Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

T he next morning, Oakley called on Lady Emma and her mother, Lady Lovejoy, at their house in Bruton Street. Both ladies greeted him kindly, but it was immediately apparent that Lady Lovejoy was an excessively deferential woman, the sort who nearly courted him herself to get a marriage proposal for her daughter. First she fretted over the comfort and position of the chair he had selected, wondering whether he would prefer this one or that. Then she worried the room was too warm, then wondered if it was too cold. Then she offered tea, coffee, a cake, some fruit. He considered asking for a fat haunch of venison just to see whether she could produce one, but immediately heard Scarlett’s voice in his head telling him not to be churlish.

When her offers had been all refused, Lady Lovejoy exclaimed, with a knowing look towards her daughter, “Oh, but you both must excuse me. I have neglected my correspondence dreadfully.”

Then, no doubt believing she had lowered her voice sufficiently, she murmured to her daughter, “Pray do not run on with your wild stories, child!” So saying, she moved to a small escritoire at the other end of the room.

Lady Emma watched her go with an expression of exasperation on her countenance. “My mother is far too apt to think a marriage proposal ought to come from every call.”

Then her eyes flew wide. “And forgive me for speaking of marriage proposals! We scarcely know one another!” She laughed. “Believe me, no one in this house has any expectations of you from one call!”

Oakley laughed uncomfortably but could think of nothing to say in reply. Agreeing that they ought not to have expectations of him sounded too harsh, but saying they should was untrue. There was no good response.

“Emma?” her mother called from across the room. “Why not show the viscount your sketches? Lord Oakley, my Emma is simply unmatched with her crayons.”

“Mama, that is simply not true,” Lady Emma said, flushing a little. It was the first time he had seen her look embarrassed. In many ways, in fact, she seemed like a different lady when in the presence of her mother, less inclined to gossip, more demure.

“But you are!” Lady Lovejoy protested. “Very talented, your drawing master said so!”

“Which I am sure has nothing at all to do with how much you pay him,” Lady Emma muttered just loud enough for Oakley to hear. He smiled as she rose and went to where a slim portfolio rested on a side table, likely for just such situations. Returning to the sofa, she handed him the volume. He opened it and began to peruse.

Her drawings, in truth, were nothing out of the common way, and to Lady Emma’s credit—he supposed—she appeared as inclined to abuse herself as she was to gossip about others. Oakley found himself laughing quite heartily at her expressions.

He was acutely aware of her mother’s listening ear throughout and did not doubt she was as well. She offered no gossip, only the usual sort of tepid drawing room conversation. He had hoped that she would introduce the subject of Damian and his less honourable activities, but it was too awkward, and his father had instructed him to be nonchalant about it, not to ask directly. Alas, nonchalance had no return, and the time of the call drew to its proper end with him being none the wiser as to what more Lady Emma might know.

Leaving the Lovejoy town house, Oakley paused on the street to consider the remainder of his morning. It had been his intention to look in at his club, and customarily that would have involved getting in his carriage, going down Bond Street, crossing Piccadilly, and arriving in St James’s Street.

But a very slight diversion, a mere alteration in direction that would involve no increase in the distance whatsoever, would be to stop at Dover Street. Wherein he hoped he might find Bess.

He was still unclear on where exactly Bess stayed. She had seemed settled in the place her mother and father had let, but it was strange, to be sure. What married woman elected to stay with her mother and father rather than keep her own house? With Bess, it seemed there were forever more questions than answers.

They are questions you have no right or reason to ask! No matter how often he reminded himself of that, he could not seem to care.

His carriage driver had been standing holding the door to the carriage open for him, and in a rush, Oakley decided to heed impulse rather than reason. “I think I shall walk, Hobcaw.”

For a brief moment, Hobcaw forgot himself, allowing his amazement to show on his countenance. Oakley did not blame him; he never walked anywhere if he could help it, and the driver knew it.

“’Tis a fine day,” he added by way of a weak excuse. “And it cannot be a mile, can it?”

“Half that,” Hobcaw replied, closing the carriage door. With a slight bow, he added, “I shall take the carriage down to White’s, then.”

“Excellent.” Oakley watched his conveyance drive off and then began walking slowly towards Berkeley Street.

It was entirely likely Bess would not be there, but it did not signify. He was acquainted well enough with Leighton and his parents to warrant calling on them, was he not? And perhaps they, if not Bess herself, would provide some sort of reason for their son-in-law’s absence. Surely they could not like their newly married daughter being left alone so often?

It was surprising how agreeable the walk was, and how quickly he made the trip. Before he knew it, he was handing his card to Mrs Norris at the door. She frowned at his card for a moment, then said, “The family are all from home save for Miss Bess.”

Miss Bess again? “Perhaps she will receive me?” Oakley asked hopefully.

Mrs Norris agreed to ask and disappeared down the hall. A few minutes later, she returned and motioned for Oakley to follow her. She led him to a small but sunny parlour at the back of the house, in the middle of which stood Bess, smiling at him, almost seeming to anticipate his arrival. His heart stopped for a moment. What might it have been to arrive home to such splendour every day?

“I-I hope I do not come at a bad time?” he asked, not knowing what else to say as he recovered his composure.

“Of course not. Will you sit?” She gestured towards a group of chairs and they both sat. A book lay open by her chair, titled Persuasion . He had never heard of it.

“The weather is uncommonly fine today, is it not?”

“Charming,” Oakley agreed. “What is that you are reading?”

She cast a sidelong look at it. “A very sad story, in truth, about a woman who misses her chance with her true love.”

Oakley frowned. “See, that is why I never have much use for books. Why read about the suffering of others? Surely there is enough of that in reality without going looking for it in a book.”

She laughed. “One must presume it will work out in the end. That is what is so wonderful about a novel—one may depend upon a happy ending. Not so for real life.”

It was cynical, and he had never thought her a pessimist before. She had been, before, overflowing with cheer, talkative, ready to giggle, warm-hearted. Now she was quieter; she seemed to withdraw into herself often, and her laughter sometimes seemed either rueful or forced.

Beamish is making her unhappy.

“I hear we are to have rain later this week,” she announced.

“Pray do not treat me as a stranger,” he said quickly.

“Am I?”

“When we speak of the weather, yes. It is not the conversation we should be having.”

“Then what would you like to speak of?”

“I was concerned for you the evening of Lady Carbrooke’s dinner,” Oakley said carefully.

“Were you? You need not have been.”

“You left the party without so much as a by-your-leave to anyone,” he said, his voice rising. “Forgive me, but why on earth would you run off into the night like that?”

“I-I needed to go. Suddenly, yes, but nevertheless?—”

“The footpads are everywhere these days, and even a decent man would likely mistake you for a…a—” Oakley glanced around the room before hissing, “—ladybird!”

Bess laughed, this time more genuinely. “A ladybird? Oh, Oakley.”

“’Tis true!”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. After a short pause, she said, “Do not worry for me, I implore you.”

The frustration of love unrequited that he felt whenever he was with her had begun to make itself known. A dull flush rose through him, making him hot and itchy and unwise. “Yes, that is what everyone tells me. Do not concern yourself with Bess, she is a married woman now. She is Beamish’s concern. And yet, every time I see you, Beamish is nowhere to be found. Where is he today, Bess? Bath? His estate? The Outer Hebrides?”

Bess had a teasing smile on her face. “The last one. He is very fond of cold weather, you know.”

“Excellent, perhaps he should stay there, then,” Oakley muttered.

Bess’s smile slipped. “It is my husband you speak of.”

“A poor excuse of a husband if you ask me!”

He had vexed her. She rose with a little huff and walked towards the fireplace, putting her back to him. “Happily I did not ask you, nor shall I. I cannot comprehend why you are constantly inserting yourself into my life when you ought to be minding your own!”

The pain such words inflicted made him breathless. “And you cannot comprehend how it feels to see someone treating you so carelessly when in fact you would have been my dearest treasure.”

He went to join her at the mantel. She turned to face him and when she spoke, enunciated every word carefully. “I am married to Beamish.”

“And are you happy?”

“Happy or not happy, the deed is done. There is no getting away from it now.”

“But would you undo it if you could?”

“My marriage?”

He nodded.

“A silly question. One cannot simply undo these things.”

“But if you could, would you?”

She raised one pale, elegant hand to her head, smoothing back a curl from her temple. “It does not signify.”

“It does to me!” It was wholly unfortunate that he chose to accompany this statement with a flat-palmed slap of the mantelpiece. It was not that loud, but it made Bess shriek with surprise. Moments later, the footman hurried in.

“Forgive me, William,” Bess said to him. “It was nothing. I was merely startled.”

The boy, a strapping lad who must surely heave logs in his spare time, eyed Oakley mistrustfully. “I’m right outside the door, miss.”

“I know, thank you,” Bess told him, forcing a smile. With a final gimlet-eyed sneer, William left the room.

“Forgive me,” Oakley said immediately. “I did not mean to allow my anger?—”

“I think…” Bess’s hands had begun to tremble violently, and tears shimmered in her eyes. “I think it would be best if you do not call on me again.”

“What?” He stared at her, disbelieving. “Surely you would not refuse to admit me into your society?”

“I think it would be best for us both.”

He shook his head violently. “You do not mean that.”

“But I do.”

“I refuse to believe it.”

She inhaled deeply. “I cannot… There is too much… Please. Just go and do not come back. When you see me at a party, just think of me as someone you once knew and leave me be.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “And if I refuse to do that?”

Her gaze locked into his, and it grabbed his heart as it always did. Genuine despair marked her countenance, and it made him wish to slay dragons for her.

“Do you not see how much harder you are making this?”

He swallowed. “I do not mean to, you must know that.”

“If you have any kind feelings remaining for me, then pray, heed me. Leave me alone—it is what is best for me . Please Oakley…” In a softer voice, she said, “James. Please. We…we cannot be friends, we cannot be more than friends. Common and indifferent acquaintances is what we must pretend to be until it is the truth.”

The pain in his chest was so intense that he wondered absently if he might be on the verge of apoplexy. No, merely a broken heart.

“Very well.” He bowed jerkily to her, then turned on his heel and left her.