The Willful Widow (3 page)
This gentleman was more the thing, Finchley thought to himself as he closed the drawing room doors behind him. Well over six feet with broad shoulders and a sportsman's physique, he had an air of distinction that Lord Hatherill, despite the constant and devoted attentions of his tailor and his valet—both geniuses in their own particular domains—
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could never have hoped to attain. Finchley allowed himself a sigh of satisfaction as he went off in search of his mistress. Left to himself, Justin continued his inspection of the harpy's abode and was forced to admit that he was pleasantly surprised. Decorated in a soothing shade of gray that called attention to the Adam fireplace and plasterwork delicately traced in white, it was serene and comfortable in the fashion of a previous generation. That the style employed was a result of taste rather than economic necessity was proclaimed by the newness of the upholstery and the draperies. Justin was in complete agreement with its owner, finding the prevailing rage for ormolu, gilt, and fantastic animals as excessive as the prince who had introduced it.
"Hello," a raspy voice greeted him. Justin whirled around in surprise. He had not heard any approaching footsteps, and his senses were acute. His gaze was met by the blank panels of the drawing doors. "Hello!" The voice was more insistent this time. Feeling a complete fool, Justin looked this way and that, with no success. "Hello." A slight motion behind the clock on the mantel caught his attention, and he laughed with relief as a gray bird emerged and made its way around the corner of the clock to perch there, cocking its head and fixing him with a ruminative stare.
"Who are you?" Justin asked without thinking.
"Bonaparte, Bonaparte," the bird chanted as it sidled along the mantel to get a better view of the visitor.
"Well hello, then, Bonaparte," Justin replied.
"Hello?" This time the voice was low and musical with the hint of a question in it.
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The door had opened behind him, and Justin, having failed to detect any approaching footsteps, found himself discovered in mid-conversation with a bird—a humiliating situation for anyone, especially one who had come to establish a superior position over the bird's owner.
He turned around with as much dignity as he could muster to face the woman who had entered. She was as lovely as her voice, tall and graceful with hair so dark it was almost black, a small straight nose, delicately sculpted lips, and deep blue eyes under gently arched brows. There was a decided twinkle in these eyes as she took in her visitor's discomfiture. For her part. Lady Diana was equally impressed. Of sufficient height to make her feel short, St. Clair was a man whose face was as commanding as his physique. It was lean and intelligent with penetrating gray eyes set under heavy dark brows, which more often than not were raised in the ironic contemplation of his fellow creatures' follies. At the moment, though, the ordinarily mocking expression was softened by the sheepish look that, try though he would, Justin was unable to banish completely, and it made him appear younger and more approachable than usual. Disarmed by this, Diana, who had at first been wary of such an imposing individual, smiled in a friendly fashion. "I see you have made the acquaintance of Bonaparte. He is an African gray parrot, and he insists on introducing himself to all our visitors whether they will or no, do you not, Boney?" She stroked the bird who, now perched on her shoulder, was pecking thoughtfully at one dark strand of hair that had escaped her coiffure and curled enticingly behind her ear. 24
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"But, sir, though you have become acquainted with Boney, you have the advantage of me."
Recovering himself in an instant, Justin straightened to his full height announcing, "I am St. Clair." The lady's expression remained open and friendly, but there was no recognition.
"Viscount Chalford's uncle, you know." Lord, he sounded as pompous as Alfred! Justin fumed. It was too bad of the earl to embroil him in this. After all, the lad was of age. He had every right to entangle himself in any affair that he wished to, though who would have thought Reginald would have such taste, his uncle wondered as he took in the elegant figure revealed under the simple but highly becoming morning dress of striped jaconet. Truly the lady was quite beautiful, and quite wasted on his nephew.
"I see." The blue eyes were wary now, and a hint of reserve had crept into her voice.
"It won't do, you know," he continued in a more conciliatory manner. "His father is quite set against it."
"His father is quite set against
me,
you mean. It's just that he cannot decide which he is more set against, the possibility of my inheriting my aunt Seraphina's fortune away from his son or the possibility of my marrying his heir, neither being an event over which he has any control. Aunt Seraphina being in full possession of her faculties, and Reginald having attained his majority." A distinctly frosty note had crept into her voice.
Her logic was irrefutable, and the more he considered it, the more Justin resented being thrust into the awkward 25
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situation in which he found himself. Damn Alfred!
"Nevertheless, it is most uncomfortable to be in the position of upsetting one's future relations, whatever their reservations," Justin continued in what he hoped was a reasonable tone.
Diana was seething. What right did this arrogant gentleman have to invade her drawing room and dictate her life to her—not that she had the least intention of marrying Reginald, a dear boy, but wet behind the ears and so slavishly devoted to her that it made her uncomfortable? What right did he have to stand there looking at her as though she were no more than a bug on the carpet, when all she had done was take pity on his awkward young nephew and befriend him. First there had been the Earl of Winterbourne—pompous fool and selfish to boot—and now this St. Clair person looking her up and down with a detachment so cool that it verged on the disdainful. The indignity of it all made Diana want to throttle her visitor. Instead, clasping her hands tightly together in front of her, she smiled sweetly. "But, you see, I don't mind upsetting my future relations at all, as I dislike you all quite as much as you dislike me. So, in fact, I should find it awkward indeed if you choose to welcome me into the family, for I don't think I wish to have anything to do with such a grasping selfish bunch as you appear to be." The devil! If he had not been so infuriated at being relegated to the stuffy ranks of Alfred and the family, Justin would have been highly diverted by someone who had so deftly outmaneuvered him. The lady had spirit, there was no 26
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doubt about that, but if she thought she could get the best of Justin St. Clair, she was fair and far-off. Before he could muster up a suitably stinging rejoinder, Diana had rung for the butler, adding serenely, "And now that we have made our positions clear to one another, I see no reason to prolong this discussion. I bid you good day, sir." Still wearing that sweetly superior smile, she swept from the room, Bonaparte still clinging to her shoulder, and leaving her caller rigid with pent-up frustration. There was nothing for it but to depart with as good grace as he could muster. "I shall be back, Lady Diana," Justin growled to himself. "And next time we shall see who is the victor. You may have won the battle, but you have certainly not won the war. I will be damned if I allow some chit to best me when the likes of Talleyrand and Metternich have failed." With that, he mounted his horse and trotted off down Brook Street. Lady Diana Hatherill might have had the feckless Ferdie under the cat's foot—obviously the hapless Reginald was in her thrall—and she had even sent Alfred to the right about, but she had yet to discover what it was to lock horns with a worthy opponent. Such dealings had left her with a false sense of security, and it was high time someone taught her a lesson. It was not that she was so superior, merely that she had been dealing with men all of whom were notably lacking in character and resolution. Justin smiled grimly to himself as he headed toward the park. Life had just become interesting again, and he relished the thought of the next encounter. No doubt Lady Diana thought that she had seen the last of Justin St. Clair. She 27
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couldn't have been more wrong. Her dealings with him were only just beginning, for there was nothing Justin liked more than a challenge, and the cleverer, the more determined the adversary, the better he liked it. The fact that he had been bested in the first round only served to spur him on. By the time Justin had reached the park, he had quite forgotten that he had originally undertaken the errand at his brother's behest, and unwillingly at that. He now had a personal stake in the affair, which made his nephew's and his brother's roles in it immaterial. He began to plot his next move as he skillfully maneuvered his horse among the press of carriages and riders, all taking advantage of the fineness of the day after weeks of inclement weather.
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While Justin was relieving some of his spleen with a ride through the park spent conjuring up visions of future contretemps from which he would emerge incontrovertibly victorious, the other disputant had marched upstairs and was now pacing furiously around her boudoir muttering angrily to herself. "The arrogance of it all! Coming to persuade me to release Reginald as though I were going to ruin him. Ruin him, I don't even
want
their precious Reginald! Oh, if I were a man, I should have called him out. Insufferable, arrogant man!"
"Insufferable, arrogant man!" Boney agreed, happily tweaking her ear.
"Well, you saw how he was, staring down his haughty nose at me, as though I were the veriest trollop. It was beyond all bearing! It would serve them right if I were to agree to all Reginald's protestations of undying affection and run off with him." Diana took another turn around the room.
"Run off with whom, dear?" a gentle voice inquired from behind her.
"Reginald, the puppy!" Diana fumed as she looked up to see her great-aunt standing in the doorway.
"I can't think that would be a very good idea, my love. Then you would be forever saddled with him, and though he is a very sweet boy, I don't think he has a great deal of dash, poor lad. Takes after his father," Seraphina sighed sinking into a comfortable-looking
bergère
by the fire. "I beg your 29
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pardon for intruding, but I did knock, though I don't expect you heard me."
"No, I'm sorry, Aunt Seraphina." Diana laughed ruefully. "I was far too busy thinking of what I should like to do to that insolent, interfering, intolerable..." Diana was forced to pause for breath.
"Who, dear?" Seraphina was highly intrigued. She couldn't remember a time when she had seen her great-niece so upset—not when her father had died and certainly not when that good-for-nothing husband of hers had stuck his spoon in the wall.
"The Lord Justin St. Clair," Diana hissed. "He had the effrontery to call on me and tell me in no uncertain terms that it 'would not do.'" Diana's voice dripped pure scorn.
"What would not do?" Seraphina was bewildered. She had left her great-niece not long ago happily perusing the
Times,
and had returned to find her beside herself with rage. It was quite unlike her. As far back as Seraphina could remember, Diana had been a self-possessed little thing, largely owing to the vagaries of her absentminded father.
Geoffrey, Marquess of Buckland, had been an affectionate parent whenever he stopped to remember his little daughter, but for the better part of his life, his mind had been elsewhere—strolling the streets of ancient Athens with its most enlightened citizens, and reveling in all the glory that was ancient Greece. If he emerged from his books at all, it was to partake of some meal that his daughter insisted that he eat. Bucklands had been masters of their particular corner of Surrey since the days of the Conqueror, and it was only for 30
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the sake of the line that Geoffrey had married the daughter of Sir Hugh Fitzwilliam, successor to an equally ancient and distinguished lineage. But his heart had not been in it, and he had hardly noticed when his young wife had been carried off by an inflammation of the lungs, leaving him alone with a child of two.
Since that moment. Lady Diana had been in the nominal care of a series of nurses. However, being possessed of an independent nature, and having learned to take care of herself at an early age, she had, to all intents and purposes, raised herself. The one aspect of his daughter's life in which the marquess had interested himself, classicist that he was, had been her education.
He had hired the local vicar, a scholar of some stature himself, to give his Lady Diana her lessons. Not infrequently, the marquess would wander in during these, and the lessons would degenerate into a lively discussion of Sophocles and Epictetus. Diana would sit wide-eyed, listening and trying to absorb as best she could all that they were saying. As she was eager to learn and a quick pupil, it was not very many years before she was beginning to make some sense of these digressions. Gradually she had come to be included, as the vicar, recognizing the quality of his student's mind, began to address remarks to her from time to time. Diana had been allowed free access to her father's excellent library, and as she had little else to do—her father not having much social intercourse with the rest of the neighborhood—she had spent much of her days there reading and exploring whatever had happened to catch her interest. 31
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