. He certainly was not going to make anyone an impulsive offer. He was going to take his time deciding—whom to ask, and whether to ask anyone at all. One thing was clear: he was going to have to be careful. Educated guesses must have been made about the motives of a bachelor earl in hosting a Christmas house party at which several of the guests were unattached young ladies.

  “We were most obliged for the invitation, my lord,” Lady Gaynor said to him. “We would have spent Christmas with my late husband’s family as usual, of course, but Lizzie wished to come here instead, because some of her particular friends were to be here, you know, and it is important to young people to be with others their own age.”

  “I am honored that you came, ma’am,” he told her.

  “Thornwood is perfectly splendid, my lord,” Lizzie said, touching her fingertips to his sleeve for a moment and gazing into his eyes. “I do so look forward to seeing all over the house. Do tell me that you will conduct a tour.”

  “Tomorrow morning if that will suit you,” he replied.

  “I shall think of nothing else from the moment I awake,” she assured him.

  He felt almost as if a clandestine assignation had been made.

  And all the time, while he imagined the possible future, he was aware of the woman who was at present the countess and his hostess. She had done superlatively well at making his guests feel welcome and at home. She had shown unexpected warmth and charm, especially to poor Laura Cannadine, who had arrived flustered and embarrassed by her screeching infant. And of course she looked unusually beautiful.

  He almost resented the fact that her beauty and warmth and charm had been assumed for the sake of his guests as they were frequently donned in private for her daughters. She was becoming something of an enigma to him. But he did not wish to unravel the mystery. He kept his mind and his eyes off her during tea—or tried to, at least.

  Finally everyone had wandered off, most people to their rooms, Lady Langan and Mrs. Cannadine to the nursery with the countess. Only Viscount Luttrell remained.

  “Come into the billiard room,” the earl suggested, “and have a drink. I need a few minutes in which to relax.”

  “Grand!” the viscount said, looking about appreciatively when they got there. “A masculine domain. Every man needs one, especially if he has females living with him.”

  “The table was gathering moths and dust in the attic,” the earl told him as he crossed the room to the sideboard, where he poured them both a drink. “It was hauled up there some time during my predecessor’s time. Playing billiards was a sinful pastime apparently.” He grinned as he handed the viscount a glass.

  “Sinful!” Viscount Luttrell whistled. “Are you serious, Gerard? Your cousin? I always thought he was a peculiar fish, I must confess, even though I never knew him well. I never even saw him after his marriage. A killjoy, was he?”

  “One might say so,” his lordship said.

  “Poor Lady Wanstead.” Viscount Luttrell chuckled. “One hopes for her sake that there were certain pastimes considered less likely to, er, plunge them both into hell.”

  The earl preferred not to pursue that topic. He ran one palm over the velvet of the tabletop. “The servants made a good job of cleaning it,” he said. While still looking faded with age, it did not look either spotty or dusty. Neither did it smell musty.

  “Well,” the viscount said, fingering the cues and then taking one down from the wall and feeling its balance in his hand, “have you made your choice yet, Gerard?”

  His lordship winced. “Devil take it, Harry,” he said, “have I walked into a trap of my own making? Am I obliged to choose a wife during the coming week? Is it expected?”

  The viscount laughed. “You have been away too long,” he said, “or you have been titled for too short a time. Men like you and me are always being expected to choose a wife. One attends a ball and dances with a chit and smiles at her and her papa is drawing up the marriage papers and her mama the list of wedding guests. One has to learn how to depress expectations.”

  “How?” The earl chuckled with him.

  “By never being too particular in one’s attention to any one particular lady,” his friend advised him, “even if— heaven forbid—one really is considering paying one’s addresses to her. By cultivating one’s reputation as something of a rake. In your case you might take care to preface a number of remarks with phrases like—‘When I return to Canada...’”

  They were standing at the long windows, sipping their drinks and looking out over sloping lawns to the forest beyond. The lake was hidden from view.

  “That would probably be fair warning,” the earl agreed. “I never did intend to stay in England, you know. I am still planning to return to Montreal in the spring. And yet—”

  “And yet old England exerts a pull on the heartstrings, especially when a little piece of it is one’s own,” the viscount said. “I feel it whenever I go home—which is as infrequently as I can make it because my mother and the girls are always after me to marry and settle down and my father is always reminding me of his mortality and of my future responsibilities. Fortunately he is hale and hearty and not even sixty yet. But sometimes, when I am there and realize that one day it will all be mine, I—well, I am dashed nearly tempted to rush off and get myself a leg shackle and an heir so that I can be sure it will always be in the family. The urge soon passes, let me add.”

  They both laughed.

&n
bsp; “But you are right,” the earl admitted. “Knowing while I was still in Montreal that I was Earl of Wanstead and owner of Thornwood Hall was one thing. Actually being here and having to live the part is another thing altogether. Sometimes I think I should not have come at all. I was perfectly contented as I was. I had made a life for myself.”

  “What about Miss Campbell for a bride, then?” the viscount asked. “Too low on the social scale, Ger?”

  “Hardly.” He felt a twinge of anger on Jeannette’s behalf, but he did not let it show. Birth was of more importance than almost any attribute of character or fortune with the ton, and Luttrell was very definitely one of its members. “She is a gentleman’s daughter, Harry—and a gentlewoman’s. Which is more than can be said of me, after all. Perhaps I would be too low on the social scale for her.”

  “She is deuced pretty, I grant you,” his friend said.

  “I am exceedingly fond of her,” he said.

  “Which is not a particularly ardent thing to say,” Viscount Luttrell pointed out. “Shall I replenish our glasses?”

  “Help yourself,” the earl told him, but he held on to his own almost-empty glass. “I am not looking for ardor, Harry, or romantic love or anything like that. I outgrew that nonsense long ago. And I am not sure I am looking for anything or anyone even without ardor.”

  “You have been taking life altogether too seriously, Ger,” his friend told him, downing his fresh drink in two swallows. “What you need is a mistress. Or at the very least a flirt. But you don’t want to flirt too particularly with the likes of Lizzie Gaynor or you will find yourself with a leg shackle before the new year is even slightly tarnished. Widows are often the best bet. They enjoy their freedom and independence and frequently do not want to give up either one to another husband, yet unlike their maiden sisters they know what they are missing in the way of bed sports.”

  “I’ll put an advertisement in the Morning Post, then,” the earl said with a grin. “I had better go up and get changed. It would not do to be late down for dinner in my own home when I have guests, would it? Her ladyship would not stop glowering for a week.”

  “The countess?” Viscount Luttrell raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Is she capable of glowering? She is a devilish attractive woman. More so now than when she was younger, though you were quite taken with her then, if I remember rightly. I daresay we all were. It is a damned shame that Wanstead—your cousin, that is—was a killjoy, Gerard. Dampened her spirits, no doubt.”

  “That, I suppose,” the earl said, unaccountably irritated by the turn the conversation was taking, “was their business.” He set down his glass and moved in the direction of the door.

  “It makes one feel one would be rendering an invaluable service to lighten those spirits again, does it not?” Viscount Luttrell said. “She is remarkably easy on the eyes—no doubt on the body too, though perhaps easy would not be quite the word. The lady is eminently bedable. Those long legs—ah, the mind boggles. Oh, sorry, old chap, do you object to such plain speaking about your cousin’s widow?”

  He did. For a moment he saw red. He had to repress an impulse to whirl about and plant his friend a facer.

  “She does live under my roof,” he said rather stiffly. “She is under my protection here since Gilbert made no separate provision for her. Have a care.”

  The viscount chuckled. “I always have a care for my women, Ger,” he said. “I don’t raise expectations and I don’t break hearts. I do give pleasure where I take it. And I do make sure that partings are amicable. You will not have a distraught widow on your hands when Christmas is over, old chap. Gentleman’s honor.”

  The urge to answer with both fists was still almost irresistible—almost, but not quite. She was adult and she was free. She was nothing to him except a constant annoyance. If she chose to dally with Harry over Christmas, then that was up to her. Though the very thought of them together, Harry and Christina ...

  “I will not have any scandal in the house with respectable guests present,” he said curtly.

  But Viscount Luttrell merely raised his eyebrows and his quizzing glass at the same moment. “Scandal, Wanstead?” he said. “I? When Christmas is over, old chap, even you will not know for sure whether I have bedded the widow or not.” He lowered his glass and smiled dazzlingly. “Though you may wager upon it that I will have.”

  The earl opened the door with a vengeful jerk. “We are going to be late,” he said.

  “What about your young cousin?” his friend asked, preceding him through the door. “Are you considering a courtship with her, Gerard? A pretty little thing. It is the easiest and the most delightful thing in the world to make her blush and to watch her eyes sparkle.”

  “Hands off!” the earl commanded. “Lady Margaret is a mere child, Harry. Not in years so much, perhaps, but definitely in experience. She has never been from home and is almost dangerously innocent. She is not nearly up to your expertise. And she is my ward.”

  The viscount laughed. “I do not seduce infants,” he said. “And I certainly do not marry ’em, old chap. Relax!”

  If Luttrell should so much as attempt. . .

  The Earl of Wanstead climbed the stairs to his room without saying another word on the subject. If Luttrell should attempt what? Seducing Margaret? He simply would not do so. Seducing Christina, then? She was a widow of close to thirty years. If it happened, it would not be seduction. It would be her free choice.

  But it made him feel savage to imagine that she might choose to engage in a discreet affair with Luttrell. Discretion or no discretion, it would be happening beneath his roof— beneath the roof shared by her children. But that, he was honest enough to admit, was not his real objection.

  He rang impatiently for his valet, who should have been in his dressing room long before now. His happy mood at the arrival of his house guests appeared to have evaporated somewhere between here and the drawing room. The devil! he thought, snatching at his neckcloth, too impatient to await the arrival of his man. All this talk of marriage and avoiding marriage had thoroughly blue-deviled him.

  Would she fall prey to Harry’s experienced charm?

  Had he led Lizzie Gaynor and her mama into believing that an offer of marriage was imminent?

  Had Jeannette ever thought of him as anything other than a friend?

  Could he simply return to Montreal in the spring, pick up the threads of his life as it had been before the arrival of that fateful letter by last spring’s first ship, and forget about the burdens of being the Earl of Wanstead?

  Would she go as far as to allow Harry to bed her? Hardly—she was cold and Puritanical. Not a promising mix for a would-be seducer. But she had not been that way this afternoon with his guests. And she was not that way with her children. And she waltzed as if the music and the rhythm were a part of her very soul.

  “You have taken your time,” he snapped irritably as his valet entered the dressing room in answer to his ring.

  “You just rang, sir,” his valet of longstanding pointed out quite reasonably.

  Yes, and so he had. It would certainly not say much for his character if he started taking out his bad moods on servants.

  “And you brought my shaving water with you?” he said. “Good man.”

  Christina had spent longer than she ought in the nursery. Not that she need worry about her children feeling neglected for the next week, she had realized. Although there were only four other children there, their presence was likely to prove endlessly fascinating to Rachel and Tess, who had never had many playmates apart from each other. But her daughters had wanted to tell her everything there was to be told about their new friends, and then those children had wanted to tell her everything about themselves. And of course there were their mothers with whom to get acquainted.

  There was barely time to dress for dinner and have her hair redone. But perhaps the shortage of time was just as well, she thought as she hurried downstairs. She was wearing an evening gown of emerald green satin
, and Sophie had piled her hair higher than it had been during the day. She felt alarmingly exposed to view. Black clothes, she thought again, formed a marvelous mask behind which to hide.

  She was not reassured by the greeting awaiting her in the drawing room.

  “My dear Lady Wanstead,” Lady Milchip said, coming forward and taking one of Christina’s hands in her own, “I do wish you would tell me who your modiste is. Though I daresay it is a secret. All the most elegant ladies of my acquaintance have secret modistes.” She sighed and then laughed. “You certainly know what to wear to complement your dark coloring.”

  “My modiste, ma’am,” Christina assured her, “is the village dressmaker. I will pass on your compliment to her.”

  Viscount Luttrell, she noticed without looking directly at him, was surveying her through his quizzing glass again. She remembered suddenly that long-forgotten mingling of excitement and embarrassment at being the object of a gentleman’s notice. He was, she suspected, the type of gentleman Gilbert had always most despised. A rake, no less.

  Well, she thought, there was surely no harm in feeling feminine again.

  The earl, she saw when she glanced across the room, was dressed with extreme elegance in black and white. He was smiling at something Miss Lizzie Gaynor was saying to him. The girl’s hand was resting on his sleeve and she was looking up at him with a somewhat proprietary air.

  Christina remembered again what had struck her earlier in the afternoon when she had watched him lift Miss Campbell down from her carriage and then kiss her on both cheeks. It was something she should have thought of a week or more ago, she supposed, but she had been too wrapped up with painful memory, uncomfortable reality.

  He was an earl, a propertied gentleman, a man with two vast fortunes, if it was true that fur-trading was as profitable as she had heard it was. He was one-and-thirty years old, a single man. He had succeeded to his property and title a little over a year ago. He had arrived back in England only a few months ago. What could be more natural than the fact that he was in search of a wife? And what more leisurely way to do it than to invite a number of eligible young ladies to his own home so that he could become acquainted with them in the environment a wife would occupy with him?