Author: Beverley Oakley
Category: Nonfiction
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Well, it had in the beginning before he had exhausted his financial resources and been forced to retire to the country.
And then Amelia had contacted him quite unexpectedly, and his life was suddenly on quite another trajectory. One that offered salvation.
If only he could see it that way.
“Mr McAlister, you’re looking very lonely.”
He glanced up from contemplating the fine cognac in his glass, his eyes lingering on Lady Quamby’s shapely bosom a moment too long before he jerked himself back into the gentleman he was, not the one society perceived him to be.
Though what did it matter. Society had passed judgment, and there was little he could do to correct its false assessment.
“Which is why I’m taking a little too much solace in your excellent cognac,” he replied, wondering why she would deign to speak to him when no one else would. Unless it was to tell him he was no longer welcome. It would not surprise him.
“It must be uncomfortable to be so obviously shunned.” Lady Quamby sent him an appraising look. “Perhaps this is the wrong kind of society for you, Mr McAlister.”
He knew that the alternative to which she referred was the daring underworld which is where rumour had it that Lord Quamby’s proclivities lay. But Theo was no longer the wild youth he had been. Gambling hells and brothels held no appeal for him. Now that he was only a few years off thirty, and he had been burned by life’s evils, he truly wished to direct his energies towards something worthwhile.
But having gambled away the majority of his landholdings during those desperate few months surrounding Jane’s death, his options were limited.
“Thank you, Lady Quamby, but I am of a more sober temperament than society would paint me. Quiet evenings in front of the fire are more to my taste, believe it or not.”
“And you are on the lookout for a wife, no doubt. How fortuitous then, that you should be in receipt of an invitation to our little festivity.” Her pretty teeth gleamed in the candlelight. “My sister and her husband think I should not have invited you, though as you’d know, your grandfather was a regular visitor to Quamby House.”
“I know that, Lady Quamby.”
“But you have little in common with your grandfather, they tell me.”
“I have more in common than you’d suppose. I have little in common with my father,” he corrected her.
“Your father was a gambler and…” She glanced about her but perceiving they were not being overheard, added, “an inveterate womaniser.”
“I told you, I am nothing like my father.”
“Society says otherwise, of course, given what happened last year. I’m surprised you think you could protest the charge.” She paused, fanning herself as she studied him. “I wonder if any young lady has caught your eye, Mr McAlister.”
“I danced with several very pleasing young ladies, but I am not the catch I once was.” He looked away a moment, before adding, “And my reputation does not bear scrutiny. I do not think I will find a wife this Christmas though I thank you for the invitation. It has been a lonely few months.”
Lady Quamby made a moue. “Poor Mr McAlister. You sound very forlorn, but I cannot admit but that you’re right. A shame since you’re such a handsome young man—as I think you know.” She hesitated. “You haven’t seen Miss Scott this evening?”
Theo stiffened. “I do not recall.”
Lady Quamby studied him a moment. “You understand she is to marry Mr Dalgleish?”
“I understand that a lady can choose whom she wishes to marry.” He hadn’t meant to sound so combative.
“You do not appear to like Mr Dalgleish very much.” Lady Quamby swirled the liquid in her glass. “I couldn’t help observing that you avoided him entirely.”
“I think he’s a libertine and Miss Scott would do best to avoid him. But if she wishes to marry him, that’s her affair.” Strange how distasteful those words sounded on his tongue when why should they? He had no interest in the chit. “Just as I trust you took account of the way Miss Scott avoided me since you are clearly keeping a close watch on proceedings.”
“Many people appear to be avoiding you, Mr McAlister. Your reputation precedes you, and I’m sorry for it. We all make mistakes.” Lady Quamby smiled. “Perhaps I must introduce you to a lonely, comely widow so that your time with us is not entirely without its enjoyments.”
“Please don’t, Lady Quamby.” He knew he sounded too curt when she was the kind of woman who liked to be perceived as doing the generous thing. But the brandy was having its effect. He sighed. “My apologies. I was rude. But the truth is that I am ready for a union that is…from the heart.”
“But love alone will not suffice when a fortune is what is needed.” Her eyes gleamed. “Forgive me for speaking plainly. Generally it would be of no account to me, but I have been charged specifically by my sister to warn you against making up to Miss Scott, who is very young and, as you know, promised to Harry Dalgleish.”
“I do not believe that a marriage between them has been announced.”
“No, but it will be. It is a good match for Lizzy and my sister does not wish to see anyone meddling.”
“Meddling?” Theo sent her an ironic look which she met with an acknowledging smile.
“All right, I admit I am doing my share of meddling, but you cannot deny that others look askance at you when your misdemeanours are still fresh in their minds. Especially when you are seen in company with the sister of the very young woman with whom you tried to elope last year.”
He hid his rage. “You do speak plainly, Lady Quamby.”
“Let me just say, Mr McAlister, that my sister is determined that no heiress will be snatched while under this roof and she wished me to convey that to you.”
“It sounds like your sister is more concerned for her reputation than she is the well-being of the heiress in question.” Theo drew himself up proudly. So, he was being watched. He felt awkward and uncomfortable. “She would do as well to consult the wishes of the heiress rather than the friend who suddenly is deemed a villain for events of long ago, misconstrued, and misreported too, I might add.”
Chapter 13
When Lady Quamby had left, Theo found that the only company that remained were some gentlemen he had little desire to drink with when his bed was calling him.
He placed the empty brandy snifter on a low table and moved to the door with a backwards glance at the remaining company. By the window were Lords Fenton and Quamby, together with the somewhat dissolute George Bramley, a local squire and an admiral of the navy, if he remembered correctly, warming themselves before the fire as they engaged in spirited debate. Company that was both too good and too bad for Theodore to want to be part of.
He swayed against the doorframe and caught Lord Fenton’s sharp look, which made him jerk upright and leave the room with a parting nod of acknowledgement.
Right. To bed. He needed a good night’s sleep if he were to do justice to his meeting with Amelia tomorrow.
Carefully he followed the crimson and gold carpet runner that led him up the grand sweeping staircase to the gallery above. In the complete quiet, he realised he was more under the influence than he would like, for he rarely drank to excess. Lord, the last few months he’d hardly drunk at all.
Upon the threshold of the Long Gallery, he stopped to contemplate the cavernous distance between where he stood and the bedchambers beyond. From the floor to the top of the lofty ceilings, magnificent artworks could have held him in quiet contemplation all day. He knew a little of the illustrious history of his hosts. Or rather, their forebears, for the incumbents of the title were, it had to be admitted, a rather dissolute lot. Lord Quamby was an eccentric who had never been expected to marry, while his countess was branded anything from a designing jade and an immoral cuckolder to the most beautiful woman of her generation with the portraitists clamouring to render her likeness to immortality.
Lady Fenton, the dark dazzling beauty in contrast to her si
ster’s brazen, irrepressible gold-lustred image, had, however, created the greater scandal, so he had been told, before her marriage to Lord Fenton some years before.
Scandal. He closed his eyes. It did not take much to create scandal, and once the gossipmongers got wind of it, there was little account of the truth. Five years after their respective marriages, Ladies Fenton and Quamby were still whispered about, despite the respectability each had won.
Slowly he wandered through the room, past mighty suits of armour, lances, plaster busts, and a plethora of stuffed animals amidst the great masters.
It was only as he passed an enormous stuffed bear that he was aware of a slight movement from the window seat which caused him to say in some surprise, “Lizzy!” immediately regretting the fact he was now required to stop and further address her.
Far better it would have been if he had simply slipped by unnoticed.
For both of them.
“Theo!” she cried, jumping up and piercing him with an enigmatic look. “I thought I was all alone.”
“Clearly not,” he responded, moderating his tone so that it did not contain any trace of the elevation of his senses that assailed him. He glanced at the doorway at the far end of the passage. “It’s very late. You should be in bed.”
“And so should you though men can do what they like and ladies can do virtually nothing without being censured about it,” she said on a sigh. “Where are you going? Oh, do stay a moment and talk to me, please. I have had no one to talk to all evening, and a great emptiness of feeling has settled upon me which you can dispel with just a few moments of being charming. If you can manage such a thing when I know you are out of sorts with me, though I cannot imagine why.”
Just the mere act of engaging him thus seemed to fuel her vivacity as she added with a wicked twinkle in her eye, “Was it because you saw Mr Dalgleish kiss me under the mistletoe? That’s what it was there for, you know. Lots of couples, married and not, did the same.”
“So, you spent the evening spying, did you?”
Her eyes danced with amusement. “I must confess that when I saw your displeasure at Mr Dalgleish kissing me—for I was certain you’d seen Mr Dalgleish kiss me—I was instantly filled with mortification and thought I must have permitted a terribly grave act requiring your censure. However, Lord and Lady Fenton slipped into the room and kissed several times under the mistletoe—and I know they are married so can do what they like—but I also saw Miss Smythe and Mr Ferrier do it, and Miss Jackson and Mr Botts do it, and neither of them are married and, in fact, are considered quite respectable. And when I was assured that kissing has no irreversible consequences whatsoever, my mind was quite put at rest.”
Theodore found that all the while she was talking, he could not keep his eyes off her prettily formed mouth, which he’d never appreciated as much as he did now she was talking of all the pleasurable uses to which mouths could be put.
He shook his head to clear it. Such thoughts were definitely not to be dwelt upon. Certainly not now when he was alone with Lizzy, and tomorrow he had a very solemn duty to perform with a far worthier young lady.
And when his mind was just a little fuddled with the brandy he’d been drinking when no one would talk to him.
“And what irreversible consequences had you dreamt up?” he asked, only realising he’d spoken when it was too late. Foolishness, to say the least. He took a small step towards the door. He would hear her answer and put an end to their nocturnal chatter before any damage was done.
She bowed her head. “I thought…I feared…a child might result.”
He burst out laughing. “What poppycock is that? Have you never seen a cow give birth? Or horses in the paddocks doing what they do in order to produce the baby foals you young ladies think so sweet?”
“Horses in the paddock? I have no idea what you are talking about? What’s that got to do with begetting a child?”
“How old are you, Lizzy? I suppose it does not matter how old you are, really,” he went on before she had a chance to answer. “You’re considered old enough to marry, and in fact that’s why you are here—to find a husband—yet no one has ever thought to educate you on the serious side of marriage that surely must be a consideration as to whether you are prepared to suffer a lifetime of the man you accept as your husband.”
There was a belligerence to his tone that he realised she’d interpreted as scorn when she said indignantly as she jumped up from the window seat, tossing aside her reticule as she put her hands on her hips, “There you go again, Mr McAlister, accusing me of foolishness, childishness, having no proper consideration for the seriousness of life when, you are perfectly correct, no one has ever told me anything about what is expected of me when I become a wife. Don’t you see; that’s what I was doing earlier this evening with Mr Dalgleish?”
“Educating yourself?”
“Yes. If I am going to accept him, I need to know that I like kissing him. Mrs Hodge’s daughter told me that is a preliminary to children who will be my most important duty, as all women know. Why, the purpose of marriage is the begetting of children. I hear it in church all the time. And if kissing is the preliminary to the begetting of children, and I am here to decide whether to become Mr Dalgleish’s wife, then what we did beneath the mistletoe was a very necessary part of my research.”
“Ah, yes…I suppose it is research.”
It seemed that the tone of his voice stopped her excited little speech, and as he looked at her bright eyes and confused expression, he felt a surprising tenderness. How little she knew of the world, but how eagerly she embraced it. And with what determination to improve her poor lot in life. For it must indeed be a sorry situation to be under the dominion of the deplorable Mrs Hodge.
“And did your research please you?” he asked.
She pressed her lips together and looked over his shoulder to a point somewhere in the dim depths of the room. “I quite liked it,” she said, musingly. “Certainly, I did at the time. After all, I’d never kissed anyone before and…well, his lips were quite soft, and it did feel quite nice.”
“Just quite nice?”
She nodded.
“It should feel quite delightful. That is entirely possible, you know.”
“Well, I don’t have anything to compare it with,” she grumbled. “I had hoped you’d kiss me under the mistletoe, but of course you are betrothed to someone else.”
“Not betrothed, exactly.”
She blinked in surprise and her face fell. “Yet you still didn’t want to kiss me? Oh Theo, tonight has been most disappointing. I did not mean to say what I said, but I think there was quite a lot of brandy in the eggnog, and I’ve discovered I have no head for brandy. But…” She stared at him. “Have you changed your mind about marrying?”
“Not at all.”
Lizzy traced the pattern of the curtain with her forefinger. “And was she thrilled when you asked the question?”
“You’re fishing now, aren’t you?” Theo tried to think back to just when the moment was that marriage had been agreed upon, and couldn’t. “We have an understanding.”
“So, it is not something that’s definitely been decided upon between the two of you?”
“It will happen.”
Her disappointment was so transparent and the sweetness of her expression so taking, Theo barely knew the words were out of his mouth before he said, “And I don’t mind kissing you right now, Lizzy…just so as to satisfy you that Mr Dalgleish’s kiss is without a doubt the most superior.” A shaky justification but it would help him, too. Clearly, they’d both had too much to drink and a kiss was just a kiss. This would prove it. He blinked to clear the slight blurriness that was altering his ability to think with as clear a head as he knew he ought to have to be making such a rash offer. “Do you think that would help you accept him with no doubts at all?”
Her face lit up, and pure delight danced in the depths of her beautiful blue eyes. “Oh yes, I think it would!”
> Before the words were even out of his mouth, she was standing on tiptoe, tilting up her face, and offering him her lips; her eyes closed, a faint smile upon the soft, pink mouth that he knew—with the greatest foreboding and the greatest excitement in this instant—would be fatal to taste.
But taste he must. He had made the offer, and there was not only his promise to honour but her dignity to maintain. He’d rejected her so many times before, but surely this one opportunity would be a means of satisfying them both. A brief kiss excused upon the grounds of providing education and elucidation for her, and on his part, delivering a kindness.
Placing one hand gently behind her neck, he lowered his face and then hesitated. If she opened her eyes and displayed the slightest hint of having second thoughts, he would withdraw.
But she did not, and no sooner had he registered the fusing of their lips, a featherlight touch at first, tentative, then only slightly exploratory, Theodore felt his entire body seemingly combust in a reaction that was as unexpected as it was unwelcome.
He should put her away from him was his first thought as her hold around his neck tightened. He should never have suggested this, his instincts told him as the mists of a rapidly enveloping fog further clouded his judgement; so that as she drew him down, intensifying the pressure of their kiss, her soft sighs making no secret of her growing enjoyment, he knew it was far too late to take account of anything beyond the here and now.
When he breached the seam of her lips with a gentle probing of his tongue, she was only too ready to give him access, the press of her body cleaving against his, pushing her breasts against his chest and making him harden like a young buck.
Conscious of the impropriety when there could be no marriage proposal to follow, and that was, quite clearly, what had brought her to Quamby House, he pulled away, his breathing ragged and the slight befuddlement of his mind a signal to the small piece of conscious rationality that he had overstepped the mark.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered, her eyes still closed, her hands gripping the lapels of his coat; her mouth curved in a smile of infinite pleasure.