Chapter 22

"Well, it certainly appears wet."

"You do have a way with words, Lady Saskia," said Eloise after a tick of discreet silence.

"All matters of perceived wetness aside," said Viveca. "It's quite the mechanical marvel, isn't it?"

Tessa stood back, along with Saskia, Viveca, Eloise, and Mr. Lancaster, and properly ooo-ed and aah-ed over the artificial landscape that was The Cascade, along with a few hundred other spectators.

The grand Monday-night concert at Vauxhall Gardens built to this moment when, at ten o'clock, the bell rang to announce the end of the first act. The audience then assembled behind the stage and waited for the curtain to lift. When it did, gasps and claps of delight sounded all around as the scene of a bridge, miller's house, watermill, and waterfall appeared before them. Clever lighting and the sound of roaring water gave the effect of a natural scene. It was, in fact, entirely artificial down to the actors playing soldiers crossing the bridge.

But it was the cascade itself that was the wonder as it gave the appearance of an actual waterfall by fluttery tin sheets attached to moving belts, turned by a team of men hidden behind the manufactured ruin.

Though Tessa thought she wouldn't be much impressed, she found she was—even through the light and variable feeling that kept tossing about her stomach and sent her gaze skittering over the crowd, unable to keep still for five seconds strung together.

The reason wasn't difficult to discern.

She'd invited Julian to join their party tonight.

And he hadn't yet arrived.

Further, the possibility existed he might not altogether.

I don't know how to do this.

He might've decided he didn't want to learn.

He might've run.

She'd understood she would have to give him the space to decide, which was one of the reasons she'd left Nonsuch Castle at dawn yesterday.

The other reason was that she'd needed to return to Sloane Street before the servants arrived to find the drawing room in shambles. Further, Tessa wouldn't have put it past Saskia and Viveca to pop their heads in for a little impromptu visit.

The drawing room was as she'd left it—chair on its side…table pushed at a wrong angle to the settee…tea and papers haphazardly scattered about the floor…fireplace poker lying at an odd and ominous angle before the hearth. She hadn't thought much of the papers until she began gathering them up and an image of Julian charging into the room flashed across her mind. He'd been holding papers—these papers.

A quick scan of a few pages revealed their importance. This was the report on Blaze Jagger. She perched on the edge of a chair and took it all in.

The bastard son of the Marquess of Lydon.

Well, that would stand out.

Further, along with his murky business dealings with the Ring and various other ventures, Jagger was buying Lydon's debt all over London. Somehow, Tessa didn't think this an act of familial charity stemming from the goodness in his heart.

No.

Jagger had a purpose.

She would have to wade deeper into the weeds.

A gasp, followed by a giggle, sounded at her side, shaking her from her thoughts. "There's the Duke of Wellington," whispered Viveca.

Tessa followed her sister's gaze and found the duke, his tall, arrogant bearing and hawkish profile impossible to mistake. He wasn't a man to be ignored in a crowd.

"It truly is too bad we missed the unveiling of the Achilles statue at Hyde Park Corner a few weeks ago," said Saskia. "We absolutely must view it before they put a fig leaf over his nethers."

Tessa's eyebrows shot toward the stars above. "A fig leaf over his nethers? Have I missed something?"

Saskia and Viveca exchanged a wry, long-suffering look. "Have you missed something?"

To Tessa's annoyance, her sisters giggled.

"What is it?" she asked. While she usually didn't attend to the whims that gave her sisters the giggles, tonight, for a reason that yet eluded her, she felt the strange, hysterical urge to giggle, too. She could feel the ready smile already tipping about her mouth.

"So," began Saskia, "a gaggle of ladies put their heads together and decided the Duke of Wellington must have a statue to commemorate his heroism in defeating that troglodyte Napoleon."

"I contributed fifty pounds," cut in Eloise.

"The esteemed sculptor Mr. Westmacott was commissioned," continued Viveca. "Whereupon he melted down thirty-three tons of captured French cannons and created an eighteen-foot-high Roman colossus for view in Hyde Park."

"The form is Roman in inspiration, yes," said Eloise. "But the head is based on none other than Wellington himself. No one could mistake his distinctive profile."

Tessa almost didn't want to ask…"And where does the fig leaf come in?"

Mischief glittered in Saskia's eyes. "Well, you know how we mentioned the Roman inspiration?"

Tessa's hand flew to her mouth. "No."

As one, her sisters nodded. "Oh, yes," said Viveca.

There was that giggle just peeking around the words.

"London's first nude statue," confirmed Saskia.

"One lady suffered a fit of the vapors and fainted on the spot at the unveiling," added Eloise. "I was there."

Saskia snorted. "So, a fig leaf has been commissioned to protect the virtue of England's ladies."

"It won't have to be all that big," said Eloise, matter-of-fact.

A loaded beat of silence ticked past, and Tessa thought she might be able to contain the laugh that wanted release. Then Saskia and Viveca exchanged a look, and next Saskia met Tessa's gaze and Viveca's found Eloise's, then Eloise's eyes cut left and caught Tessa's, and they all burst into a fit of the giggles.

Oh, what a relief to release her nerves into buoyant night air.

She should giggle more often.

A few moments later, she was still giggling when she realized she was giggling alone. In fact, the others had ceased giggling altogether and were watching her. Eloise wore a mildly curious expression on her face, while Saskia and Viveca were observing her with twin cants of the head and narrowed eyes. Only Mr. Lancaster didn't notice as he moved closer to The Cascade to discern its inner workings.

The thing was Tessa didn't giggle—ever.

But tonight, she'd gone absolutely giddy with nerves and excitability.

"Sister," said Saskia, the note in her voice both quelling and maternal. "You're different these days."

"Am I?" Tessa swiped tears from her eyes with the back of her hand.

Viveca nodded with certainty. "Oh, yes."

"You've smiled more tonight than in the last decade of years put together," added Saskia.

"I've never seen so much of your teeth," observed Viveca. "They're quite lovely, but alas I think you might have a spot on a back right molar. It could be food, but shall I check just in case?"

"Erm, no," said Tessa.

Only seconds ago, she thought she might be carried away on a river of giggles, but now she felt sobered, even as jangly, excitable nerves continued to skitter through her veins.

"Shall we adjourn to our supper box?" asked Eloise, her arm twined through Mr. Lancaster's, their feet already moving.

Tessa noticed the curtain had closed over The Cascade and the crowd was dispersing to return to their boxes for the second half of the night's entertainments.

Eloise reached out with her other arm and slipped it through Tessa's, Saskia and Viveca leading the way. "Will anyone else be joining our party tonight?" she asked.

Tessa didn't like the discerning glint in Eloise's eye.

"I know for certain Gabriel and Celia won't be here," Saskia tossed over her shoulder.

"They much prefer one another's company to anyone else's," said Viveca. "I don't think they left their bedroom today."

A smile twitched about Eloise's mouth. "Allowances must be made for the newly wed."

Though Eloise wasn't looking directly at Tessa, she couldn't help feeling very much observed by the other woman, as if her question had been intended solely for Tessa. She was waiting for Tessa to answer—and there was but one answer that would suffice.

"Well, I…" Tessa didn't feel like giggling anymore. "I might've mentioned it to, erm, Lord Ormonde."

The hope that those words wouldn't garner much notice was completely dashed when three sets of eyes landed on her. Mr. Lancaster even leaned forward to spare her a glance.

"The Marquess of Ormonde?" asked Saskia, the question a demand for a load more information than Tessa had yet provided.

"The very same," said Tessa.

"Sister," said Viveca, "what have you been playing at?"

It was clear she spoke for all.

Tessa opened her mouth to reply when a figure ahead caught her notice, his arms crossed over his chest, shoulder propped against a wall of their supper box. An easy smile curled his mouth, his eyes open as a summer-blue sky as he laughed at a story being related by one of the three young bucks gathered around him.

Tessa's heart decided to beat mayhem in her chest.

Julian…here.

His gaze shifted and unerringly found Tessa's. His smile remained, but it took on a deeper quality. Within his summer-blue eyes shone pleasure—pleasure at the very sight of her.

A feeling blossomed within Tessa. It was almost drunken, this feeling fast and hot as a lightning strike, making her breathless. And though she felt keenly observed by her sisters and Eloise, all care for others' observations fell away.

It only mattered that she was centered within Julian's gaze.

Mr. Lancaster led the way with greetings, filling his role as host of this supper box. "Ormonde," he said, taking Julian's hand in a manly shake.

"Lancaster," returned Julian, even as he nodded in dismissal of his companions, who offered parting greetings to Saskia and Viveca before disappearing into the jolly night.

"Lord Ormonde," said Eloise, falling into her role as hostess with practiced ease. "I'm sure you'll remember the Ladies Saskia and Viveca?"

Saskia and Viveca offered shallow curtsies of greeting and pretty light blushes on their cheeks. It was the rare woman who would be immune to the golden handsomeness of the Marquess of Ormonde.

And Tessa was no rarer than any other woman in that regard.

"And I believe you and Lady Tessa are already acquainted, as well," continued Eloise, the disingenuous glint in her eye suspect. "Didn't I see the two of you dancing at Acaster's ball?"

A smile twitched about Julian's mouth as he bowed toward Tessa. "One wouldn't soon forget the occasion of holding Lady Tessa Calthorp in one's arms."

Tessa didn't have to look at her sisters to see their brows lifting to the heavens—or in a mirror to see the high spots of crimson staining her cheeks.

She'd been in his arms in more ways than simply on a dancing floor—and the implication running just below his words said as much.

She might never draw breath again.

Julian was doingthe one thing he'd vowed never to do in his life.

He was courting a lady.

It was undeniable fact.

Tessa's gaze drifted down his jaw, and her smile fell. "Have you been boxing?"

"Aye," he said on a light note. "Just a bit of sparring."

Her silver-blue eyes lifted and searched his before she reached out and touched light fingertips to the bruise shading his jaw. If he'd been dark of hair, he might've gotten away with it.

Only a lady one was courting would touch the bruise purpling one's jaw in full public view—far less set tongues wagging on a daily basis.

The possibility existed it might feel good—both her touch and this courtship.

Like two things at once—both wrong and right.

The one feeling old and worn-in, a feeling he'd been carrying with him for years.

The other feeling new and attractive, a feeling that conflicted with everything he'd built his life around—a feeling that had him unsteady on his feet.

He didn't know how to court a lady, but even he knew he and Tessa had gone about it all backwards.

Well, tonight could be, perhaps, a step forward.

"I hope you didn't come hungry," said Mrs. Fairfax. "We'd hardly entered our box for the first act when the servers began arriving with all manner of meats. There was even a lobster. Perhaps we can order another round of meats for you?"

Julian's mouth curved into his best soothing-the-hostess smile, and he glanced at the table set with all manner of libations from tea to coffee to Vauxhall's famous arrack. "A cup of coffee will suit me perfectly."

He'd just settled into conversation with Lancaster about a piece of recent legislation he'd been involved in seeing passed through both Lords and Commons when he felt it on the side of his face—a stare. He turned to find not one, but two intense pairs of eyes fixed decidedly upon him. He immediately intuited his boyish smile wouldn't be up to the task of withstanding the scrutiny of the Ladies Saskia and Viveca Calthorp. Into dangerous waters he would have to wade…"Are you finding the evening to your satisfaction, my ladies?"

The flat, unsmiling lines of their mouths told him they wouldn't be following his lead into impersonal pleasantries.

"What do you do, Lord Ormonde?" asked Lady Saskia.

His smile didn't falter. "Do?"

It was what any aristocrat would ask—and it was worth a try, anyway.

"When you're not busy marquessing," said Lady Viveca. "Or boxing."

Ah.They understood what he was about—courting their sister. And they would have him prove himself worthy of the privilege. "I run a horse racing stable in Suffolk, which commands much of my attention."

The Ladies Saskia and Viveca had been mostly brought up under the care of Tessa. And what they were doing now—feeling him out to the point of interrogation—was informing him that river flowed both directions.

Tessa was under her sisters' care, too.

In that vein, Lady Saskia asked, "In horse racing for the high-stakes gambling, are you?"

Julian felt his brow lift. "I don't gamble."

"Which would make you a rarity in that world."

"A unicorn, if you will." Though no less serious than Lady Saskia, Lady Viveca had a readier sense of whimsy.

A laugh burst from Julian, and he rubbed his forehead. "When do you think my horn will grow in?"

That got an appreciative smile from Lady Viveca, and even a twitch of the lips from Lady Saskia.

The lights of the stage began to dim. "Oh, the play is about the start," said Lady Viveca with a clap.

"I wonder if it will be performed as the Greeks performed it," said Lady Saskia, her gaze sweeping across the as-yet empty stage for a clue.

From her place on the other side of Mrs. Fairfax, Tessa leaned forward. She must've recognized a note in her sister's voice, for her eyes narrowed. "And how was that?" she asked, low and firm, her voice leaving no room for anything but the truth.

Lady Saskia exhaled a long-suffering sigh. "You know what Lysistrata is about, don't you, Tessa?" She sounded almost disappointed in her sister.

"A battle or some such?" asked Mrs. Fairfax. "A favorite subject of the Greeks, if memory serves."

Lady Saskia nodded, consideringly. "At the start of the play, a war is being waged, yes, but that's happening off the stage. What's happening on the stage is a different sort of battle—between men and women."

"I'm not sure about the sound of that," said Mrs. Fairfax.

Tessa held her peace and waited. She knew more was coming.

"So," continued Lady Viveca, "the women are sick to death of the men constantly waging war, so they band together and refuse to perform their wifely duties."

"Like…," said Mrs. Fairfax. "Pouring tea for their husbands?"

Lady Saskia didn't hesitate. "Duties of the conjugal variety."

Stunned silence filled the air. "That's the play we're here to see?" asked Mrs. Fairfax, the question holding a slightly out-of-breath quality.

"Oh, yes," said Lady Viveca, breezy as the summer night air.

"And what was that bit about how the Greeks used to perform the play?" Tessa's gaze remained fixed on Lady Saskia. She hadn't lost hold of the main thread.

Lady Saskia held Tessa's eye. "The actors playing the men would affix giant, red…"

Julian heard each word as if from the end of a very long tunnel—as if he stood too far away and therefore powerless to stop their inevitability.

"…leather…"

Lancaster, too, seemed to have caught hold of what the next word would be for he moved forward as if to stop it—but its momentum was too strong.

"…phalluses…"

Mrs. Fairfax's hand flew to her mouth. Tessa kept her gaze steadily affixed to her sisters.

"…to the front of their costumes?—"

"And prance around the stage like that during the performance," finished Lady Viveca. "Isn't it delightful?"

"That's certainly one word for it, but not the one I would use," said Lancaster, dry, but not particularly shocked. He would've been spending enough time around the Calthorp sisters to expect as much by now.

Mrs. Fairfax, however, was having difficulty recovering her usual sangfroid. "And you think the play might be performed thusly tonight?"

Lady Saskia gave the question a few seconds of consideration. "In nineteenth-century England? Likely not."

"Society isn't nearly as bawdy as it was a thousand years ago," chimed Lady Viveca. "Or even a few hundred, come to think of it. Have you seen King Henry the Eighth's armor? That codpiece is one for the ages."

Mrs. Fairfax blinked and turned to Tessa. "Perhaps this play isn't the proper setting for your sisters to be seen?—"

Lady Saskia held up a hand and stopped the words in Mrs. Fairfax's mouth. "We stay until the end."

Mrs. Fairfax exhaled a delicate, long-suffering sigh and let the matter be. Tessa flashed Julian an amused glance.

Just as it had occurred to him at supper at Nonsuch, the thought again struck him.

They no longer much needed words to speak.

A thought that should've sent him running.

"Besides," said Lady Viveca, "even if they did parade around the stage clad in fully erect red leather?—"

"Viveca," said Tessa in a quelling tone that brooked no arguments.

"Well, even so," continued Lady Viveca, "it would be historically accurate, which is only a version of the truth and how can the truth ever be bad?"

It was clear from the crinkle of her brow that Tessa harbored deep doubts regarding the soundness of her sister's argument, but she hadn't time to voice it before the stage lights dimmed, then brightened the next second, signaling the impending start of the play.

Julian took a seat in the last row of the box. Ladies Saskia and Viveca sat at the front, eager as puppies for the play to start. They took their theater seriously, those two. Lancaster and Mrs. Fairfax settled into the middle row. One couldn't miss their utter ease with one another, both in their relaxed physicality and the private glances.

A spark of longing lit through Julian—soul-deep longing. He craved what they had—with Tessa.

And he could see it within reach, except…

What he wanted and what he should have were two separate entities.

And he hadn't yet worked out how the two could coexist within him.

While propriety might've dictated that Tessa sit beside her sisters or Mrs. Fairfax, she instead settled into the chair beside Julian's. The players began filling the stage and speaking their lines and he registered none of it, the entirety of his attention instead trained on the woman to his right. Something about the darkness made her feel more present beside him, though they weren't touching.

A truth, one he never could've known until this very moment, dawned on him.

Courtship was a torturous process.

Intentionally so.

Which, of course, was its value to society.

To drive would-be lovers so wild for one another that they had to marry.

He felt it—a light brush across his knuckles. So slight he could've taken it for a whisper of night air. Except he wouldn't have felt that through his kidskin gloves.

This brush was composed of more solid substance.

Tessa.

His hand responded without a staying thought, turning to catch elegant, feminine fingers in his.

His gaze shifted to find a little smile perched upon Tessa's mouth. She leaned over as if to conspire with him. "It seems we won't be treated to the Greek rendition of Lysistrata tonight, after all." The note of disappointment in her voice was unmistakable.

Only then did Julian see the players were, indeed, modestly clad in clothing more fit for English rather than Greek climes—and not a red leather phallus in sight.

All the while, her hand remained in his, perfectly fitted.

It held a weight more substantial than the sum of skin and bone.

Her fingers slid from his, but before he could voice a protest, they began tugging the tips of his gloves, efficiently sliding the glove off his hand and tucking it beneath her skirts. Then she held her hand out, flat, fingers splayed. He realized she was waiting for him to return the favor.

A few seconds later, her hand was bare against his, skin against skin, warm and humid. It could be an innocent touch—it was an innocent touch—but with Tessa, it was more, too, for nothing with her was ever so simple as one thing.

Both impulse and intention had him pulling her hand and lifting a quieting finger to his mouth. "Come with me."