She swallowed past the burning in her throat and returned to the bench.
Please God, let me get married soon to Lord Kensington as planned, and let him be a kind papa who will love me and care for me forever and ever. Then I will be perfect and good and never steal anything ever again. I promise. She repeated the prayer in her head over and over again. I promise, I promise, I promise.
Chapter 5
Grayson, is that you again?” A jovial voice interrupted Lord Grayson’s solitude on the veranda of Burberry Park, the home of the Duke of Wellington, in the Mayfair district of London.
Lord Grayson turned and greeted his old friend, Lord Caldwell. “Yes, I am afraid it is.” Grayson pulled a flask from his pocket, unscrewed the cap and took a hearty swig.
His companion did the same and the two men stood in the darkness collecting their thoughts and getting some fresh air, as they buoyed their spirits with the contents of their flasks.
“You seem to be taking this marriage thing quite seriously now that you have inherited your father's title, Grayson,” Lord Caldwell observed with a hint of a smirk.
“I am not opposed to having a wife. I have no particular need of a dowry or female companionship, but an heir, as you well know, is of utmost importance.”
“And a willing partner who does not object to the activities necessary to produce an heir would make things all that much better, would it not, my friend?” Lord Caldwell said with a chuckle. Grayson studied Caldwell. They had been companions at school and even in those often dour circumstances, Caldwell had always kept a cheerful countenance. Grayson may not have understood the jocularity then or now, and he had often wondered at what he considered an unrealistic point of view, but this evening Lord Grayson set all of that aside and was simply grateful for a bit of conversation with a man who was not intent on marrying him off to his sister or daughter.
“It is true,” Lord Grayson said. “And what of you, Caldwell? Have you had any luck here in the marriage market?”
“I find,” Lord Caldwell said, “that though all of the young ladies are accomplished and attractive and would be most suitable wives, there is something missing in each of them that does not quite suit me. I am not sure precisely what it is I am looking for, but it seems that each of these ladies is just a tad bit too independent for my liking. I suppose it is the modern way of things, but I cannot help but wish for a time when young ladies were a bit more shall we say…pliable and submissive?”
Lord Grayson had been ruminating upon the same question for several days now, though at this juncture his thoughts also included fond, and sometimes disturbing, memories of his brief conversation with Miss Heathrow at Talcott House. Though he had been charmed by the sweet young lady, he was not convinced, though his father had been, that a young lady could be made into a proper wife for an earl simply by means of education and training. There still remained in his mind the belief that certain characteristics were inborn and could not, regardless of good intentions and hard work, be imbued upon a person who was born to a lower rank.
Yet one question still troubled him. Why had he told Miss Heathrow his bride awaited him in London? In theory, the statement was truthful if he believed he would marry an as yet unknown young lady whom he expected to meet during his time in London. But, Grayson knew himself well enough to admit he was not a man who spoke in hyperbole. Had he lied to Miss Heathrow in order to protect his pride once he learned she was betrothed to another? If he believed she was inferior due to her lack of family or connections, why would he lower himself to deceit in order to save face in front of someone he was unlikely to ever encounter again?
Well, he told himself, since I have stated my bride awaits me in London, I ought to find her and thus eliminate my lie. And hopefully eradicate all thoughts of Miss Heathrow from his brain.
With renewed determination, he capped his flask and returned it to a pocket on the inside of his waistcoat. Out of habit, he reached for his watch, and again, cursed the fact that the watch had come up missing. It was his prized possession and he found it difficult to believe he had misplaced it. But he found it equally implausible that he had allowed someone to get close enough to lift it from his pocket, particularly since it was kept so close upon his person. Regardless, it was gone and there was no point in allowing himself too much pique over it at this time. As he had signed his name to the dance cards of a number of eligible young ladies, no doubt they, or their mothers, would make sure he kept apace of the evening’s activities.
“Shall we return to the festivities?” he said to his companion and the two men left the fresh air and clear evening sky to resume their social obligations.
Lord Grayson quickly found his next partner, an attractive young woman by the name of Lady Cordelia Granville. They were to dance a quadrille together and Grayson forced himself to believe he would enjoy it.
“It is a lovely evening for a dance, is it not, Lady Granville?” he asked.
“Oh, I suppose so,” she replied. “I do wish they would close the windows as there is a draft in here and I find all of that night air disturbing.”
“You don’t say?” Lord Grayson remarked, taking her gloved hand in his as they performed the steps of the dance. “You are not fond of evening air?”
“No, I admit I am not,” was all she said on the topic, though Grayson found it an odd sentiment. How could someone object to a cool, fresh breeze on a stuffy evening? Apparently Lady Granville could.
“Then you are a fan of getting air in the morning?”
“No, not particularly. A young woman ought not to spend too much time in the out of doors. The sun plays havoc with youthful skin, you know. I take great pride in the care of my complexion.” She thereupon described to him in minute detail the creams, lotions and ointments which were involved in her regimen.
Lord Grayson attempted to focus on his dance partner but his mind wandered to a vision of himself, a few years hence, seated across from Lady Cordelia at the breakfast table where nothing but silence—and stale air—filled the room. A brief shudder ran through him at the thought. Just as quickly, the image of the dour breakfast scene was replaced by one of Miss Heathrow laughing and playing with her friends in the warm afternoon, carefree and joyful.
“When was the last time you ran?” The question escaped his lips before he even knew he had formed it and based on the shocked expression on Lady Cordelia’s face, it would have been preferred if he had kept it to himself.
“I beg your pardon,” she said. “Are you asking me when I last ran?” She paused and shook her head as if in disbelief at the question. “I have not done such an unladylike activity since I stopped wearing my hair in ribbons. At least eight years, if not longer. Why would you ask such a thing?”
“I am simply curious,” he replied. “I recently observed a group of young ladies playing together, running and laughing, and it appeared to be great fun. I wondered if you had indulged in such an activity of late.”
Lady Cordelia sniffed. “I am sure the people you observed might have been young and female, but what you describe is not the behavior of a lady. A lady is always composed and would never show such a lack of restraint.”