“It is my wish. The two of you have experienced such tragedy, but Livie…I worry about her. She barely speaks of the accident and with the limitations of her condition, cannot escape for a time by visiting friends or strolling in the park. She is fragile in many ways. I shudder to think of her experiences that night.” Aunt Kate’s mouth pressed tight in a rueful grimace and for several long moments the only sounds heard were the carriage wheels revolving against the roadway cobbles. With a sigh, Wilhelmina wondered if her aunt would continue the conversation, the circumstances surrounding that evening tangled tight with heavy emotions, but no, they sat in quietude.
Eventually the coach slowed and when the steps were extended, it forced the women from their pensive considerations. Wilhelmina held tightly to her aunt’s arm and entered the Collingsworth residence. The town house was long and narrow, accentuated by the lengthy hall and ornamental moldings forming synchronized rectangles along the walls in varying shades of cyan. A footman took their shawls and at his direction, they ventured further into the home to a large drawing room, its interior decorated in peacock and ochre gold. Several people had already arrived, drinks were plentiful and small clusters of friends were gathered in corners, determined to flirt, socialize, and gossip. It was the trademark of any successful gathering, yet Wilhelmina hesitated, uncomfortable amidst the crowd. Her pulse jumped with insecurity all too anxious to remind she was nothing more than a country miss disguised as a city socialite and hired to bring together two people whom she did not know.
She bit her lower lit and steeled her courage. Best to get on with the task at hand. Moments later, her aunt provided the opportunity Wilhelmina desired.
“I see an old friend who I haven’t spoken to in decades. You don’t mind, do you, Whimsy? You’ll be fine?”
Relieved to disperse the need for fabrication, Wilhelmina nodded assent, and turned toward the drawing room, straightening her spine with hollow fortitude and dispersing an anxious quake of nerves. Armed with Lady Rigby’s detailed description, Wilhelmina noted Lady Fiona conversing in a quiet corner with two young ladies, one of whom she’d met previously when her aunt’s acquaintance brought her niece to tea. The ladies stood beside an overfilled bookcase where one guest held a volume in her gloved hands, the group’s animated conversation seeming to refer to the opened pages. How brilliant. Books posed a safe topic and talk of literature would serve perfectly were Wilhelmina to eloquently assert herself into their conversation and avail an introduction to Lady Fiona. She possessed a treasure trove of knowledge having read every book in her father’s expansive library before parting with the volumes. Feeling a trifle more self-assured, Wilhelmina stepped in their direction.
Valerian tugged at the hem of his waistcoat, relieved the tailor had had an adequate sample available when he’d placed his conservative order. He held no desire to be noticed and preferred the pretense of a more determined force from the shadows. The charcoal grey wool presented a respectable image, one innocuous, forgettable, and conducive to his goal. It was pure serendipity when he arrived at the same moment as Leonard Rigby. Valerian made haste to fall in step with his old acquaintance as he walked up the gravel drive.
“Rigby, is that you? It’s been some time.” Valerian extended his hand and offered a cordial welcome.
“Dash, this is a surprise and yes, it’s been years. I recall seeing your brother about town a few weeks ago, but I never anticipated your company. You’ve kept a low profile, although at times I too favor the countryside instead of the city.”
An odd moment passed as each gentleman knew the main reason Valerian avoided London. Memories of Caroline were too fresh at first. Every event, invitation, and stroll in the park served as cutting suggestion of what might have been, not to mention the public humiliation of enduring the flaming gossip of one’s fiancé being caught in flagrante delicto during the season’s most well attended gathering.
Worse, it forced one to engage an introspective examination of why such humiliation was perpetrated. Surely his intentions and emotions had been honest. Yet what had they been worth? The question evoked a wry smile. Caroline had measured his value in pounds and banknotes, not to be swayed by loyalty, devotion or something so trifling as love.
It had made for an easy choice. Returning to the security of somewhere dependable and comforting proved the best decision and Kirby Park had not disappointed. His well-loved childhood home provided seclusion and quiet; the perfect atmosphere to lick his wounds and forget – attempt to forget – Caroline’s infidelity.
Unexpectedly, country life grew on Val, like moss on a tree, one needing the other for survival until the thought of returning to London with its crowded streets and constant aristocratic demands paled greatly to the rolling green hills outside his window. His decision proved timely with the decline of his father soon after his return. He would never forgive himself if he hadn’t been there to tend his father during those final days.
Surely Leonard knew it by half.
“Responsibility, nothing more.” He answered the question and ignored the sharp twist in his heart.
“My condolences on your father’s passing.” Rigby’s words were sincerely spoken.
“Thank you. He is greatly missed.” Determined to take full advantage of his opportune arrival, Valerian inquired of the event as they approached the main entry. “I’m a bit out of practice. I don’t suppose you’d abide company until we are well underway?”
Rigby, in a noticeable hurry, didn’t allow the question to deflect his purpose. He indicated the main entry with a flick of his pointer finger and showed no hesitation. “Come along then.”
A servant dressed in Collingsworth livery opened the mahogany door and ushered them inside. “Let’s dispense of this mood and forge into the drawing room. You’re not on the hunt for a wife, are you, Dash?” Rigby hardly paused to hear his answer. “This season offers ladies aplenty.”
“Nothing so valiant, I assure you.” He resisted the urge to chuckle at the irony of it all. From his point of view, he remained emotionally numb to romantic relationships and all the better for it.
“Then I’ve no need to stand guard against the lady who’s stolen my heart. I’ll immerse you in the festivities by way of introduction. It’s the least I can do after initiating such somber conversation earlier. Grab yourself a drink and follow me.”
Valerian did as he was told although his brother’s words, of Lady Fiona possessing the same characteristics as a church-bell and his rebuttal in favor of Leonard’s vociferous tendency, rang with clarity. He lifted a snifter of brandy from a passing servant’s tray and followed Leonard into the fray. The room was crowded and served him well as he melded into the background and surveyed the best manner to proceed. Matchbreaking was not something he’d ever attempted before and, coupled with Leonard’s brimming anticipation at seeing Lady Fiona, his conscious needed a firm reminder of his dire financial straits. He took a long swallow from his glass, savoring the liquor he couldn’t afford in his own home, and maneuvered through the crowd with purpose. When Rigby stopped, Valerian sidled near the small grouping in a far corner of the room.
Two women stood cooing over an open book while a third female, a petite miss in a muted lavender-colored gown, had her back to the room as she faced the far shelf. Valerian watched as the woman traced a gloved finger down the spine of a tall volume, pausing as if considering her selection with great deliberation, before moving on to repeat the action with each subsequent volume. Her lingering stroke down each title caused his heart to tighten and his groin to heat, the visceral reaction catching him off guard. Perhaps the brandy impaired his reasoning.
Otherwise, there existed no rationalization for the quickening of his pulse and the innate level on which his body responded to the stretch of her palm tipping the binding, the subtle caress of her fingertip as it traced the gold lettering, and surprising most of all, her intense deliberation, though