Rake in the Regency Ballroom: The Viscount Claims His Bride / The Earl's Forbidden Ward. Bronwyn Scott
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past. Yes, those were the things she wanted most to believe about Valerian.
Then there were the dismal truths. Truth number one: he’d blatantly acknowledged their little affaire was nothing but a young man’s fleeting fancy.
Truth number two: he’d never meant to marry her. He’d known that very night he was leaving for his uncle’s diplomatic residence. What else could explain such a rapid departure? He must have been planning it for months, perhaps for even longer than their short-lived infatuation.
Truth number three: he’d never asked her father for permission to court her and certainly not permission to ask for her hand. If he had, her father would have told her, she was sure of it.
Truth number four: he had made no effort to contact her or Beldon in his absence.
Truth number five: he’d come home with a reputation to match the behaviour he’d shown her that long ago night in the Rutherfords’ garden.
The bottom line of her analysis convicted him. With the exception of a few fleeting moments, nothing corroborated the behaviour she wanted to see in him. Nothing supported the items listed in the myth column. Everything supported the facts both past and present. The stark truth was that Valerian Inglemoore was a seducer of women—a very good one at that. So why was it so hard to resist him, even with the truth staring her in the face? And why was it so hard to accept that truth?
Was it possible there was another side to Valerian that he deliberately kept hidden? Perhaps there was a side that he couldn’t afford to expose. There might be reasons for his tightly tied mask, reasons that had to do with his work for his uncle. Philippa drew out another sheet of paper. She had friends in political circles who could find out. All wishful thinking aside, it suddenly seemed of paramount importance she knew the truth about Valerian Inglemoore.
Philippa sanded the letter and set it aside, nagged by a growing sense of guilt. She didn’t feel right about the inquiry. It felt too much like spying, going behind Valerian’s back. No, she wouldn’t send it, at least not right away. Now that her initial anger was waning, she was beginning to recognize she had done little to get to know the man Valerian had become.
Before she sent off a letter of inquiry prying into the man’s background, she should try to exhaust more direct routes available to her. After all, she sat at the same dinner table with him and there was the outing to Vicar Trist’s in Veryan tomorrow if Lucien’s request was accepted. Those were prime opportunities to reacquaint herself with Valerian and determine the truth on her own.
The evening was a relaxed contrast compared to the prior two nights. Many of the guests who had stayed over after the New Year’s ball had departed late in the afternoon for short journeys home. In addition to Beldon and Valerian, only two couples remained, a Lord Trewithen and his wife, and the ageing Baron Pentlow and his wife from the Penwith area, who were friends of Lucien’s father and had come to the ball en route from London on their way home.
With the exception of the queer Mr Danforth, Philippa knew the other guests as regular acquaintances from the Cornwall community during her marriage. It was a simple task to make conversation over dinner and have a congenial time with the two ladies after the meal in the music room while the men took their port.
Afterwards, the men joined them for a short night of cards. She and Beldon offered to play whist with the Trewithens. At the far end of the music room, Lucien already sat at the cluster of chairs and sofa, talking avidly with Danforth and Pentlow, to the exclusion of all else, leaving Philippa to consider what to do with the elderly Lady Pentlow.
Unlooked for, Valerian rescued her admirably. ‘Duchess, would you mind if I played the pianoforte this evening? I haven’t a desire for cards at the moment or for business.’Valerian gave a quick nod to Lucien’s group deep in discussion, his tone indicating how inappropriate he felt such a topic of discussion was in this setting.
‘It would be delightful to hear you play again, my lord,’ Philippa said, inwardly laughing at the formality of their exchange, so bland and perfect compared to the heated, more imperfect exchanges they’d exchanged in private.
Valerian inclined his dark head in a gracious nod. ‘Lady Pentlow, if I might impose on you to turn the pages for me? I recall at dinner you said you enjoyed the country pieces. Canton has a decent collection of music, perhaps you could sort through it and select a few.’ Valerian offered Lady Pentlow his arm and escorted her to the pianoforte, bending his head low to catch the woman’s excited chatter.
Philippa watched them go with gratitude. How deftly Valerian had managed the situation. Lady Pentlow was a dear, sweet lady and Philippa hadn’t wanted her to feel left out or in the way. Valerian had sensed the need and adroitly stepped in. Unlike Lucien. For a man she’d considered eminently eligible marriage material, she’d certainly had a lot of uncharitable thoughts about him recently.
Philippa shot a glance at Lucien’s coterie, wondering what they could be talking about that would raise such an interest that Lucien would forgo his guests? Typically, Lucien was an excellent host with an eye for details, showing every guest the utmost courtesy due them in polite society. Tonight, he’d left that task entirely to her. She didn’t mind. She was there to play hostess, after all. Still, such behaviour wasn’t like him and it seemed odd that he would commit such a faux pas in order to talk to Mr Danforth, a man whom Lucien had claimed not to know two days past.
‘Are you coming? We’re ready to play,’ Beldon called from the card table.
Philippa smiled and took her seat. ‘I hope my brother has warned you how competitive he is.’
Their game was lively and they rotated partners at the end of each rubber. The Trewithens proved to be capable players, demanding all of Philippa’s attention. Usually she was quite good at cards, whist and piquet being two of her favourite games. But tonight, too many distractions competed for her attention, not the least being Valerian’s quiet ballads coming from the pianoforte. On occasion, she caught snatches of Lady Pentlow’s trebly voice singing a few lines.
At last the tea cart arrived, signalling the end of the evening. Philippa poured out and then went to stand with Beldon as the group congenially sipped their tea. ‘What do you suppose has Lucien so interested?’ she asked quietly.
Beldon gave a soft laugh, part-teasing, partcynicism. ‘I see the privileges of being a male prevails here. If you’d been allowed to stay at the table, you would have been treated to Mr Danforth’s announcement that he was opening a bank here in Truro, the Provincial Bank of Truro or some such nonsense.’
‘Nonsense?’ Philippa queried. ‘Why would you say that?’
‘You know what these country banks are really like, Phil. They’re investment firms.’
Philippa nodded in agreement. Cambourne had done business with Praed and Co., a bank in Truro that invested in high-risk ventures such as inventions and new technologies. If one was clever, these investments paid off. Cambourne had had good luck with them, but it was no surprise that these country banks went bankrupt far more often than the style of bank one would do with business with in London.
She better understood Lucien’s potential interest now. Lucien was always interested in money. ‘Does Lucien think he’ll invest?’
‘More than that. Mr Danforth has offered Lucien a place on the bank’s board of directors.’
‘For a sum, I’m sure.’ Philippa offered thoughtfully.
‘Definitely for a sum. But Lucien would be in charge of directing the investments. He seems quite taken with the idea.’
‘He’d be good at it. Lucien is no fool when it comes to money.’
‘But not women, at least not you.’ Beldon eyed her over his teacup.
‘Valerian told you?’
‘Hmm. Rather cowhanded of Lucien to think you could be politely coerced, if not into an actual betrothal, then at least as far as a publicly announced engagement. Are you thinking of accepting?’