The Wastrel. Margaret Moore
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I fear,” Aunt Aurora remarked sadly, as if the man suffered a grave deficiency.
Then, blissfully unaware that Clara was not enthused by this social engagement, Aunt Aurora and Uncle Byron proceeded toward the steps leading into the mansion while Clara followed slowly behind.
As they reached the bottom step, a private coach adorned with a family crest stopped where the cab had been moments before. Clara glanced back as the door opened and a top hat appeared, followed quickly by a broad-shouldered, well-dressed individual wearing an opera cape. The dark fabric swirled when the man leapt lightly onto the walk, revealing a brilliant scarlet lining.
As if this man needed anything extra to draw attention to himself, Clara thought, looking at his classically handsome profile in the lamplight.
Then she realized, without having to be told, that she must be looking at the handsomest man in England—Lord Paris Mulholland. There could not be two men in London with such a form and face.
He reached into his pocket and flipped a coin toward the driver. “Three hours, Jones,” he announced in a languid, deep voice that bespoke wealth and education, and that also held a tinge of amused good humor in it. “Mind, I shall be most aggrieved if you are late, and I won’t listen to any excuses! Then we’ll be off to White’s, for I’ve laid on a bet with poor, dim Boffington that I can make her ladyship swoon at least five times before I meet him there. Too easy, really. I should have made it ten.”
The lighthearted command in the man’s voice quite captivated Clara and she wished she had a part of that bet, which would surely be won, so much so that when Lord Mulholland suddenly turned and looked at her, she gasped with guilt. She attempted to mask her shame and surprise by effecting a cough—and wound up sounding as though she were in immediate danger of choking to death.
Aunt Aurora and Uncle Byron, who had also halted when the stranger arrived, hurried to her. “Are you quite all right, my dear?” Aunt Aurora asked.
Clara nodded, took a step toward the town house and unfortunately tripped on the hem of her lovely new gown. She hastily disentangled herself, but before she could move farther away, the stranger was beside her.
“Somebody expiring on the very steps?” he inquired politely, reaching out to take her arm in a grip that was surprising strong.
Seen so close, Clara realized he was extremely attractive, with eyes of such brilliant piercing blue beneath finely arched blond brows that she felt some kind of pure, invigorating energy blaze forth from them. He was smiling, and his chin had the merest hint of a dimple beneath full, sensual lips.
She had expected a man with his reputation to be a vain dandy, but she couldn’t have been more wrong, for Paris Mulholland exuded a masculinity that needed no embellishment.
If there was any mercy under heaven, the ground would open up and swallow her.
“I tripped.” Her embarrassment caused her to put on as severe an expression as she could muster as she pulled away from Lord Mulholland. “I am fine, thank you.”
Clara could look very severe, yet that only seemed to amuse the man, who smiled most charmingly and ran his gaze over the three of them.
It was happening already, Clara thought with dismay. Impertinent appraisal. She knew what he would think when he discovered that her aunt was an artist and her uncle a poet—that she, living with such people, must be of lax morals.
Clara drew herself up and directed a steely gaze at him, remembering that she was most properly and demurely dressed, so there could be no good reason for his long assessment of her.
“Greetings, fellow bacchanal! Are you come to join the revels?” Uncle Byron asked by way of salutation.
To speak so to a stranger, and in Mayfair, too! Would Uncle Byron never learn to observe the social niceties?
The nobleman lifted his black silk top hat and bowed gracefully, and she noted his sleek, blond hair and long, slender fingers. “Allow me to present myself. I am Lord Paris Mulholland.”
Aunt Aurora gave Clara what could only be described as an impressed and triumphant look, and Uncle Byron would have swept his hat from his head if he had worn one. Instead, he made a very low and flourishing bow such as Lord Mulholland might recently have witnessed on a theater stage. “Byron Bromblehampton Wells, sir,” he announced. “My wife, Aurora, and our niece, Miss Clara Covington Wells. Charmed to make your acquaintance, my lord!”
“I’ve been hoping to meet you, my lord,” Aunt Aurora gushed with equal enthusiasm. “I have heard it said you are a handsome man worthy of your legendary name, and it is most gratifying to see that your reputation is quite well-founded.”
“Thank you, dear lady,” the sleek and undoubtedly seductive Lord Mulholland replied as he took Aunt Aurora’s plump hand and gallantly pressed a kiss upon it. “But I am named for the city, not the man.”
He took Clara’s hand in his. Even though they both wore gloves, his touch was astoundingly delightful—firm yet gentle, too. “Your servant, Miss Wells,” he said, kissing the back of her hand lightly. He glanced up at her face with a roguish grin.
It occurred to Clara that it didn’t much matter how Lord Mulholland came by his name, for it was all too fitting.
“Have you ever had your portrait done?” Aunt Aurora asked eagerly.
At that moment, it would have been a blessed relief if there had been a tornado, or an earthquake or any other cataclysm—anything other than to have to stand there and listen while Aunt Aurora said, “I’m an artist, my lord, and nothing would give me greater pleasure than to paint you.”
“Indeed?” Lord Mulholland replied. “That is a most intriguing proposition.” He faced Clara. “And does this delightful young creature also paint?”
“No, my lord. This creature does not,” she answered firmly, moving away and telling herself that his roguish smile was probably nothing more than a habit with him. No doubt he considered any and every woman an object for an attempted seduction.
“A pity,” he replied. “May I escort you inside?”
No! Clara wanted to shout. What would people think if they entered here together? Think! They would believe they knew. A female stranger of such dubious social heritage accompanying a man like Lord Paris Mulholland must be “under his protection.” What little reputation she might have hoped to maintain with a demure manner and extremely plain and modest gown would fly away like a frightened sparrow. She should have insisted that she remain at home tonight!
He held out his arm, but toward Aunt Aurora, not her. It was the most impeccably correct thing to do, and Clara thought she must have been temporarily deranged to imagine that he would want to escort her.
“How perfectly delightful,” Aunt Aurora said as she stepped ahead to take his proffered arm. “Now, about your portrait....”
“I shall have to give it some thought,” Lord Mulholland said, and Clara could hear the laughter in his voice.
A man of his wealth could have any painter from the Royal Academy. He would never want to sit for Aunt Aurora, so why did he have to lead her on? Did he enjoy making sport of others or placing them in embarrassing positions? Probably. It would be in keeping with what she had heard of him from some of her aunt’s friends: that Paris Mulholland’s sole goal in life was to enjoy himself.
If he did decide to have Aunt Aurora paint his portrait—and Clara had to admit that they needed the money—and if he did come to her aunt’s lodgings to sit, she would ensure that she was out of the house. Or perhaps, finances notwithstanding, it would be better to discourage any talk of a portrait entirely. Although Clara loved her aunt dearly, there was no escaping the fact that every portrait her aunt painted bore a marked resemblance to the Duke of Wellington. She could almost hear the cutting criticism Lord Mulholland would make of the picture, and the way he would regale his equally ne’er-do-well friends with tales of her relatives’ eccentricities.
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