A Summer to Remember

Chapter 5

It rained intermittently for five days straight. It was impossible to walk any farther abroad than the back garden of the Duke of Portfrey’s house during the brief intervals between heavy downpours of rain. Lauren would have been perfectly content to remain quietly indoors, keeping Elizabeth company and busying herself with her needle and her pen, but everything around her seemed to conspire against any such hope.

The Duchess of Anburey came the morning after the theater visit with gentle reproof for Lauren’s having agreed to remain alone with Viscount Ravensberg when Wilma had very properly tried to draw her away to call at Lady Bridges’s box. Even when Lauren pointed out that she had stayed in Lord Farrington’s box from choice and that their tкte-а-tкte had been conducted in full view of any of the theater patrons who had cared to look, her aunt informed her that a lady could never be too careful of her reputation. Especially Lauren, under the circumstances, she added significantly.

She invited the Duke and Duchess of Portfrey and Lauren to dine the following evening. It would have been a reasonably pleasant family event, Lauren thought afterward, if it had not been for the presence of the lone outsider, another of the Earl of Sutton’s worthy, dull friends, who was seated next to Lauren at dinner and scarcely left her side all evening. It was most provoking to be six and twenty years old, a jilted bride, so to speak, and the object of all the determinedly well-meaning matchmaking efforts of several of one’s relatives.

Viscount Ravensberg did not remain without a mention. Lord Sutton regaled the company in the drawing room after dinner with an account of the viscount’s latest scandalous escapade. He had made a spectacle of himself the day before by going for a swim in the Serpentine in Hyde Park in the middle of the day between rain showers, wearing only—well, the earl did not care to elaborate on that topic in the presence of ladies. Lord Ravensberg had been laughing merrily when he got out of the water and revealed himself in all his shocking dishabille—he had not even been wearing his boots! He had sketched a deep, mocking bow to Lady Waddingthorpe and Mrs. Healy-Ryde, who had stopped, despite the mortification of being witness to such a shocking sight, to do their duty and inform him that he was a disgrace to his name and his family and the uniform he had worn until so recently. It was they who had spread the story, of course, beginning in Lady Jersey’s drawing room no more than an hour later.

The worthy young man assured Lauren with hushed solemnity that some gentlemen were not deserving of the name.

There were letters to and from home during that week, including one from Gwendoline, Lauren’s cousin and dearest friend—more sister than either cousin or friend, in fact. They had grown up together and had been virtually inseparable for most of their lives. Gwen referred to a letter her mother, the dowager countess, had received from Aunt Sadie.

“It is evident that she is surrounding you with a veritable army of eligible suitors,” Gwen had written. “Doubtless worthy and impossibly stuffy to a man. Poor Lauren! Is there anyone special—anyone you consider eligible? Oh, I know you have no wish for a beau, eligible or otherwise, but . . . is there?”

Lauren could picture the bright, mischievous grin Gwen would have worn while writing those words. But of course there was no one. Did he deliberately court notoriety? she wondered, her thoughts going off at a tangent. Swimming half naked in the Serpentine, indeed!

Gwen’s letter ended with a sentence written in slightly darker ink, as if she had sat at the escritoire for a long time before adding it to the rest, dipping and redipping her pen into the inkwell as she did so.

“Lily and Neville called at the dower house this morning,” the sentence read, “to bring the happy news that Lily is increasing.”

That was all. No details. No description of how Lily must have been glowing with joy and Neville bursting with pride. No description of how Aunt Clara must have wept with delight at the prospect of holding her first grandchild—or of the pang of grief Gwen must have felt at the memory of losing her own unborn child in a miscarriage following the riding accident that had left her permanently lame.

Just the bare fact that Lily was going to have a baby. Lily and Elizabeth both—newly married and increasing and as happy as the day was long. While Lauren was planning to set up her own very lone spinster establishment later in the summer and convincing herself that it was what she wanted most in life.

Lily had written to her father with the news, of course. Lauren was with Elizabeth in the morning room when he brought the letter to share with his wife.

“Oh, has it happened, then, Lyndon?” Elizabeth asked, clasping her hands to her bosom. “Lily was quite convinced she was barren.” Then she bit her lip and looked at Lauren, her eyes troubled.

Lauren smiled with all the warmth she could muster. “You must be very happy, your grace,” she said.

“Indeed I am, Lauren.” But he laughed ruefully. “Or I was until I recollected but a moment ago that now I will be plagued with anxieties for both my wife and my daughter.”

Lauren put away the embroidery she had been working on and got to her feet to leave Elizabeth and the duke alone together.

And then on the sixth day a card was delivered to Lauren at breakfast. It was an invitation from Mrs. Merklinger to dine the following evening and then proceed with their party to the private box Mr. Merklinger had reserved at Vauxhall Gardens, where there was to be dancing as well as fireworks.

She had spoken very little with the Merklingers at the theater. She had no other acquaintance with them. The only explanation for their invitation to join what must be a small, select party was that Viscount Ravensberg was to be another of their guests. Somehow he had maneuvered this.

She had told him quite firmly that she would have nothing further to do with him. For six days it had seemed that he must have accepted her dismissal. She had been relieved. Oh, whom was she trying to deceive? The past six days had been almost intolerably tedious, though they had been no different from much of her life before them. She must refuse the invitation. It just would not do to fall prey to Viscount Ravensberg’s mocking flatteries and deliberate attempts to shock her. They were so obviously insincere. She must refuse. And yet . . .

And yet Vauxhall Gardens of an evening were said to be enchanting.

And she had a curiosity to know how he meant to proceed with her now that she had made it quite clear that she was not susceptible to his flatteries.

And Aunt Sadie, Wilma, and Lord Sutton disapproved so very strongly of him. That was almost a recommendation in itself, she thought with guilty self-reproval.

And soon now Elizabeth’s confinement would be over and Lauren must move on to . . . well, to the life she had chosen as the most desirable for herself.

And Lily was increasing. Neville was a married man, soon to be a father.

“What ought I to do?” She showed the invitation to Elizabeth, who read it through and handed it back.

“You are assuming Lord Ravensberg will be of the party?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Elizabeth looked kindly at her. “What do you want to do?”

“He is an infamous rakehell,” Lauren said. “Why would he feed gossip by swimming in the Serpentine and then laugh about it when caught and scolded?”

“He is also a remarkably attractive young man,” Elizabeth said. “Attractive to you, Lauren. What are your wishes? I cannot tell you what to do. Is your disapproval of Viscount Ravensberg stronger than your attraction to him? That is the real question that needs answering.”

“I am not attracted to him,” Lauren protested.

“Then there is no harm, surely, in taking advantage of an opportunity to enjoy an evening at Vauxhall,” Elizabeth said. “Unless you are actively repelled by him, that is.”

“I am not repelled by him.”

Elizabeth set her folded napkin beside her plate and rose from the table, spreading a hand over her swollen abdomen as she did so. “Lauren,” she said, “both Lyndon and I are distressed for you that Lily’s news has followed so soon upon your arrival here that you must wonder if you will ever escape your painful memories. No.” She took Lauren’s arm and led her in the direction of the morning room. “You must not deny it. I am perfectly well aware of how deeply attached you were to Neville. But please—oh, dear me, I have sworn to myself that I will not make the mistake Sadie is making and try to order your life for you.” She sighed. “But I cannot altogether resist. Please, Lauren, do not imagine that your life is over or at least your chance for a happy, productive life. Only you can know what will make you happy, and if a quiet retirement from society is what will do it, then I will support you against all the Sadies of this world. But . . . No, I will positively say no more. Do you really want my advice concerning that invitation?”

“No,” Lauren said after a moment’s consideration. She smiled ruefully. “It was unfair of me to ask. I shall go. I have always wanted to see Vauxhall. And I am neither attracted to nor repelled by Lord Ravensberg, Elizabeth. It is quite immaterial to me that he too will be one of Mrs. Merklinger’s guests.”

Elizabeth patted her arm.

Alone in her room a few minutes later, Lauren was suddenly struck by a memory—of words to which she had not been given a chance to respond at the time.

Then perhaps you should marry someone like Bartlett-Howe or Stennson. Every time they move they are lost to view within a cloud of dust.

How incredibly rude! How cruelly unkind! How absolutely delicious!

Lauren suddenly grabbed a cushion from a chair within reach and stuffed it against her mouth as she went off into whoops of laughter. Then she had to drop the cushion in order to find a handkerchief with which to mop at her brimming eyes.

He ought not to be encouraged, she told herself severely, even by this secret laughter.

It was already dark when they approached Vauxhall Gardens by boat. There was a bridge that could take them across the Thames by carriage, Merklinger had explained at dinner, but why waste a perfectly good opportunity to do the romantic thing and cross by boat, especially as all that infernal rain seemed to have ceased at last and it looked to be a bright night with all the stars out and the moon approaching the full?

Why indeed, Kit thought as he handed Miss Edgeworth into the boat and took his seat on the bench beside her. He had sat beside her at dinner too, Mrs. Merklinger having apparently made the assumption that they were a couple—just as she was determinedly making it about Farrington and her pretty little chit of a daughter. Farrington was being roundly ribbed about it among their circle of acquaintances.

“And so,” Kit said, “they sailed away over the edge of the world to a land of wonder and enchantment. And carefree dalliance.”

“We are merely being rowed across the River Thames to Vauxhall Gardens, my lord,” she said. “A journey of ten minutes or so, I daresay.”

At least she was speaking directly to him. She had avoided a tкte-а-tкte during dinner, pointedly directing most of her conversation to Merklinger on her other side.

“Ah, but Vauxhall is a wonderful, enchanted land,” he told her. “And famous as a setting for dalliance and other romantic capers. Have you been there before?”

“No. And your conversation borders upon the offensive, my lord.”

He wondered if she knew how delectable she looked when she was at her most prim and indignant, as she was now. Her already upright posture had taken on a distinct resemblance to a poker at the mention of dalliance. Her chin had lifted an inch. She gazed disdainfully off across the water instead of looking back at him. She was wearing the lavender cloak she had worn to the theater, its wide hood pulled halfway over her dark curls for the river crossing, though the evening was balmy. Beneath it she wore a high-waisted, long-sleeved gown of ivory lace over silk. He had wondered, when he first set eyes upon her earlier in the evening, how she could always appear to be the best-dressed lady at any gathering despite the comparative simplicity of her dresses. But the answer had come to him almost immediately. To add to her other ladylike perfections, she was also a woman of exquisite taste.

The realization somehow made this evening’s task more daunting. There were ten days of his wager remaining. He was to be married to her within ten days or else be three hundred pounds the poorer. Married to her? Within ten days? Was it possible? But the word impossible had never been part of his vocabulary.

Kit listened to the babble of voices around them. Miss Merklinger and her cousin, Miss Abbott, were commenting on everything they saw with bubbling, youthful enthusiasm. But Lauren Edgeworth, having allowed plenty of time for her last scolding words to sink home, was speaking again, her face still half turned from him.

“Why were you swimming half clad in the Serpentine?” she was asking. “Why did you make such a public spectacle of yourself? Do you enjoy giving outrage wherever you go?”

“Ah.” He chuckled. “You have been told about that, have you?”

“And yet you expect me to allow myself to have my name linked with yours?” she added.

“You would not wish for the acquaintance of someone who makes a spectacle of himself in public places?” he asked her. “Someone who courts notoriety? I am desolate. But the child was wailing pitifully, you must understand, and his nurse was at the very tail end of her tether. I do believe she was rapidly coming to the conclusion that her only remaining option was to smack him.”

“ What child?” She turned a frowning face toward him.

He chuckled. She looked beautiful even when she was cross. “I might have guessed,” he said, “that those old tabbies would tell only part of the story. The child had a new boat, you see, which set off boldly and proudly for the distant horizon and held its course for all of one minute while he jumped up and down with glee and yelled loudly enough to do an infantry sergeant proud. And then it sank ignominiously without leaving so much as a bubble on the surface. It was several yards from shore by that time.”

“And you dived in to retrieve it.” Her tone held a mingling of incredulity and scorn.

“Not immediately,” he explained. “I waited until the nurse’s total incompetence to deal with the crisis became evident. It was a crisis, you see. What self-respecting captain can watch his ship go down without him and not throw a massive tantrum, after all? When there was no other course open to me but to witness a justifiably hysterical lad being cuffed by his insensitive nurse, I removed as many of my clothes as I decently could—though I understand there are varying opinions upon just how many that is—and dived in. I recovered the boat from its muddy grave. I thought my actions were rather heroic. So did the lad.”

She stared at him, obviously speechless.

“You see,” he explained, tipping his head to one side, “I was a boy once myself.”

“Once? You mean you have grown up?” She bit her lip—to hold back a smile? But there was telltale laughter in her voice.

“Lady Waddingthorpe and Mrs. Healy-Ryde swelled with outrage, like two hot-air balloons,” he said abjectly.

For a moment, even in the moonlight, he could see her eyes light with merriment. But—damn it!—before she could express it the exclamations of Miss Merklinger and Miss Abbott drew the attention of everyone in the boat to the fact that it was drawing in to the bank. Light shivered across the water from the many lamps strung in the trees of Vauxhall Gardens.

“Oh!” Lauren Edgeworth said.

“You see?” he said gently. “It is an enchanted land, is it not?”

“Magical,” she agreed with such warm fervor that he guessed she had forgotten her eternal—or infernal—dignity for the moment.

He handed her out, and they followed the others into the pleasure gardens, whose enchantment could weave its spell even over such jaded tastes as his own. The long colonnades, the extensive groves of trees, and the wide avenues would have made for pleasant strolling even during the day, he guessed. But during the evening all was transformed into a glorious wonderland by the colored lamps waving from the colonnade and from the tree branches, the moonlight and starlight like twinkling lamps in a distant black ceiling. The music of the orchestra wafting from the direction of the open-air pavilion wrapped itself about them and muted the sounds of voices and laughter from the dozens of merrymakers.

It was the perfect setting for dalliance.

And for a marriage proposal.

They took their places in the box Merklinger had hired for the evening, close to the orchestra and the wide open space before it where the audience stood during concerts and other spectacles and where the dancing would take place tonight. They ate strawberries and cream and drank wine and enjoyed the evening air. Miss Abbott flirted with Mr. Weller. Mrs. Merklinger courted Farrington for her daughter with single-minded devotion. Merklinger hailed almost everyone who passed in front of their box and engaged anyone who stopped in hearty conversation. Kit turned to Lauren Edgeworth.

“Will you waltz with me?” he asked.

“Oh, yes!” Miss Merklinger exclaimed, clapping her hands. “Let us all waltz. May we, Mama?”

Fortunately, Kit discovered when he looked at the young lady, rather startled, she had not mistaken the object of his invitation. Her sparkling gaze was fixed upon Farrington, who was climbing indulgently to his feet while the girl’s mother beamed benevolently upon them.

“A waltz,” she said. “You have not yet been given the nod of approval by any of the patronesses of Almack’s to dance it, my love, and neither has Amelia. But in Vauxhall I daresay the rules are not so strictly observed. Off you go and enjoy yourselves.”

And so they waltzed, Kit and Lauren, and the other two couples too, beneath the stars and beneath the swaying lamps, the evening breeze fluttering the lace of Lauren’s overdress and tousling Kit’s hair. The delicate arch of her spine had been made to fit his hand, he discovered again. And the waltz might well have been invented for her to dance. She performed the steps with elegance and grace. And she was more beautiful than he had had any right to hope.

She would make a perfect countess when the time came. His father could have no greater objection to her than the fact that she was not Freyja. How very different they were. . . . But he did not choose to pursue that thought. This woman would suit him well enough.

“Can there be anything more romantic than waltzing beneath the stars?” he asked her, his voice lowered for her ears only.

She had been gazing about at the trees and lamps, but she looked directly at him when he spoke. “I suppose,” she said gravely, “one’s answer to that must depend upon one’s partner.”

He chuckled. “I tremble to ask,” he said. “Can there be anything more romantic than this waltz beneath the stars?”

“There can be few activities more pleasant than this, my lord,” she said. A setdown if ever he had heard one.

“I could think of a few.” He deliberately dropped his gaze to her mouth and tightened his hand at her waist. And what the devil was he about, trying to annoy her when he should be wooing her?

“Why do you persist in flirting with me?” she asked him. “Have I not made it abundantly clear to you that I will not succumb to flattery? Does my reluctance amuse you?”

Her primness amused him—surprisingly. It should be annoying, he supposed, but it was not. He found her grave dignity almost endearing.

He twirled her without answering, drawing her closer when he saw another couple perilously close. But she was having none of it. She set the correct distance between them once more and looked into his eyes with steady reproach.

“There was a large bumpkin about to mow you down,” he explained. “That one. Oops.” The large young man he indicated had just collided with another couple. Kit chuckled. “I will take you strolling when the waltz is over. And before you say the very firm no you are drawing breath for, I plan to make all proper by suggesting that the others accompany us.”

She closed her mouth and looked warily at him.

“It would be a shame,” he said, “to come to Vauxhall and not see as much of it as possible, would it not? The paths are wooded and rural and unutterably romantic.”

“I did not come here for romance,” she said.

“There are other alternatives.” He smiled wickedly at her and twirled her again, and her neck arched back as she gazed up at the wheeling colors of the lamps. “Why did you come?”

When she did not immediately answer, he sighed soulfully. The music, he sensed, was about to end.

“Come strolling with me,” he said. “With the others for propriety, of course.” If he could not escape their chaperonage once they were away from the environs of the pavilion, then he would have lost his touch indeed.

The music drew to a close, and they stood facing each other while all about them couples made their way back to the boxes.

“You hesitate because I swam in the Serpentine wearing only my pantaloons?” he asked her.

“You make a joke of everything,” she said. “I wonder if anything is serious to you.”

“Some things,” he assured her. Ah yes, some things. “Walk with me.”

“Very well,” she said at last. “Provided everyone else agrees to accompany us, my lord. But I will not tolerate either flirtation or dalliance.”

“I promise neither to flirt with you nor to dally with you,” he said, smiling, his right hand over his heart.

She looked unconvinced.

“Very well,” she said again.