“With large thigh muscles,” Willa pointed out, laughing.
“I simply can’t believe Lord Alaric is under the same roof as I am,” Lavinia said breathlessly. “Just last week, The Morning Post reported that he was lost in the Russian Steppes. I knew it wasn’t true. He’s far too experienced a traveler to succumb to bad weather.”
“I remember the print you have of him caught in an Arctic ice storm,” Willa said.
“I left that at home,” Lavinia said. “I only brought one with me, showing him at the wheel of a ship, pursued by another flying the Jolly Roger. It’s a representation of Wilde Latitudes.”
Willa wrinkled her nose. “That title is a good example of why I haven’t read his books. What does that mean? He’s a latitude, all to himself?”
“No, just that his ship roamed the islands where pirates make their home.”
Willa laughed. “We should take out the print and make a close comparison. Perhaps we could ask Lord Alaric to stand in profile, holding a wheel, to make certain that your money hasn’t gone to waste.”
“We’d have to beat off his admirers.”
“And that’s far too much work.” Willa linked her arm with Lavinia’s and drew her in the opposite direction from Lord Alaric and his thorny tangle of admirers.
She disliked the hungry expression that had swept the room like a contagion when he walked in. Many ladies had clearly dressed for a hunt: Bodices couldn’t go any lower without a display of bellies better kept private. Patches had been applied to women’s faces with such abandon it was as if the skies had showered scraps of black silk.
Rather surprisingly, Lord Alaric didn’t seem to be basking in all that adoration. In fact, if she had to guess, she’d think he hated it.
She refused to be part of the frenzy—or allow him to think of Lavinia in that light either. What if Lavinia made up her mind to marry him? Not that Willa thought it was a good idea, given Lavinia’s infatuation. In her opinion, no woman should adore her husband; it led to flagrant abuses of power.
“Good evening, Mr. Fumble,” she said, smiling at the young man who stepped into their path.
He bowed. “Good evening, Miss Ffynche.” And, with a yearning look, “Miss Gray. I hope you are quite well.” When they’d met the day before, he’d promptly succumbed to Lavinia’s charms.
Lavinia, meanwhile, was making a half-hearted pretense at being overheated, so she could stare at Lord Alaric from behind her fluttering fan.
“Did you chance to read the Morning Chronicle at breakfast?” Willa inquired. “It was dated several days ago, but there were copies at the table this morning.”
Mr. Fumble blinked at her uncertainly. “His Grace invited us to a hunt this morning, but I read the first page. Most of it. Some of it.”
Willa brought up the proposed Act for the Prevention of Vexatious Proceedings touching the Order of Knighthood, but it was clear that Mr. Fumble had no interest. He was, however, fascinated by the habits of red foxes. He was still lecturing them about fox tunnels when Lavinia interrupted.
“Lady Knowe is behind you, Willa,” she cried. “She has Lord Alaric with her, and I believe they are coming to speak to us!”
“I beg your pardon,” Willa said to Mr. Fumble, turning about. Lady Knowe, the duke’s sister, was a large-boned woman with a wry wit and an infectious laugh; since the duchess was expecting a child in the not-too-distant future, Lady Knowe was acting as her brother’s hostess. She had the family’s slashing eyebrows and height.
She was using that height to cut through a froth of ladies trying to cling to Lord Alaric. She looked like a mother duck striking out for land with a cluster of ducklings in tow.
When they all reached Willa’s side, Lady Knowe gave Miss Kennet and Lady Ailesbury such a hard-eyed glance that they actually fell back a step. Lady Helena Biddle seemed to be of tougher stuff, because she clung obstinately to Alaric’s other arm.
“Lady Biddle,” Lady Knowe said in an awful voice, “I trust that you will unhand my nephew. I am waiting.”
“We are reuniting,” she replied, with a touch of desperation. “I haven’t seen Lord Wilde for such a long time!”
“Lord Wilde is a fictional character,” Lady Knowe retorted. “As such, you may reunite in your imagination, which doubtless is the wellspring of many such enthralling encounters. I wish to introduce my nephew, Lord Alaric, to these young ladies.”
Lady Knowe was the closest thing there was to a queen at this distance from London, so Lady Biddle acknowledged herself beaten and fell back a few steps.
“Miss Willa Ffynche and Miss Lavinia Gray,” Lady Knowe said. “May I introduce Lord Alaric Wilde? Alaric, these are two of my favorite young ladies, other than our family members.”
“Good evening, Lord Alaric,” Willa said and, to his aunt, “I was fortunate enough to meet your nephew over tea, Lady Knowe.”
“It is a true pleasure to meet you, Lord Alaric,” Lavinia said. “I find your work most enthralling.”
Somewhat surprisingly, Lord Alaric didn’t assume the glazed look of admiration most men got when Lavinia brought her most dazzling smile into play, but perhaps he was a slow starter.
It would help to give him the full force of Lavinia’s charm and beauty.
“Mr. Fumble was just giving us an account of this morning’s hunt,” Willa said to Lady Knowe, turning her shoulder and leaving Lavinia to dazzle the explorer.
“We were all very sorry,” Lady Knowe said to Mr. Fumble. “I blame it entirely on your mount. The duke should clear his stables of horses that are so difficult to handle.”
It seemed Mr. Fumble had taken a tumble. Willa managed to keep that poetic sentence to herself. For some reason, she was wrestling with a rebellious streak as regards ladylike conversation. Likely it was just a response to the Season.
She and Lavinia had presented a resolutely ladylike front for months, saving all commentary, ribald and otherwise, for home. Or, if it couldn’t wait, for whispered conversations in the ladies’ retiring room.
Now she felt like sighing, shrugging, disagreeing, and disobeying all the self-imposed rules that had turned their first Season into such a success. But to give in to that impulse would be disastrous. The “real” Willa would be an unwelcome shock to most of her suitors, who wouldn’t have imagined that she wore spectacles while reading—or that she loved bawdy jokes.
“I agree,” Mr. Fumble said stiffly. “My mount was deaf to all persuasion and refused to take a hedge that any decent pony could have managed.”
“I trust you weren’t injured?” Willa asked, putting on a sympathetic expression.
“He went arse over teakettle into a stream,” Lady Knowe answered. “Which broke his fall, no doubt.”
This proved such a terrific insult that the gentleman gave her a huffy scowl and stomped off.
Glancing at Lavinia, Willa saw that things were not going as well as they might. Her friend was gazing at Lord Alaric precisely as one might imagine Pygmalion gazed at his statue before it came alive.
Silently.
The statue likely didn’t notice, but Lord Alaric was looking restless.
Lady Knowe obviously came to the same conclusion. “Your older brother tells me that you claim to have never met a single cannibal, Alaric,” she said. “I meant to tell you that Wilde in Love is riveting. I enjoyed every moment of it.”
Lord Alaric’s eyes darkened. “While I am sorry to disappoint you, Aunt, I am unacquainted with cannibals.”
“Oh, come, come,” Lady Knowe cried. “You could find a cannibal if you tried hard enough. I would chase one down, were I you. Wilde in Love has led your readers to expect just such an account. Explorers mustn’t be cowardly.”
Looking at the brutal contour of Lord Alaric’s jaw, Willa thought it most unlikely that cowardice played a part in his decisions, or for that matter, that a cannibal would be able to catch him unawares.
Lavinia was staring dreamily at his profile, ignoring the conversation.
Willa gave her a surreptitious pinch. The man was only a man, no matter how many books he had written.
No matter how beautiful and powerful and rich he was.
Or dazzling.
He was only a man.
“Lavinia and I had a diverting conversation about that subject this very afternoon,” she said. “We were wondering whether cannibals from different tribes would be allowed to marry if one had previously enjoyed a feast that included a relative of the other.”
“How grisly,” Lady Knowe exclaimed. “I can say categorically that I would never marry someone who had ingested a relative.”
“If we believe Hamlet,” Lavinia said, coming to life as if she were Pygmalion’s statue, “the dust of our ancestors is everywhere. We’re likely drinking it in these glasses of sherry.”
“That’s most unlikely, considering that our ancestors were not Spanish,” Willa pointed out. “I’m pretty sure this is Amontillado wine.”
“I have a Spanish great-aunt,” Lady Knowe said, grinning. She raised her glass. “I’ll have to change my mind about eating relatives. To Aunt Margarida!”
“But what if your relatives were more corporeal than dusty?” Willa asked.