Love in disguise, p.15
Love in Disguise, page 15
Not always, he corrected himself, growing thoughtful, letting his team set their own pace to carry him home as his thoughts carried him back to an older home. Once he’d been as thrilled and astonished at the appearance of certain fair-haired persons as he’d imagined a Hottentot might be at his first sight of them. For though his mother was a beauty, she was a dark-haired, dark-eyed one, and his father had lived only long enough to leave a fleeting impression of what sometimes appeared in his memory as a mirror image of his own grown face. It was after those first orphaned years, long after influenza had taken his father, that he’d first become particularly aware of fair persons. His mama had decided to give up widowhood, and it was a large blond gentleman who caught her eye, even as he supposed it was her large white mansion and ample dowry that brought him to her notice. For he was a nobleman, and the widowed Mrs. Jones, for all her dark attraction, was a mere “Mrs.,” as all the Joneses from his branch of the family had ever been. And, as Warwick Jones reminded himself sadly, with a shake of his head, just as family wisdom always held, it was only when the usually cautious Joneses wished to cut a social dash that they came to grief, and so it was to be again. Only, since his mother had only married into the name, it was naturally, then, he who was to suffer.
He hadn’t known that, of course, on the day that the Earl of Camberly married his mama. Nor had he an inkling of it when he’d been introduced to his two new stepbrothers, the marquess and the viscount, and his new stepsister, Lady Caroline. Although, again, it made perfect sense that the widower nobleman would come complete with progeny, since however pressed for funds, a man like the earl would scarcely have wished to sire an heir on a commoner like his mama, however handsome she, or her fortune, might be.
The first months had been very pleasant, Warwick Jones remembered with a wistful smile; perhaps that was why he had at least one particular problem with blond females. For Lady Caroline had been only a year younger than his own seven, and looked up to him wonderfully for that year’s advantage of her and because, further, he knew all the nooks and crannies, retreats and hidey-holes in his great house quite well and was pleased to share the knowledge with her. Although Lord John and Lord Avery had been several years older, they had been kind, and he, who’d been lonely as an only child of a single parent, had, in very much the same way that their sister admired himself, lionized them as much for being older as for their offhand kindness.
It was only when the earl, after the honeymoon had shown him his wife was his in every particular (for he’d been pleased to find she was just as pliable and soft-willed as he’d thought), decided to begin to refurbish his own rotting great hall that the trouble began. His wife was happy to leave her home and go with him, that was never the problem. And there were carpenters and stonemasons and architects aplenty, all willing to work, but unfortunately, all waiting to be paid first, as well. It was then, when the earl discovered his credit was in as bad a condition as his ancestral home, that he also discovered that all of the famous Jones fortune was securely tied up. The earl couldn’t lodge a penny of it loose, for the first time he tried, distant Jones relatives came out from the woodwork uttering threats of lawsuits, and masses of dignified men-at-law appeared with all sorts of writs in hand.
Because, it transpired, the Jones fortune was well-supervised, well-documented, and entirely secure, and all invested in the one small true heir, who had less than a decade of years to his benefit, although he had more than several hundred thousand pounds, along with securities and properties and annuities, to his name.
The earl’s new wife’s portion was his, but it was doled out quarterly, and at that, scarcely enough to cover his gambling bills for a year. But the mansion was hers to live in, in comfort, for the rest of her life, with her new family as well if she wished, and poor lady, Warwick Jones sighed, though she didn’t wish, she had little choice, since her new husband’s home was fit only for mice and deathwatch beetles. So it was as well that the heir to all that the earl coveted was sent off to school when he turned eight, for he was a sensitive child, and better still that the lawyers, after seeing the earl’s face when he first heard the news of the disposition of the fortune, mentioned that the boy’s legacy would go to a distant uncle if misfortune should ever befall him before he came into his majority.
But if looks couldn’t quite kill, Warwick Jones soon discovered they might maim. Because the earl and his sons, chafing under the omnipresent knowledge that they lived on the sufferance of a commoner, and a small, slightly built, sensitive one at that, soon found ways to let their benefactor know how inferior he was to them.
Since nothing could be done for the earl’s thwarted hopes but vengeance, that was done in plenty. A state of war was declared, and Warwick, having seen his idols turn from benevolent friends to treacherous foes, learned from an early age that appearances can be deceiving. His mama didn’t wish to see discord, and feared her husband’s displeasure even more. She was now completely her husband’s creature, and so if she ever had regarded the author of all their difficulties as her own son, she never showed it again. His home became a battlefield, but Warwick managed to survive and soon discovered that he had a knack for it. He made certain he became no male version of a Cinderella, in any event; he realized it was they who were quite obviously beautiful, and he who had the wealth, and he was never cut out to be a gentle, placid victim. Thus it was doubly irritating to his tormentors when they came to realize that he was cleverer, as well as richer than they. And even more insufferable when they found he didn’t fear pain, and, realizing they couldn’t afford to kill him, had learned to bear it long enough to learn to defend himself in physical as well as mental fashion.
So if his stepbrothers mocked his slight, olive-skinned body when he was a boy, and grimaced to each other and complained in loud tones that the “goblin,” as they came to call him, had too long a vacation and was getting on their nerves when he came home from school, they learned to grumble instead of shout their displeasure with him when they saw how tall and straight he’d grown and learned how strong he’d trained his body to be when he survived adolescence. Even the earl no longer said the word “goblin” or “commoner” in his hearing—his debts had gone unpaid long enough to make his entry into his club an embarrassment—after his stepson began to handle the family finances himself.
But, in truth, he was a goblin compared with their fair splendor, he’d always seen that. He was long-nosed, olive-complexioned, and even the grace notes of his midnight-blue eyes and soft brown hair were as dun compared to their radiant blond good looks. Perhaps that’s why they’d come to personify beauty, if nothing else, to him. But they signified a good deal more as well. That might have been why, after he’d been amazed to discover his schoolmate, the similarly handsome, similarly noble Julian Dylan, to be such a good openhearted person, he’d become his fast friend.
And then, of course, there was Lady Caroline, Warwick thought with a reflexive cough, choking on the memory that would never be easy to swallow, not even after nearly a decade. For it was never easy to remember how he’d heard her explain her toleration of his tentative courtship, that day that he’d come cat-footed into the library to surprise his newly grown stepsister with the first daffodil.
For, “Good God, Caro, we like the place, and have been comfortable here for dog’s years,” the viscount had drawled to his sister, “but it’s rather unpleasant to think of you having to bed the goblin to secure it for us.”
“But it hasn’t gone that far yet,” she’d giggled, “and if it does, it will be marriage.”
So of course, it wasn’t, not after that—not that she’d added another word to the subject, nor even disparaged him, nor ever discovered that he’d heard her. But she’d not defended him. And until that moment, he’d never known how badly he’d wanted that. And after that moment, he’d never forgiven her for showing him his one weakness. Not that she’d ever known that either. For he’d picked an odd method for showing his displeasure. He’d restored their house for them and made them an allowance, and so relieved them of his presence. He seldom saw them again, unless they came to him, gruff and belligerent, needing funds and begging for the money by belittling him, hat in hand. He always gave the money, along with arrogance for arrogance, feeling that he was winning, even as they left feeling they’d cheated him again. But then, he thought, he was undeniably an odd man; they’d always been right about that.
Having been denied love for so long, he never sought it again—now wasn’t that odd? he asked himself. He sought women, but that was not the same thing at all. He was basically a solitary man, though he had a few good friends, both male and female. But it wasn’t that sort of companionship he constantly wanted. In fact, it was one of the despairs of his life that he had to seek such women out so often, that he was so enslaved by his passions. Because he acknowledged a true goblin trait in himself: the deep and omnipresent need for sensual pleasure, a profound liking for affairs of the flesh. He was, he thought, smiling to himself at the comparison, remembering his studies of Plato, in many ways a driven man, a coachman, very like his friend Julian, but very unlike as well, for he couldn’t be half so adept a whipster, since he was always trying to steer his life with two fractious teams linked together: the white horses of sweet reason, and the dark horses of desire. Perhaps that was why, he thought, throwing back his head and laughing, startling a farmer in the fields into thinking it was a drunken gentleman tooling along the high road to London, he kept driving himself around in such peculiar circles.
Well, he amended, smiling to himself, not peculiar so much as improper. He seldom had anything to do with young ladies of the ton, knowing very well that two dances and a kiss were equal to a declaration in their society, and he’d sooner, he often thought, find a drab from the streets than a debutante of the ton in his marriage bed. Since neither would’ve had a chance to know him very well before they nipped under his coverlets, both would be there only because of his money, and at least, he reasoned, the tart would be better at what she’d do there. He didn’t care for deceit, having had a surfeit of it in his youth, and so he also avoided society’s sportive married ladies. And as he’d neither lie nor make promises he’d no intention of fulfilling to fill his bed, this streak of perverse puritanism narrowed the field of potential partners for him alarmingly. But he’d discovered the particular field left for him to cultivate was ever ripe and always held a rich harvest: an obliging female might always be found with whatever color hair, or for that matter, anything else, he fancied, for the right price.
But his life was cluttered with blond persons at the moment, he thought, pleased with himself now that he found his difficulties amusing, and, finding himself amused, decided that what he’d needed all along had been distraction. He reasoned that since such a little bit had worked so well, more would be even better, since, locked up in his house celibate all these weeks with that tempting little Miss Logan, he’d absolutely lost his clear sense of judgment.
He’d come to know her scent the way a fox can sense its dinner wafting on the wind, and he’d felt the ends of his fingers ache every time he’d helped her to her seat at the table or brushed his hand against her skin at some other insignificant moment. She was blond, of course, and supple and sweet-breasted and full of laughter, and he’d been yearning for her like a boy. Even more dangerously, he’d discovered, just as her brother had boasted, she had wit and courage, education and charm. And of course, naturally, she loved Julian to distraction, or thought she did, and who could blame her?
At first he’d avoided her for Julian’s sake, and then for his own, for only a fool would seek love where there was such clear infatuation for another, worthier man. Then too, he wasn’t precisely seeking “love” either, or at least not the sort that was the only kind she could supply, being moral, proper, and conventionally raised. But he’d given up avoiding her when he saw her take note of it, and had seen the quick hurt register in her eyes. Now, of course, the problem was worse. For him, he amended, only for him, for she might still have a chance for happiness with Julian; because of her looks, or her money, or the spite of Lord Moredon, those two beautiful dreamers might yet be joined.
The last tollgate before London came into view, and Warwick gave up his brooding. He’d been uneasy and strangely vexed with himself these past days, for he seldom got caught up in other people’s affairs and yet had allowed himself to get completely tangled in Julian and Susannah’s lives and hopes. He had never been a romantic dreamer such as Miss Logan so evidently was, and he scarcely knew her well enough to really love her, even if he believed himself still capable of that mythical tender passion. Unlike Julian, he was far too old for infatuation; he believed he always had been. But he was well acquainted with sexual obsession. Too well, he thought on a frown. But at least he knew what he was suffering from, and so knew what cure to take. He might be able to help the others too.
Distraction was what was clearly necessary for them all. They’d all been pent-up for too long to have any perspective. Julian’s misfortunes had thrown them too closely together. Their host had already proposed one remedy for them, and was resolved to take another for himself. Miss Logan would soon have a ball to attend, Julian would shortly leave the house again, and for himself, he’d seek out some new female immediately, one who could give him surcease from his impossible desires through satiation of his real ones.
He relaxed as his horses, only two this time, and only real ones, took him through the streets of London toward his home. Everything seemed simpler now. Doing Julian’s errand had done him good; he hadn’t appreciated, until the weight had dropped from his shoulders, exactly how bedeviled he’d been. But when he’d begun reminiscing about his childhood he’d realized how low his spirits had sunk, and when he’d thought of a resolution to his problems, he’d felt free again. The country air had cleared his head.
He’d lusted after the girl; she fancied Julian. Nothing could be more natural in either case. He needed a woman, Julian needed a fortune, and she… Ah well, he thought, familiar desires now ascendant, that was her problem, and not his.
That evening, Mr. Jones bade his two houseguests a good night shortly after dinner, and neither noted that he didn’t retire to his rooms, but left the house instead. Nor did either of them note how jauntily he said his farewell, nor how eager he was to be away. For the Viscount Hazelton was himself eager to get to his rooms and pen several messages. The majority of them were various notes to sundry devious people of his acquaintance, all to ensure that the one important message was delivered. And that one was addressed to the Lady Marianna Moredon: asking if she were going to attend the Swansons’ gala ball.
Miss Susannah Logan scarcely noted that her host had gone so precipitately, and for once she hardly was aware that Julian had left her side rapidly as well. For she’d only just discovered that very day that for all her lacks, her chaperon had one marvelous asset: she knew fashion as well as she did not know most of the things that happened around her. So there were fashion plates to study, and a dress to be gotten up, one that would make her look splendid, make her look fitting, and most important, make her look as though she belonged at her first fashionable party, the Swansons’ gala ball.
Mr. Warwick Jones made his way in leisurely but determined fashion down several twisting streets far from his elegant town house. The house he eventually entered was more expensively gotten up than his own, although far less tastefully. But the young woman he purchased there was tasteful enough to suit his most exacting standards, for she was fair-haired and well-endowed with what he’d been seeking. If she had no conversation, he was content, for he asked for none; it was enough that she smiled a great deal and grimaced at appropriate moments, when she was supposed to. He supposed that to be her training, never realizing that his own early training had made it impossible for him to be less than a superior lover—a man who believed himself to be repellent to women being a man who’d always have to see to their pleasures, even the ones bought only for a night’s relief, before his own.
Long after he’d been admitted to the house and the young woman he’d purchased there, he finally made his way, far less jauntily, home again. He’d gotten exactly what he’d paid for, but discovered to his annoyance that temporary satiation had nothing to do with satisfaction. And so he decided that he’d have to take some other route to more permanent gratification, and would likely have to go to the bother of setting up a mistress. He believed, as he lay awake in his own bed again pondering the problem, that for the sake of his own restored serenity that would have to be soon—definitely before he had to escort his disturbing young guest to an evening’s festivities, and so certainly before the night of the Swansons’ gala ball.
9
Susannah studied herself in the long looking glass for a very long while. It wasn’t that she was in love with her image so much as it was that she wanted to memorize the way she looked just now, after her maid and her chaperon had left her to herself. They’d told her again and over again how well she looked, and how perfectly dressed she was for the night. She continued to gaze at her reflection in order to assure herself that she might leave her room confident her appearance was perfectly in order. Then, if anything were said, or if any doubts assailed her after she’d gotten to the ball she was being taken to, she’d know at least that the fault didn’t lie in what people could see of her, but rather in what they thought of her actions or personality.
