Rumours in the Regency Ballroom: Scandalising the Ton / Gallant Officer, Forbidden Lady

His father huffed. “You wanted to take over one of the estates? How can you expect me to trust you with such a task when you are being so reckless with drink?”

What else was he supposed to do? Adrian wanted to ask.

“I think it is high time Adrian went searching for a wife.” His mother nodded decisively. “The Season is over, but he might go to Brighton. There were plenty of eligible young ladies in Brighton when we were there, were there not? It is something to consider.”

“I did not mean to put the boy in shackles, Irene,” his father retorted.

His mother stiffened. “Marriage is akin to being shackled?”

“I did not say that.” His father hastened to his wife’s side and put his arm around her. “I merely meant he ought to enjoy life while he can, without duty dictating to him.”

His mother pouted. “You implied a man cannot enjoy life if he is married.”

“I did not say that,” his father murmured.

“You did say it,” his mother persisted.

Adrian held up a hand. “Do not argue over this.”

His mother pressed her mouth closed, but his father lifted her chin and gave her a light kiss on the lips.

She reluctantly smiled.

His father kissed her again and strode over to a side cupboard, removing a decanter of sherry and three glasses. “Marriage is a great responsibility,” he said to Adrian. “I do not encourage you to marry now, while you are engaged in such dissipation. I urge you to show more restraint. Stop the drinking.” As he spoke Adrian’s father poured sherry into the glasses and handed one to his wife and one to Adrian.

Adrian almost laughed. Only his father could chastise him for drinking at the same moment as handing him a drink.

His mother took her glass. “Well, I do urge you to look about for a wife. There is no hurry for it, I agree, but you might as well discover who will be out next Season.”

Adrian set his glass down on the table.

All he could think was that had Lydia accepted his proposal all those months ago, he’d have no reason to become dissipated.

But Lydia had not accepted him.

Adrian picked up the glass of sherry and drained it of its contents.

As soon as he was able, he extricated himself from the insane asylum that was his parents’ townhouse and headed back home, vowing to be more discreet in his activities so the details did not get whispered in his father’s ear.

Adrian winced at the brightness of the day. The sky was a milky white and hurt his aching eyes if he looked up. He tilted his head just enough to keep his eyes shaded by the brim of his hat. He neared Hill Street, depressing his spirits even more. All of London was depressing him.

Perhaps he should visit Tanner after all. Tanner had written to invite him to Scotland where he and his wife were spending the summer months and awaiting the birth of their first child.

Ha! Not likely he would be welcome there. What was this with having babies? Was every woman bearing a child this summer?

Adrian vowed he would not think of that. Nor of Lydia refusing his proposal.

But Tanner had also offered Adrian another of his estates, Nickerham Priory in Sussex. Adrian had visited Nickerham with Tanner on Tanner’s tour of his properties the year before and could agree it would be an excellent place to spend a summer. High on a cliff overlooking the sea and cooled by sea breezes, there would be nothing to do but ride the South Downs or walk along the seashore.

Adrian might very possibly go insane there, left to nothing but his own company and his own thoughts.

Vowing to write Tanner a gracious return letter this very day—or tomorrow—Adrian crossed into Hill Street. He rarely walked through Mayfair without finding himself passing by Lydia’s townhouse.

He spied the reporters lounging about her door and became angry on her behalf all over again. The leeches. Why did they not leave the lady in peace? Why could they not content themselves with writing about the thousands of weavers assembling in Carlisle in protest against low wages, the trade crisis in Frankfurt, or an earthquake near Rome? Why devote so much space to speculation about Lydia? He’d read in the papers that the father of her child was anyone from the Prince Regent to a passing gypsy.

Was she in good health? he wondered. Bearing children might be the most natural thing in the world, but many women died from it. Babies died, as well. His mother had borne Adrian a brother and sister, neither of whom had lived longer than a few days.

Staying on the opposite side of the street, Adrian tried not to glance at her house. Another gentleman approached in the opposite direction.

“Good day to you, Cavanley.” The gentleman greeted him in clipped, but jovial tones.

“Crayden.” Adrian tipped his hat.

Crayden possessed thick black hair that women fancied and a face that always held a smug expression. Adrian was not among Crayden’s admirers. Crayden curried any favour that was possible to curry. He insinuated himself into investments lucrative enough to keep his debt-ridden estate from doom’s door, but he was equally as likely to drop a friendship if it failed to gain him a profit.

Lord Crayden smiled his ingratiating smile and put his hand on Adrian’s shoulder as if he was accustomed to sharing confidences with him. “I suppose I shall have to run the gauntlet, eh? I am calling upon Lady Wexin, you know.”

No, Adrian didn’t know, and he did not very much like knowing it now. What business did this ferret have with Lydia? Lydia’s fortune was modest, Adrian knew for a fact, having been the one to restore it.

“Are you?” Adrian said.

“I am indeed.” Crayden clapped Adrian on the shoulder and winked. He crossed the street and ploughed right into the nest of newspaper men, who clamoured after him, waving their hands and asking him questions.

Adrian watched as Lydia’s butler answered the door, and Crayden said with a voice loud enough to reach Adrian’s ears, “Lord Crayden to see Lady Wexin.”

The reporters all pressed forwards, yelling their questions. After Crayden gained entry and the door was closed again, the newspaper men buzzed among themselves for a moment, before turning to look towards Adrian.

Adrian hurried on his way.

Lydia walked to the window of the drawing room and peeked through a gap in the curtain. She thought she’d heard a commotion outside. The newspaper men were still there, all talking about something, but it was not their vile presence that caught her attention, but the figure of a man across the street, looking towards her house.

She’d know Adrian anywhere, even from such a distance, even with his hat shading his face. Had he decided to call upon her again? Even though she’d refused him?

No one called upon her. No one except Lord Levenhorne and he did so merely to check the size of her waistline.

She ought to feel outrage that Adrian would ignore her wishes so blatantly, but instead she felt flushed with excitement. The baby kicked inside her. The baby kicked often now and would be born soon, the physician who attended her said.

She rushed over to the mirror above the fireplace and checked her appearance. Her hair hung undressed in a plait down her back. The gown she wore was an old one Mary had let out so her now larger breasts would not spill over the bodice, and her big tummy would be shrouded by a full skirt. She contemplated changing, but feared nothing else would be ready to wear except nightdresses and robes, and she did not trust herself in such attire around Adrian.

In any event, there was no time, because Dixon entered the room. “There is a Lord Crayden to see you, my lady.”

“What?” She thought she had misheard him.

“Lord Crayden, my lady.” He held out the gentleman’s card.

She stared at it, her spirits plummeting. It was Adrian she wanted to see, wanted to be with even for a little while. She pined to see his eyes filled with concern for her, to feel less alone in his presence.

“But why would this gentleman call upon me?” She handed the card back to Dixon.