Someone to Wed (Westcott 3)

“At a quiet hotel for gentlewomen,” she said. “I arrived in town just an hour or two ago and sought out the park for air and exercise after the long journey. I trust Mrs. Westcott and Lady Overfield are well?”

“Yes,” he said. “Thank you. Lizzie was pleased to receive your letters.” There was a pointed cough from a short distance away and Alexander remembered that he was not alone.

“You are delaying the ladies you are escorting, Lord Riverdale,” she said.

He must return to them. “Will I see you again?” he asked. “Tell me the names of those shops. Will you call upon my mother and sister? They would be delighted to see you. Do you have the address?”

Why was he feeling near panic over the fact that he might not see her again?

The second cough was even more pointed.

“I will call,” she said. “Tomorrow morning. I have the address.”

“I will tell them,” he said. “They will be delighted.” Had he already said that?

“I hope it will not be inconvenient for them,” she said.

“It will not.” He hesitated, but there was no more to be said, and he was already being very bad mannered to the two ladies who were under his escort. He turned away and hurried back to them.

She had not told him the names of any of the shops. She had not named the hotel where she was staying. What if she did not turn up tomorrow?

But did it matter?

“What an extraordinarily tall lady,” Miss Littlewood said, gazing after her.

“It is very unfortunate for her,” Mrs. Littlewood agreed. “And thin too. And not at all pretty, I daresay, if one may draw conclusions from the veil. Her governess really ought to have taught her not to stride along like that, just like a man. I would be very surprised to hear that she is married.” She looked inquiringly at Alexander.

He smiled and offered an arm to each. “I do apologize for keeping you waiting,” he said.

“Poor lady. I would simply want to die if I were that tall,” Miss Littlewood said, slipping her hand through his arm. “I have heard it said that gentlemen do not like tall ladies.”

“It is a severe misfortune,” her mother said. “One can only feel for her. But where, Lord Riverdale, is her chaperon?”

“I did not ask, ma’am,” he said. “What did you think of the second half of the concert last evening? The best was kept for last, I thought. It is little wonder the cellist is much sought after.”

He had made one firm decision at least during the last few minutes. If he must marry a rich bride this spring or summer, she was not going to be Miss Hetty Littlewood. He was going to have to be more vigilant against the persistent maneuverings of her mother, though it would not be easy.

Why had she come? It was certainly not because she wanted to see some glassware displayed in a few London shops. Had she had second thoughts about Elizabeth’s invitation? About his own? What would he do if she did not call at South Audley Street tomorrow morning? Seek out every gentlewoman’s hotel in London? How many were there, for the love of God?

And why exactly would he do any such thing?

Wren was a famous maker of lists. They helped organize her thoughts and her time. They increased her efficiency and ensured that everything she needed to do was done in a timely manner. But the ones she had made in her office in Staffordshire had been nothing but a waste of time, for she had made up her mind even before she had started to compose them. Of course she had found more cons than pros. It was her rational mind trying to impose sense upon her emotional self. And since she did not have a close acquaintance with her emotional self, reason had mowed it down with no trouble at all. But the emotional self was the more persistent of the two. It had picked itself up, dusted itself off, and carried on regardless.

She had come.

But she had not come boldly to conquer the world. Rather she had crept in and taken a room at a hotel for gentlewomen. Not that doing so had necessarily been a cowardly move. Having refused two separate invitations to stay at the house on South Audley Street, she could hardly now arrive on the doorstep without warning. The very thought made her cringe.

She had settled herself in her room and decided to step out for air and exercise, flatly refusing Maude’s company since her maid was exhausted and needed to lie down for a while. Wren had told herself that she would pay a call upon Lady Overfield before she lost her courage. But she had lost it anyway. What if they were not at home? What if they had other visitors? What if they looked visibly dismayed to see her? They would not, of course. For one thing, a servant would give them ample warning of her arrival before admitting her to their presence. For another, they were ladies. But what if he was there? She had said a very definite goodbye.

Why, then, had she come all this way?

She had made her way to Hyde Park instead after asking directions. It was a part of London she wished to see, after all—she had made a list. It was one item she would be able to strike off. Tomorrow perhaps she would see St. Paul’s Cathedral, Westminster Abbey, the Tower of London, St. James’s Palace, Carlton House. Were they within walking distance of one another? And there were all the galleries and museums. Perhaps they would fill the next day. And, of course, there were the shops that sold her glassware—she must not forget about them.

What she was, she had decided as she strode into the park, was one abject, cringing, shameful cowardly creature. South Audley Street was at the top of her list—underlined. Was it going to remain there, the one item not satisfyingly crossed out as having been done?

She had found, purely by accident, one of the most famous features of Hyde Park and strolled beside the Serpentine. She had been proud of herself for one thing, at least. It was a crowded area of the park, but she had held her head high and not faltered. Oh, she was wearing a veil, it was true, but even so she was here, out of doors, mingling with others even if she was not stopping to speak to anyone and no one was stopping to take any notice of her. Still, she was doing it.

And then she had both stopped and spoken—to two young children who had run afoul of each other along the bank and were reacting with predictable lack of logic, the one with a shrill scold, the other with wails of protest and anger. Meanwhile the toy boat of the wailer was making its escape. She had caught up the string before it fell completely into the water and had spoken to the children. The girl had stopped scolding the boy in order to ask her if she were a witch—she had looked delighted by the possibility rather than frightened—and the boy had more or less stopped wailing in order to point out that everyone knew witches wore big black hats. Wren had turned away after saying that alas, she was nothing nearly as exciting as a witch, with or without a black hat. She had been feeling pleased with herself and pleased with the world.

And then—

Well, and then she had found herself looking straight into the eyes of the Earl of Riverdale no more than a few yards away. If the earth could have opened and swallowed her whole, she would have uttered no complaint whatsoever.

Foolishly, she had turned to hurry back in the direction from which she had come, her mind at the same moment catching up with her eyes to inform her that he had a young lady on his arm with an older lady in attendance. She had felt a nasty pang of something she did not stop to analyze. But he had come after her anyway and touched her arm and spoken with her, though she could not afterward remember a word of their brief exchange except that he had asked her to call on his mother and sister and she had agreed to do so the next morning. What she did remember with far greater clarity was that the lady on his arm had been very young and very pretty and that the older lady who had coughed twice had done so with a possessive sort of annoyance.