Frederick dipped his head closer to Stacie’s. “Aurelia is always rigidly stiff—I’ve never seen her otherwise—and she tries to make Carlisle the same. In her presence, I’m always tempted to drop something she values in front of her, to see if her stays will snap when she bends.”
Stacie pressed her lips together to hold back a laugh, then asked, “Is there a reason for her being so starchy?”
“I’ve heard her parents described as the ultimate in high-sticklers. They are rarely in London, and I’ve only met them once, at Carlisle’s wedding years ago. For what it’s worth, my sisters are of the opinion that Aurelia was brought up to live in fear of scandal of any sort whatsoever—of even a hint of it touching her hems.”
“Hmm,” Stacie replied. “In that case, you and I are, ultimately, not going to feature among Aurelia’s favorite people, even if, in calling off our engagement, we restore to her a direct pathway to becoming a future marchioness.”
“Bite your tongue,” Frederick murmured, which Stacie interpreted as an understandable reprimand over alluding to their future plans in public.
Yet his expression remained confident, relaxed and smiling, as he said, “Trust me, there won’t be any scandal over us.” He glanced down and met her eyes. “Society will just shrug and go merrily on.”
The following afternoon, Frederick called at Green Street and took Stacie for a drive in the park, a pleasant interlude that demonstrated that the curious horde had started to lose interest in their romance and look elsewhere for more gossipworthy news.
After driving through the fashionable stretch of the avenue, Frederick drew into the verge and, leaving Timson holding the horses, helped Stacie down, and they ambled across the lawns to the banks of the Serpentine and watched, smiling, as three little girls threw bread crumbs to a gaggle of swans and noisy ducks.
Frederick thought he saw the shadow of a pleasant memory pass fleetingly over Stacie’s face. When they started back to the curricle and he asked what had made her smile so fondly, she admitted that her father used to bring her and her brother Godfrey to the Serpentine, where she would feed the ducks and swans while Godfrey sailed his toy yacht.
Then she turned the tables on him, forcing him to admit that his major interest, even as a boy, had been music, music, and more music. “Papa soon gave up trying to instill other interests in me. In retrospect, I feel for him—I was his only son, yet at that age, all I wanted to do was play the piano.”
She slanted him a glance. “I take it the riding and driving came later, along with the dancing?”
He smiled. “Indeed.”
They couldn’t expect to keep to themselves for long, and several groups took advantage of their stroll back to the curricle to approach and exchange the usual pleasantries, along with the expected subtle inquiries, but none were overly pushy, and they reached the carriage without him needing to cut anyone off.
He helped Stacie to the seat, joined her and took up the reins, and tooled them back to Green Street.
When he took his leave of her in the front hall—kissing her hand but, as they weren’t on the porch and he therefore had no excuse, abstaining from kissing her cheek—she was still smiling. When he returned down the steps to the pavement, he was smiling, too.
The dinner at Albury House that evening, arranged by his mother several weeks before, wasn’t an event he could legitimately avoid, no matter how much he wished to, and as his recently acquired fiancée, Stacie had to sit through it, too.
The other guests were his mother’s friends, those still alive and able to get about, and included his godparents. Predictably, the entire company was delighted to learn of his engagement and even more delighted to meet Stacie.
“Knew your father quite well,” Lord Hardacre boomed. “Excellent sort!” He opened his mouth to say something else, but abruptly shut it, then mumbled, “Pity he died when you were still so young. Good man. Good man.”
To Frederick’s relief, all the others steered clear of the topic of Stacie’s parents, even though all members of the company were of the haut ton and of an age that guaranteed they would have heard a great deal about the late Marchioness of Raventhorne.
As he’d expected, the conversation took a turn toward the stultifying all too soon. The exchanges around the dining table revolved about the various guests’ health, or lack of it, and the deaths of acquaintances and relatives, followed by reminiscences of the exploits of those who had passed on.
Luckily, to a man and woman, the company valued their sleep, and all departed relatively early, freeing Frederick to insist on accompanying Stacie in her carriage on the drive home.
For him, sitting in the comfortable darkness close beside her and breathing in the subtle perfume that rose from her skin and hair was the best part of the evening. He’d taken her hand to help her into the carriage and had followed closely behind her, allowing him to retain his hold on her fingers; when he dared to link his fingers with hers and she didn’t tug hers free, he looked ahead and smiled to himself.
The distance to her house was too short to attempt anything more.
Her gaze apparently on the streetscape slipping past the window, she murmured, “Did you notice Lady Constance fell asleep at the table?”
“At one point, I thought she would topple forward and land with her face in her plate. I signaled to Fortingale, and he jogged her elbow while pretending to refill her glass.”
“I wondered if he’d had a hand in waking her up.” After a moment, she said, “That was well done of you. She would have hated it if she’d slumped onto the table.”
He lightly shrugged. “She’s a good old thing—she used to bring me sweets and insist that I play for her. Consequently, of my mother’s friends, she was a favorite.”
The carriage drew up, and he leaned forward and opened the door, then descended to the pavement and steadied Stacie as she climbed down. She looked up and told her coachman he could drive on to the mews, as Frederick had elected to walk home. When the man glanced his way, Frederick nodded a confirmation, and the coachman flicked his reins, and the carriage rolled away.
Still holding Stacie’s hand, Frederick strolled with her up the steps to the porch and to her front door. With her free hand, she reached for the bell chain. Before she could tug, he raised the hand he held and pressed a lingering kiss to the inside of her wrist.
Her eyes, wide, flew to his face. He met her gaze, then, slowly, giving her plenty of time to draw back if she would, he shifted closer, bent his head, and pressed a soft kiss—not just a brush of the lips but a true kiss—to the corner of her lips.