The Wastrel. Margaret Moore
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you, I have friends awaiting me. If you will excuse me, Miss Wells, I look forward to meeting you again in Lincolnshire.”
She watched him stroll away unconcerned, as though nothing of any import had happened. She felt as if one of the Greek gods had suddenly appeared before her in mortal form and invited her to Olympus.
Most surprising of all, she wanted to go.
Paris leaned back against the cushions of his carriage, oblivious to the sounds of London as Jones took him to White’s.
Paris knew he should have been feeling quite pleased with himself, for he was going to get a considerable sum from old Boffington, and could probably dine out on the tale of this wager for the rest of the year.
However, there could be no denying, even to himself—and Paris Mulholland was a past master at denying any troubling twinges of emotion—that his little interview with the artist’s niece upset him far more than it should. By rights, he should be quite immune to the opinions of others, and especially those of a very serious, disdainful young lady whose social station was so below his own, even if she did proclaim them in a delightful voice, her eyes shining with indignant passion. When was the last time he had seen authentic passion, even of an angry sort? He couldn’t remember—and he shouldn’t be trying to.
What did it matter if her shrewd observation that he was planning to get some amusement from her aunt’s foibles had been correct, at first? She said it had happened before; she should be used to it. Indeed, he told himself, if she were really clever, she would have been exploiting her aunt and uncle’s eccentric ways as a means of living. They could easily be a traveling circus.
He wrapped his cape tighter against the damp chill. No, he didn’t mean that. He knew how it felt to have the adult in one’s life make embarrassing remarks. He, too, would have bristled at such treatment, had he been in her place.
Paris Mulholland suddenly had the distinct sensation that this perfect stranger, this hazel-eyed embodiment of outraged familial loyalty and pride, had not just upset the equanimity of his life. She had managed to touch his heart and set it strumming in understanding sympathy.
He didn’t want his life disturbed, or any sympathetic feelings roused. He didn’t want to feel very much of anything. Life was much safer and so much more pleasant that way.
He wished he had never extended the invitation to her aunt that they all come to Lincolnshire. Perhaps he could undo it...but then, he would miss the pleasure of her guardian’s company.
They were amusing and interesting, and would certainly liven up his dull days. What was so very wrong with taking advantage of that?
Chapter Four
The Wells heard nothing further from the infamous Paris Mulholland during the few days immediately after Lord Pimblett’s ball. Clara decided he had changed his mind about the portrait and told herself she was glad of it. No matter how her aunt fretted—and dear Aunt Aurora could fuet—Clara couldn’t help feeling it would be a blessing if they never saw the man again. It would be awkward to return the money, yet that might be far preferable to dealing with Lord Mulholland for any length of time.
There was also another reason Clara did not wish to spend more time in such company. What might her guardians say or do at Mulholland House? They were so...so enthusiastic about their passions! She was not ashamed of them exactly, but more than once their unbridled remarks had caused Clara to wish to bury her head in the proverbial sand. A man like Paris Mulholland would have stories to tell for years—and he would tell them, too, in that seductive, utterly captivating voice of his.
Then, a fortnight after the Pimbletts’ ball, they received a note from a Mr. Mycroft, Lord Mulholland’s man of business in the city, detailing the travel arrangements and providing the funds. They were to go to Folkingham in Lincolnshire and disembark at the Greyhound Inn, where they would be met by a coachman from Mulholland House who would drive them to the manor.
There was no doubt, from that moment, that they would go.
Although preparing for the journey to Lincolnshire severely taxed Clara’s patience, she dared not protest. Aunt Aurora and Uncle Byron now believed that Lord Paris Mulholland was something of a saint, and they would not listen to any attempt to persuade them otherwise.
Aunt Aurora, who considered her commission to paint Lord Mulholland as the beginning of a new and important phase of her career, simply could not be made to see the troubles this journey entailed. She quite cheerfully entrusted all the arrangements to Clara, with the single exception of the preparation of her painting materials.
Uncle Byron concerned himself with composing a farewell ode to the Thames and outfitting himself with what he considered the proper garb of a country gentleman, which meant tweeds and gaiters. Under no circumstances did he wish to hear that they could not afford new clothes, and Clara finally gave up trying.
The landlady of their shabby and meager lodgings proved to be completely unreasonable. She insisted that if they were going to vacate the rooms, vacate them they must, which meant packing up all their belongings and paying rent for the cellar, where they were graciously allowed to store the few pieces of furniture they owned outright.
There was also the matter of Zeus, the family cat, a large and dignified black feline. Clara wasn’t sure what to do about him, until Aunt Aurora suggested turning him over to the tender mercies of one of her artistic friends, a young woman who kept decidedly odd hours and rarely managed to feed herself, let alone a cat. Clara refused, and finally decided that since Lord Mulholland had invited “the whole household,” he would get the whole household.
Clara’s anxiety over their imminent departure was not assisted by her deep-seated dread that they would all have a terrible time in the country. For one thing, their host, who was said to be completely at the mercy of his whims, might take it into his head not to have his portrait painted at all once they arrived, and they would be left with no lodgings and perhaps having to return the twenty-five pounds, already gone to the purchase of new paints, canvas and Uncle Byron’s clothes.
That was bad enough, but the idea of living in the same house as the handsome and charming Lord Mulholland who could make her knees weak with a look was worse yet. She knew the visit was going to prove a great strain, especially if he exerted himself to seduce her. Not that she thought he could succeed, of course; she knew all the games and stratagems, even if they had not been practiced by such an attractive man. She finally decided she would simply avoid him and hope that Aunt Aurora painted quickly.
At last the day they were to leave for Lincolnshire arrived. Clara greeted it with great trepidation and considerable anxiety, and all too soon found herself wedged inside the coach for the journey north, with her aunt on one side and the basket holding Zeus on her own lap. Her uncle sat across from them with his feet sticking out into the middle of the compartment. He fell into a doze the moment the coach, with several other passengers perched on the top, lurched into motion.
Despite her misgivings, as the coach left the suburbs of London and entered the countryside, Clara found herself pleased and excited to be out of the city. She had forgotten how green and pleasant rural England could be, and how much sweeter smelling. The day was a fine one, and although the road was dusty, it was still better than London.
If only they were not going to the country home of Lord Paris Mulholland!
“Folkingham!” the coachman bellowed as the coach began rattling over the cobblestones of a village street.
Clara woke with a start and a jerk. She had fallen asleep during the last stretch of their journey. Mercifully, this final part of the ride was brief, or Clara doubted that her internal organs would ever be set right again. The jostling also managed to awaken her aunt, whose bonnet was more than slightly askew.
“We’re at Folkingham,” Clara said, grabbing Zeus’s basket with a tighter grip.
“Folkingham?”