Page 6 of An Earl Like You (Games Earls Play #6)
Chapter
Three
BERKELEY SQUARE, LONDON, ONE WEEK LATER
T he scent of pineapple ices was making him ill.
“What the devil is wrong with you, Windham?” Hayward turned away from the carriageful of ladies they were waiting on and lowered his voice.
“Good Lord, man, but you’re a bit green about the gills.
I hope you’re not going to cast up your accounts in front of half the ton . It’s not at all the thing.”
“I don’t understand the appeal of pineapple ices.” Cass retrieved his wrinkled handkerchief from the breast pocket of his coat and pressed it to his nose. “The smell is nauseating.”
“Smell? I don’t smell anything. Perhaps a touch of elderflower sugar, but that’s all.”
“The elderflower is fine, but the pineapple smells sour, like vinegar.” Or was that his handkerchief? He raised the limp linen to his nose again, took a cautious sniff, then hastily stuffed it back in his coat pocket.
“Don’t let Gunter hear you say so. Bad for business, you know.”
“Gunter has nothing to worry about.” Cass nodded at the phaetons, gigs and the occasional barouche crowding Berkeley Square, their fashionable passengers all chattering and laughing at once, colorful ices in elegant silver cups clutched in their hands.
The season was upon them, and there was no place in London where that was more evident than outside Gunter’s Tea Shop in the afternoon. The ton loved nothing more than flaunting their finery on the promenade before flocking to Gunter’s afterwards to indulge in ices and gossip.
“Perhaps it isn’t the ices making you ill, Windham, but the quantity of brandy you drank at Lord Chapman’s soiree last night.”
“It’s not the brandy.”
That is, it was the brandy, but not just the brandy.
It was the cheroots, too, and the hours spent wagering with Chapman, who’d taken no less than four hundred pounds off him.
He hadn’t returned to his townhouse until the wee hours of this morning, then he’d slept the entire day and been obliged to rush through his toilette to make it to Hyde Park in time to escort Lady Laetitia down the promenade during the fashionable hour.
Hence the disgraceful state of his linen.
But the pineapple ices didn’t help matters. The bile was gurgling in the back of his throat, threatening at every moment to overflow his lips, and his hands weren’t quite steady.
“The ladies must have their ices, Windham.” Hayward nodded at the carriage where Lady Laetitia, this season’s undisputed belle, was whispering to her two companions. “No proper gentleman would dream of depriving the ladies of their little indulgences.”
No one, neither gentleman nor lady would dream of depriving Lady Laetitia of a single thing she desired.
Alas, what Lady Laetitia desired above all else was to be seen outside Gunter’s Tea Shop, holding court over her friends while all the most elegant gentlemen danced in attendance upon her.
It was the most fashionable place to be on a sunny afternoon in May, and God knew they all must be fashionable, or die.
When had this all become so tedious? He’d enjoyed it at first, hadn’t he?
The balls and routs and soirees, his box at the theater and lunches at White’s followed by hours of clandestine wagering at the gaming hells—it had all been entertaining enough when he’d taken his place in society as the Seventh Earl of Windham, hadn’t it?
But that was the trouble with shiny things. They paled quickly, and the blush had most certainly worn off the rose of the Windham peerage. No wonder his father had been such a delinquent. One had to do something to alleviate the boredom of being an earl.
A high-pitched giggle burst upon the air, and he and Hayward turned toward the carriage where Lady Laetitia was enthroned upon pale blue velvet squabs.
If the gossips were to be believed, her father Lord Tremblay had chosen that specific shade of blue because it complemented his precious Laetitia’s blue eyes.
Those blue eyes were currently the toast of London, and they were pretty enough, despite being the wrong shade of blue. They were forget-me-not-blue, instead of bluebell blue?—
“All right there, ladies?” Hayward gave the smiling trio a courtly bow, eliciting another shrill giggle from the young ladies that pierced Cass’s feeble defenses, lancing through his eyeballs directly into his skull.
Good Lord, but his head was pounding. This was all Chapman’s fault. A curse upon the man and his free-flowing brandy.
“Come now, Windham.” Hayward nudged him. “You look as grim as an undertaker, and on such a lovely day, and with such a vision of beauty before us, too. The ladies look particularly picturesque in the sunlight, do they not?”
“They’re well enough, I suppose.” But not nearly as picturesque as his darkened bedchamber would have been.
Hayward raised a brow. “Damned with faint praise, indeed. You’ll have to do better than that if you want to secure Lady Laetitia, Windham.”
That was the trouble. He didn’t care one whit whether he secured Lady Laetitia or not, but he fixed a dutiful smile over his clenched teeth, nonetheless. It wouldn’t do to spend all afternoon scowling at the lady he was meant to be courting.
The match with Lady Laetitia had been his father’s idea. In fact, he’d insisted on it, but of course his father was in no position to demand anything now, being dead and comfortably ensconced inside a thick marble slab in the family tomb.
But if Cass must marry—and he must, as he was the Earl of Windham now—then what difference did it make which lady he made his countess? Lady Laetitia would do as well as any of the others.
Better than any of them, if one took her fortune into consideration, which his father certainly had. The Windham earldom was a wealthy one, but no amount of money had ever been enough for his father, and Lord Tremblay’s land bordered the Windham country property in Oxfordshire.
Joining the Windham and the Tremblay names would mark the beginning of the empire his father had always dreamed about. There was a great deal of money to be made if he and Lady Laetitia wed—enough money that a match between them was as good as decided, despite his indifference toward her.
The ton expected it, and they must appease the ton , or die.
“Lord Windham? Yoo-hoo, Lord Windham?” Lady Laetitia beckoned to him with an imperious wave of her hand. “A word, if you’d be so kind?”
“Go on, Windham.” Hayward gave him a none-too-gentle push toward the carriage. “And attempt a smile, would you? It won’t do to look as if you’re approaching the gibbet when you speak to your future bride.”
“At least a man can have some peace after a visit to the gibbet.” But he did as he was told and straightened from the railing, pasting a smile on his face as he walked toward the carriage. “Lady Laetitia. Have I told you how lovely you look this afternoon?”
“No, you have not, my lord. Why, you’ve hardly spoken a dozen words to me since we arrived.” Lady Laetitia’s cool blue gaze ran over him, lingering on his limp cravat. “But I’ll consider forgiving you for your rudeness if you fetch us three more pineapple ices.”
More pineapple? Good Lord, but he was being punished for his sins today. “Of course, my lady. I’ll find a waiter?—”
“Oh no, that won’t do. The waiter is taking an age in this crush, and Lady Caroline, Lady Beatrice and I are dreadfully parched. You’ll go yourself, won’t you?” She held out her empty silver cup, a sweet smile on her lips, but beneath the brim of her bonnet her eyes were narrowed.
Lady Laetitia was displeased. It was not, alas, an uncommon occurrence.
“I’m delighted to serve you, as always, my lady. Lady Caroline, and Lady Beatrice.” He offered them each a bow, then took the sticky cups, loaded them on the tray and made his way across the square, dodging the tangle of carriages, with Hayward smirking after him.
“Lord Windham.” One of the waiters darted toward him, his eyes widening when he noticed the tray in Cass’s hand. “I beg your pardon, my lord. I didn’t see?—”
“Never mind, George. I needed the walk.” He handed the harried man the tray with a wink. “Three more pineapple ices, and George?”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Take your time.”
George grinned. “Yes, my lord.”
“Good man.”
The tea shop was as crowded inside as it was in the square, the tables teeming with elegant ladies and throngs of their gentlemen admirers lounging about, but he commandeered a coveted space near the door, a bit away from the suffocating press of bodies.
He was the Earl of Windham, after all.
A fresh spring breeze scented faintly with lilac reached him where he stood, cooling the perspiration on his forehead and chasing some of the thickest of the cobwebs from his mind.
Slowly, his shoulders relaxed, lowering inch by inch until the bottle-green superfine of his collar was no longer touching his earlobes.
Yes, that was better. It would do until he could escape to his townhouse in Mount Street.
He took another deep breath and let the lilac scent wash over him, filling his head and his chest with sweetness. With each breath the tea shop noise faded, and for a moment, just a moment, he let his eyes drop closed and permitted himself to imagine he was somewhere else.
Filtered sunlight, branches swaying over his head, and the soft buzz of dragonfly wings circling a still pond, laughter floating into the blue sky above the tree, and the sweet scent of meadow grasses. It was strange how well he could recall it, strange that the memory never faded in his mind?—
“Your pineapple ices, Lord Windham.”
The fantasy evaporated in a clatter of dishes and hurried footsteps, and he opened his eyes to find George standing in front of him, a silver tray with three silver dishes atop it balanced on his hand.