Lord Darlington's Darling Page 4

  A blush stole into Abby’s face. “Thank you, my lord. You are very kind.”

  Lord Darlington looked down, utterly astounded. The word kind was not one generally applied to him or his character. As his closest acquaintances had often complained, he had carefully cultivated a cold, uncaring, and standoffish manner. Few were privy to the strong emotions which often surged beneath his breast. “Kind? I do not think so, Miss Fairchilde.”

  “Oh, but you are! You recalled meeting me last Season and that we had not danced the waltz before,” said Abby with a swift smile.

  Lord Darlington looked down thoughtfully into her face. An entrancing dimple had quivered into existence beside her mouth, and a smiling light gleamed in her eyes. Rarely had he been regarded with mingled trust and admiration. His siblings subjected him to varying degrees of awe and trepidation; his mother regarded him with affection; his friends with acceptance and occasional resignation. In that instant, though he did not yet know it, a crack started in the shield protecting his heart.

  “You dance very well, Miss Fairchilde,” said Lord Darlington formally.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she said with equal formality.

  The dimple had disappeared, and Lord Darlington found that to be a pity. “Have I distressed you somehow, Miss Fairchilde?”

  She glanced up swiftly, her guileless green eyes widening. “Oh, no! How could you have?”

  “I only wondered, since that fascinating dimple has disappeared,” said Lord Darlington quietly.

  Abby blushed fierily. She looked away, then back again very briefly before casting down her eyes. “I— I don’t know what you mean, my lord.”

  “I have a very bad habit of putting people out of countenance,” said Lord Darlington in rare apology. “I fear that I am a careless fellow at best. You mustn’t mind it, Miss Fairchilde.”

  “No, my lord,” said Abby. She glanced up through her lashes again, the dimple once more in evidence. Lord Darlington smiled again, a spark of warmth in his usually indifferent expression.

  When the waltz came to its inevitable end, Lord Darlington offered his arm to Abby. He met her wondering gaze with a faint smile. “I promised you an ice, did I not? Shall I escort you to the refreshment room?”

  Abby cast a quick glance over her shoulder, as though seeking guidance. Whatever she saw, she decided swiftly. She resolutely turned back to the marquess. “I shall be very happy for your escort, my lord.”

  Lord Darlington led his partner through the open doors at the end of the ballroom and procured a lemon ice for her. It was a pleasant few minutes while they conversed, each discovering topics of interest. Lord Darlington felt a mild sensation of regret when it was time to restore Miss Fairchilde to her family.

  Mrs. Crocker had returned from her own turn on the dance floor and sat beside her husband, slowly plying her fan against the heat. Her eyes met Lord Darlington’s and he was surprised by the assessing look that she gave him.

  “Lord Darlington, it is good to see you again,” she said, giving her hand to him. “I was most astonished when I returned from the floor with Lord Fielding and my husband informed me that you had solicited Abby’s hand for the waltz, for I had not seen you arrive.”

  “I escort my mother and sister this evening, Mrs. Crocker. I trust that I find you well?” said Lord Darlington politely.

  “Very well, thank you, my lord,” said Mrs. Crocker. She indicated the gentleman standing nearby. “Have you met Lord Fielding, my lord?”

  Lord Darlington met the cool gaze of a gentleman who stood taller than himself by several inches. He read a challenge in Lord Fielding’s blue eyes. Amusement once more rose up inside him. He bowed and drawled, “Lord Fielding? Of course, I do recall now. I believe we met last Season, did we not?”

  Lord Fielding bowed. His reply was clipped. “Quite. Just so.” He laid his hand on the top edge of Miss Fairchilde’s chair.

  Lord Darlington regarded the position of his lordship’s hand, absorbing all of its territorial implications, before he glanced up again at Lord Fielding’s face. The gentleman stared back. Lord Darlington picked up one of the fobs that hung at his waist on a satin ribbon and played with it. With an attentiveness which was not readily apparent to the others, he listened to Mrs. Crocker’s explanation that Lord Fielding was an old friend and had accompanied them that evening as one of their party.

  “We see much of Lord Fielding these days,” said Mrs. Crocker with a smiling glance in that gentleman’s direction.

  “I hope not so much that I wear out my welcome?” asked Lord Fielding with a smile.

  “You never do, my lord,” said Mr. Crocker.

  “And what does Miss Fairchilde think?” asked Lord Fielding, bending slightly, deferentially, over the young lady.

  Abby threw up a glance at Lord Fielding, a polite smile starting to her face. “Why, of course, you are always welcome, my lord.”

  Lord Darlington dropped the fob. It was obvious to even the greenest intelligence that Lord Fielding was warning him off from Miss Fairchilde. Lord Fielding was playing up his favored position with the Crockers, and with his possessive gesture and words, he made it clear that he considered Miss Fairchilde to be his own personal preserve.

  Lord Darlington wondered if there had yet been a formal betrothal, but then thought not. Miss Fairchilde did not act as though she had been spoken for. She had not hesitated to accept his invitation to dance the waltz; nor had Mr. Crocker anything to say against it. Thus it appeared that Lord Fielding was merely an established suitor, rather than Miss Fairchilde’s betrothed.

  Lord Darlington toyed with the notion of upsetting Lord Fielding’s apple cart. He was himself drawn to Miss Fairchilde, and certainly Lord Fielding’s pompous propriety was a challenge that he found amusing. Also, there was the Crockers’ air of dislike toward him. There was nothing like opposition to stir up his own formidable determination.

  His glance fell on Miss Fairchilde’s face. He felt certain she was a gentle, unassuming creature. It would be the height of perfidy to play the ardent suitor only to edge out Lord Fielding and spit in the eyes of her sister and brother-in-law. No, he had too often been the butt of cruel jokes in his own lifetime. At Eton, he’d endured harsh ridicule for his given name and his short height. He could never wish to inflict deliberate hurt on an innocent like Miss Fairchilde.

  A shade of anxiety clouded Miss Fairchilde’s green eyes, and he instinctively responded to it, by saying reassuringly, “I thank you for the honor of leading you out, Miss Fairchilde. We shall undoubtedly run into one another many times over the Season, but for now, allow me to make my excuses. I have neglected my mother and sister most shamefully this evening.”

  “Of course, my lord,” said Abby, the faintest tinge of rose blooming in her cheeks. She smiled shyly at him while he bowed over her hand.

  Lord Darlington turned to Mr. and Mrs. Crocker and bid them well. He merely nodded in Lord Fielding’s direction before sauntering away.

  Chapter Five

  The following day Mr. Crocker received Lord Fielding in his study, at his lordship’s request. The gentlemen were closeted for the better part of an hour, and when they emerged, they parted with great amiability. Lord Fielding left immediately, while Mr. Crocker, whistling, went in search of his wife. A quarter hour later, Mrs. Crocker sent a message to her sister to join her in the upstairs sitting room.

  August was with Abby in the drawing room, slouched negligently in a chair with the racing journal. When the butler conveyed the message, he said with his usual cheerful bluntness, “I suppose Lord Fielding has finally made an offer for you, Abby. You don’t mean to marry such a dull dog, do you?”

  “Hush,” begged Abby, throwing an embarrassed glance at the impassive butler.

  “Tarley knows what’s in the wind,” said August negligently. He grinned at the butler’s slight cough as that superior servant exited. “I wonder if Mama approves of Lord Fielding?”

  “August, pray!” exclaimed Abby. “
Perhaps it has nothing to do with Lord Fielding at all.”

  “Well, you will soon find out, shan’t you?” asked August, unabashed, as he returned his attention to the racing journal.

  Abby sighed and left the drawing room to her brother. As she went upstairs, she was aware her heart was pounding just a little faster than usual. She scarcely dared entertain the thought that she had actually received an offer of marriage.

  When Abby entered the sitting room, she saw that both her brother-in-law and her sister awaited her. Instantly she knew something of import had indeed happened, for they wore identical expressions of pleased satisfaction.

  “My dearest Abby!” Mrs. Crocker stretched out her hand and invited her sister to sit down beside her on the striped settee. “You will never guess what has transpired! It is almost too good to be true, though to be sure I did think that— however, one mustn’t put up one’s hopes until one is certain,”

  Abby shook her head, laughing at her sister. “Melissa, you haven’t made a bit of sense since I walked into the room!”

  Mrs. Crocker clasped her hands together in an unusual show of emotion. “It is just that I do not know whether I am on my head or heels.”

  Abby stared at her sister, a smile still hovering about her mouth. “I don’t recall ever seeing you in such transports before.” She slid a laughing glance at her brother-in-law. “Except when Mama told us that Peter had offered for your hand, of course!”

  Mrs. Crocker blushed. “Hush, Abby! You’ll give Peter a swelled head.”

  Mr. Crocker laughed from his place standing beside the mantel. “You must pardon Melissa just this once for giddiness, Abby. The thing of it is, you see, is that Lord Fielding paid me a visit earlier this morning. You can imagine for what purpose.”

  Abby looked from her brother-in-law to her sister, taking in the expectancy in their faces. She felt a sinking sensation. “You mean, August was right and Lord Fielding has indeed made an offer for me?”

  “August! What does he know about anything, I should like to know,” said Mr. Crocker with an indulgent laugh. “He has his mind set on nothing but youthful follies.”

  Mrs. Crocker smiled at her spouse. “Very true, dearest. But in this instance August has been unusually perceptive. At least—well, there is no other way to put it, Abby. August was only partially right.”

  “But . . . has Lord Fielding offered or hasn’t he?” asked Abby, her confusion showing in her slightly creased brows.

  Mrs. Crocker shook her head quickly. “Not precisely, no! However, his lordship did request permission to pay his addresses to you, Abby.”

  “Oh!” Abby waited to see what she might feel at the news. She supposed that she was pleased, for she felt a mild sensation of gratification. But then there was also that odd fluttering feeling in her middle. “I am pleased, of course. But it is not the same as an offer, is it?”

  Mrs. Crocker’s expression instantly registered compassion as she regarded Abby’s face. She thought she understood her sister’s lack of excitement. “Oh, Abby! You mustn’t take it so.”

  “No, it isn’t an offer, of course,” corroborated Mr. Croker, frowning thoughtfully. “You are quite right to be disappointed, Abby. I must admit to a bit of letdown myself. I had expected Lord Fielding to come right to the point. After all, he has been dangling after you for weeks.”

  “I am sure his lordship knows his own business best, Peter,” said Mrs. Crocker hastily, reaching out to pat her sister’s arm in a soothing fashion. She glanced meaningfully at her husband.

  Mr. Crocker caught his wife’s warning gaze and said quickly, “No doubt Lord Fielding has matters of business or some such thing to take care of first. I shouldn’t worry about it, Abby. His lordship will come around.”

  “Of course he shall. Don’t be anxious for anything, Abby,” said Mrs. Crocker, her face relaxing again into a smile. “No doubt Lord Fielding will wish to make an announcement in time for a June wedding. In the meantime, I wish you to simply enjoy yourself this Season.”

  “I shall do just as you say, Melissa,” said Abby, responding to her sister’s smile with one of her own. She had long since discovered that a smile eased one through all kinds of awkward moments. “Have you informed Mama of Lord Fielding’s request?”

  “I shall do so on the instant,” promised Mrs. Crocker.

  Abby nodded. She rose from the settee. “If you and Peter don’t mind, I should like to go away and think for a while.”

  “Of course, dearest,” said Mrs. Crocker quickly, the look of mild compassion coming once more into her eyes. “We completely understand, don’t we, Peter?”

  “Quite! It isn’t every day that a gentleman like Lord Fielding makes known his intentions,” said Mr. Crocker in a congratulatory tone.

  Abby quietly agreed to it and left the sitting room. She made her way toward her bedroom, the slightest pucker between her well-formed brows. It was so very odd. Her sister and brother-in-law were obviously delighted for her. She wished she could honestly say she was just as delighted for herself. Perhaps there was something wrong with her, or perhaps she simply wasn’t of a very passionate nature. The strongest emotion she had felt upon hearing that Lord Fielding had at last decided to pay his addresses to her was gladness. And that was only because her sister and brother-in-law had done so much for her, and it was wonderful that she could repay their many kindnesses by marrying well.

  When Abby reached her bedroom, she pulled the bellpull for her maid. Upon her tiring-woman’s entrance, she requested help in changing into a walking dress. “I have a few books I wish to return to the lending library,” she said.

  The maid nodded and swiftly effected the wardrobe change. It was not unusual for Miss Fairchilde to go on such errands. She would be accompanying her mistress, naturally, for it would not do for a young lady such as Miss Fairchilde to ride about the city unchaperoned.

  Within a few very short minutes, Abby and her maid stepped into the carriage which she had requested to be brought around from the stables for their excursion. It was a short ride to the lending library, and her errand was swiftly accomplished.

  Abby’s thoughts were preoccupied by Lord Fielding’s no doubt flattering request. His lordship had established a habit of taking tea with the Crocker ladies about three times each week, so she would probably have the opportunity of expressing her gratification to that gentleman that same afternoon.

  Suddenly, as she faced the prospect of returning to the town house to discover his lordship arrived for tea, she felt quite nervous. Abby quickly made up her mind to extend her outing. “I believe I should like to look for some new ribbons for that straw,” she said to her maid and proceeded to give directions to her driver for a milliner’s shop.

  The maid directed an astonished glance at her mistress but said nothing. It was a queer start for Miss Fairchilde, who normally did not care overmuch for shopping for fripperies. Usually Mrs. Crocker decided what was needed and what was not in her younger sister’s wardrobe.

  When the carriage stopped outside the milliner’s shop, Abby and the maid stepped down to the walkway. The street was congested with carriages. An equally large number of pedestrians filled the walkways on either side of the avenue. Abby, who had never acquired the knack of feeling at ease in crowds, was glad when her maid remained close beside her as they made their way across the busy walk into the milliner’s shop.

  The bell above the door rang upon their entrance. At once an attendant approached them. Recognizing Miss Fairchilde as a frequent patron, the woman inquired what the young lady desired. Abby had often accompanied her sister and had bought a number of parcels on several occasions, but this was the first time she had ever been shopping without Mrs. Crocker’s guidance. For an instant she felt a flutter of panic, but then her commonsense reasserted itself. She was perfectly capable of articulating a simple request. “I should like to look at the ribbons, please.”

  The attendant bowed and ushered Abby, trailed by the silent maid, over t
o an extensive selection of the ribbons.

  As Abby was with difficulty trying to make a decision on just the right shade of pink ribbons for her bonnet, a quick gurgling laugh followed by an animated voice caught her ear. She looked around to see a young girl with a very well-dressed, handsome older lady.

  The girl appeared to be about seventeen and was already ravishingly pretty, possessed of lovely hazel eyes set in a heart-shaped face and a flashing smile. Her modest bonnet hid all but the wisps of gold curls which framed her face, yet Abby was quite certain the girl was one of those few fortunate enough to have been born with gorgeous hair.

  “Oh, Mama! Would it not make up a perfectly divine domino?” asked the young lady with a yearning note in her voice as she fingered a length of sumptuous brocaded silk.

  “Now, Bethany, you know perfectly well that I cannot sanction such an expensive, unnecessary purchase,” said the older lady in a reasonable tone. “At least, not without Sylvan’s express permission. We must be guided by him.”

  “Oh, Sylvan!” The young lady made a grimace as she reluctantly dropped the swath of silken fabric. “If it were left to my brother, I should be made to go around in rags.”

  “Bethany, that is unfair,” said the older lady reprovingly. “Sylvan has always made certain we are all well dressed.”

  The younger lady had the grace to appear chastened. The faintest color tinged her cheeks. “I am sorry, Mama. It is just that I wish we did not need to apply to Sylvan for everything. It quite takes the fun out of shopping when we must first decide if Sylvan would approve!”

  Abby thought she had eavesdropped enough and started to move away, a bunch of ribbon in her hand. A flurry of skirts rustled behind her, but she paid no heed. She was therefore astonished when a small gloved hand shot past her and snagged a bunch of ribbons from in front of her.

  “Only look, Mama! The perfect shade for my parasol,” exclaimed the young lady.

  Abby turned in surprise. She stepped back, giving room to the young lady who had crowded her. Automatically an apology rose to her lips, as though she had been at fault. “I beg your pardon!”