She recalled the slide of his gaze over her figure—for a split second she had seen desire flare, before he masked his expression. The thought sent a quiver of heat chasing across her skin.
‘Hope,’ said Mrs Mount reprovingly, ‘is not an adequate chaperon for you, nor you for her. And so the visit was a waste of time and a risk not worth taking?’
‘Not entirely. He did offer to speak to his brother, but he did not give us much hope that Lord Alexander will pay him any heed.’
‘Is the Duke coming to town? If anyone can control Lord Alexander, it will be him.’
‘Lord Avon did not say. Maybe...should I speak to Lord Alexander myself?’
‘Nooo!’ three voices chorused.
Mrs Mount shushed Liberty’s sisters with a wave of her hand before fixing Liberty with a stern look. ‘You have done what you can, my dear. I really think you must allow Gideon to come to his senses in his own time. And he will. I am sure of it. In the meantime, we should concentrate on the upcoming Season and finding you three girls suitable husbands. Once you are married off and have families of your own, you will have more important matters to occupy your thoughts.’ Her grey eyes raked Liberty. ‘Are you certain I cannot persuade you to have a new gown or two made, my dear? That one does look sadly outmoded.’
‘Mrs Mount is right, Liberty,’ said Hope. ‘Verity and I have had so much and you’ve barely spent a penny on yourself. You deserve something nice. Surely you can bring yourself to order one gown?’
Liberty recognised Hope’s peace offering—their family squabbles never lasted long, thank goodness. She recalled Lord Avon’s initial perusal of her. Despite Gideon’s assurance that he could ‘stand the blunt’, as he put it, Liberty had been unable to bring herself to squander even more money on herself. Now, however, she found herself eager to prove to His High-and-Mighty Lordship that the Lovejoys could be respectable.
‘Very well. One evening gown,’ she conceded. ‘But not to catch a husband. I have told you. I shall never marry. Bernard was my one and only love and I shall remain true to his memory.’
The words were automatically spoken. When Bernard died, she had sworn never to look at another man, never to contemplate marriage. But over the past year she had come to accept the truth. She was lonely. Even with her entire family around her, she was lonely.
That hollow, aching feeling invaded her again and she rubbed absently at her upper chest.
But she was still afraid to admit her change of heart out loud...afraid to fully acknowledge that she dreamed of finding someone to love who would love her in return...afraid that no man could ever take Bernard’s place. It was safer to keep that daydream locked inside. That way she would not have to face anyone’s pity if she failed to meet such a man. That way, she could keep her pride.
‘Still hiding behind the sainted Bernard, Sis? Isn’t it time you looked to the future instead of forever harking back to the past?’
That careless drawl shot Liberty to her feet. ‘Gideon!’ She rushed to him and grabbed his upper arms, scanning him quickly: his drawn, pale features; the dark shadows beneath his eyes; the dishevelled evening clothes. The lingering smell of alcohol and...she wrinkled her nose...cheap perfume and—there was no other word for it—bodies. Activities she did not wish to think of. She released her brother and stepped back.
‘You have been out all night.’
He quirked a brow and a faint smile lifted the corners of his mouth. ‘I have indeed.’
‘You need a bath.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘So I do. And I have sent word for water to be heated. Not that it is polite for you to mention such a matter.’
‘But—’
‘But nothing, Liberty. You are not my keeper.’ He moved past her. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Mount. Hope. Verity. I trust you are all well?’
All three returned his smile and his greeting but, before he left, Hope—after a sympathetic smile at Liberty—said, ‘We do miss you when you stay out so very much, Gideon. Will you dine with us tonight? We have no invitations.’
In truth, invitations for the Lovejoy ladies to attend evening events were still a rarity. Mrs Mount had reassured the girls that the Season had barely begun and that once Easter was over many more families would come to town and the invitations would, hopefully, start to arrive. Currently only one invitation adorned their mantelpiece—to a rout at the home of Sir Gerald and Lady Trent, Sir Gerald being a cousin of Mrs Mount.
‘Can’t. Sorry.’ Gideon turned to the door. ‘A bath and a couple of hours’ shut-eye, then I’m off to the theatre.’
‘We could go with you,’ said Liberty. ‘We could hire a box.’
His look of dismay clawed at her, leaving her feeling raw and, somehow, exposed. ‘I’m not going to the theatre with my sisters. Good God! Where’s the fun in sitting in a box when I could be down in the pit where all the fun is? Tell you what, Sis—if you’re that keen on seeing Mary the Maid of the Inn, I’ll reserve a box for you another night. Just tell me when you want to go. You’ve got Mrs M. to chaperon you and you’ll soon have beaux flocking around you if it’s male company you’re pining for.’
With that, Gideon marched out of the room, leaving the three sisters—and Mrs Mount—looking at one another in despair.
‘I still say it’s just the novelty of it all that has turned his head,’ said Mrs Mount in a faint voice as the sound reached them of him bounding up the stairs. ‘Surely he will come to his senses?’
Liberty did not reply. She returned to her chair and stared at the fire, her mind awash with ideas as plans spiralled to the surface and then sank again as her common sense scuppered them. Finally, realising she was getting nowhere, she went to consult Mrs Taylor about dinner that evening. It went against the grain but, somehow, she must control her penchant for taking action and trust that Lord Avon would be true to his word and do something to curb his own brother’s wild ways.
The next day was dry but cold after the thunderstorm and Dominic, following a sparring session with Gentleman John Jackson in his saloon on Bond Street, strolled to White’s for a glass of wine and a bite to eat. On arrival, he picked up The Times and appropriated a quiet table in the corner of the morning room, hoping the open newspaper would discourage anyone from joining him. He had important matters to attend to this Season, like selecting a wife—a well-bred young lady with the poise and the correct upbringing suitable for a marchioness, a society hostess and, one day, a duchess. His purpose in coming up to town in advance of the rest of the family was to make a decision about his bride-to-be and here was as good a place to plan his strategy as any.
After being served, he drank a little wine, took one bite of the cold beef and horseradish sandwich and then settled back into the chair, holding the paper but not actually reading. He’d written a list of names last night. Seven in all. He wasn’t interested in a bride straight out of the schoolroom—his Marchioness would already have some town polish with, preferably, at least two Seasons behind her. The highest families were in no hurry to marry off their daughters—they took their time and selected the very best husbands, usually with a view to allying with a powerful family. A huge dowry wasn’t a prerequisite for his perfect bride; he was more concerned with their breeding and background as well as their conduct. These were essential qualities for a lady who would, at some time in the future, occupy the role of Duchess of Cheriton and give birth to the Eighth Duke.
Seven names were too many...he must cut his list to three or four ladies, then he could concentrate on making his final choice, but discreetly; it would not do to raise expectations