Miss Quinn's Quandary Page 6

  “You can’t be serious.” Randall once again lowered the book.

  Laurie said nothing, but his expression told Randall he had meant every word.

  “It’s much too early,” Randall commented. “I’ve only just had tea.”

  “That was more than two hours ago, sir,” Laurie corrected.

  “Was it?” Randall regarded the butler in quizzical contemplation.

  “I believe so, sir.”

  “Well, Laurie, regardless of when I took tea, I contend it is not time to ready myself for the opera. I shan’t bow to his lordship’s whim this time. Is that understood?”

  “As you say, sir,” the butler replied in elevated tones.

  “I do say. Now off with you,” Randall stated with unquestionable firmness. He waved his book, dismissing the messenger.

  Not two minutes later, Rushton strode into the library. “Odd’s fish!” he exclaimed, not at all pleased to see Randall still in his day clothes. “Why haven’t you dressed? Didn’t Laurie tell you we’d soon be off?” Randall opened his mouth to answer. His uncle didn’t give him a chance to speak. “It’s not like him to take what I say into disregard.”

  “He did tell me, Uncle,” Randall finally managed to get it in. “I just didn’t think he was serious.”

  “Of course I am serious.”

  Apparently he was serious. The earl was dressed to the nines.

  “Come along, boy, come along, you need to change. We’ll be late for sure.” Rushton took the book out of Randall’s hand, pulled him to his feet, and gave him a sturdy push toward the door.

  “Late?” Randall consulted his watch. “Why, Uncle, we have hours until we need leave.”

  “Hours?” Rushton gawked at his nephew as if he had sprouted a second head. He dropped the book onto the small table. “No, no. We need to be there when the curtain goes up.”

  “You want to see the opera?”

  “I plan on seeing the entire performance, from start to finish.”

  “What?” Randall was now clearly confused. “Which opera is it?”

  “It’s.” Rushton stopped. “It doesn’t matter. You’ll be sleeping straight through it regardless.”

  “You’re right,” he agreed without contest and set out for his room to change.

  The Earl of Rushton led the way to his theater box and sat in the front. Upon entering, Randall eased into a chair behind his uncle. A quick glance at the other boxes told him they were the only occupants on their level. Within minutes, the overture started, the curtain rose and Randall could not prevent his eyelids from lowering.

  “Wake up, lad.” Rushton seized Randall by the arm, waking him after what felt like only moments of sleep. “Come on, now,” his uncle urged, impatient.

  “Is it time to leave?” Randall mumbled, rising to his feet still half asleep.

  “Don’t be an ass. We’re going to see my beloved angel.”

  “Oh, only intermission.” Randall stood, gave a sigh and smoothed his recently assaulted sleeve. Trudging behind his uncle, he wondered about this paragon of womanhood his uncle had gone on about for the last two days. On the other hand, he was quite willing to put off the inevitable meeting of the dowdy ward.

  Randall came to a sudden stop behind Rushton, who gave no advance notice of his abrupt halt. The earl pointed at the heavy brocade drape. “She’s in here. In here, my boy,” he said anxiously, taking a moment to primp. “Do I look all right?”

  “You look fine, Uncle.” Randall gave him a brush to the back of his coat and removed a mote of lint. Rushton parted the curtains and stepped into the box with his nephew close behind.

  Once he stepped inside, Randall stood stock-still. “It’s her,” he gasped, shocked—no stunned by the woman inside.

  “Of course it’s her.” Rushton’s face reflected his delight at the nearness of his amour.

  Randall clamped onto his uncle’s arm, preventing him from advancing. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Why ever do you think we came all the way over here, nodcock? She is the Dowager Viscountess—”

  “No, no, Uncle, the her I am referring to is Miss Quinn.” Randall’s eyes widened.

  “Didn’t think I needed to. I thought you made your feelings about her quite clear the other night,” Rushton recalled. “Wanted her for yourself, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Mistaken?” How could his uncle have come up with that misapprehension? “You couldn’t be further from the truth.”

  “Well, my boy, there are truths and there are truths, aren’t there?” Rushton pried himself from Randall’s grip. “Ah, well then, we’ll have to make the best of the situation, won’t we?” The earl advanced toward the dowager viscountess.

  “The best?” Randall echoed to himself. “I can hardly stand to be in the same room with her, let alone in the same theater box.”

  With the viscountess’ dainty gloved hand in his, Rushton pointed in Randall’s direction. “Viscountess Claiborne, may I present my nephew, Sir Randall Trent.”

  “How do you do?” the very handsome, matronly woman replied. The plumes on her turban swayed with every movement of her head.

  Randall accepted her proffered hand and kissed the air some two inches above. “I have heard so much about you, my lady.” He straightened enough to meet her eyes. “All favorable, I assure you,” he added with a savory smile.

  “I see charm runs in your family, Rushton,” she murmured to the earl and pulled her hand free. The dowager extended her arm, indicating Larissa next to her. “Sir Randall, may I present my niece, Miss Larissa Quinn.”

  Randall gave an easy smile. “Charmed, Miss Quinn.”

  “How nice to see you, Sir Randall.” She dropped into the shallowest of curtsies.

  However, it was evident to Randall she had not meant her kind words.

  “I thought I would not again have the pleasure.”

  A fleeting look at his uncle and the dowager told Randall they were in a world of their own. Randall drew Larissa aside, allowing the couple their privacy. “No need to flatter yourself. I am here strictly on my uncle’s behalf.”

  “And I only tolerate you because of my aunt’s happiness.”

  “You never told me your aunt is a viscountess.”

  “You never told me your uncle is an earl.” Larissa glanced at her blissful aunt and turned back to Randall. “There is no need to treat me like some unwelcome distant relative.”

  “If my uncle has his way that is exactly what you will become.”

  Randall eyed his uncle, lost to the current of love that was pulling him farther and farther into its persuasive grasp. The viscountess, it seemed, was equally lost.

  “He means to marry her.” Randall sighed.

  A whimsical smile brightened Larissa’s face. “Does he?”

  “And to that end, I have promised to escort you to the ball following the opera.”

  “You need not concern yourself in that quarter. I have a qualified companion.”

  No doubt she referred to that overpuffed pigeon, Fenton. “Who chooses to, or not to, pay you court is none of my concern.”

  “You speak those words with such ease. However,” she smiled, “the green pallor of your face is clashing horribly with the blue of your jacket.”

  “Me? Jealous? Don’t flatter yourself.”

  “It is you who flatters yourself.” Larissa sat in her chair, demonstrating, she was at ease. “You must think highly of yourself if you think I’m concerned whether you care for me.” She folded her arms in front of her and turned away from him, presenting her profile.

  “No higher than you think of yourself, I’m certain.” Randall crossed his arms and pivoted in the opposite direction, displaying his profile in hostility.

  He need not accept this type of behavior from her. Randall was doing her a favor by assuming the responsibility of an escort. He could be just as obstinate as she. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed she did not move one iota. Therefore, he held his pose. He schooled
his features into placid granite, refusing to soften.

  “Oh look, Rushton,” the viscountess pointed at Larissa and Randall. “The children are playing. Persephone and Hades at odds, are they not?”

  Rushton shrugged and followed her as she moved to the posing pair for a closer study.

  Hades, indeed, Randall mused. “We should be going, Uncle.” Randall broke form. “The second act should be starting any moment.”

  Rushton took the dowager’s hand in his and brought it to his lips. “Adieu, my lady, until we meet at the ball.”

  “Of course, my lord,” she replied. To Randall she seemed somewhat distracted. “I have it!” The viscountess whirled to face the exiting guests. “Deucalion and Pyrrha, surveying Parnassus.”

  Randall eased back into his chair. Uncle Cyrus took a seat in the front row of the box. Struggling to fend off the hold of Morpheus, Randall glanced around. Most of the upper boxes still stood empty, and would remain so until nearly the end of the evening.

  He observed Viscountess Claiborne in her box. On stage was the poignant scene where the hero, of whom the heroine’s father disapproved, expressed his love. Opera glasses poised in front of the dowager’s eyes. She leaned forward to catch every note, to see every expression, to feel every emotion from the performers. Tears spilled onto her cheeks as the hero professed his forbidden love to the heroine.

  Randall noted his uncle’s attention was directed not toward the stage, but off to the left. Raising his own glass, Randall took a second, closer look to the left the dowager viscountess. Just to her right, struggling to sit upright was Larissa.

  The dim theater light glinted off her golden hair. Her bright eyes glimmered in the dark. She covered her yawn with the back of her right hand. The opera obviously held the same interest for her as it did for him.

  After a random search of the lower level, Larissa’s wandering gaze drifted to the upper tier. She stopped when she met Randall’s conspicuous stare. Randall lowered his glasses. What Larissa’s first theater experience lacked in musical entertainment, it compensated for in personal pleasure.

  Larissa did not look away. Her inquiring eyes were hidden in the semidarkness. Had Randall nodded off, she could have easily studied him without him noticing as she had during the first half of the evening.

  His eyes were blacker than the night. His hair was almost blue in the darkness. The lines of his face, sculpted by the shadows, that face she knew so well was as handsome as she remembered.

  Why did he need to behave so rudely toward her? Was it because of their first meeting? Perhaps if they had a proper introduction, things between them would be different. There was no use in wishing for something she could not have. But if he had not cared for her, why did he stare at her so?

  Chapter Ten

  After the final curtain, Randall and his uncle left their box for the ball. The one thing Randall would definitely not do was disappoint his uncle. Although he dreaded the upcoming event as much as he imagined his uncle looked forward to it.

  When they arrived, Rushton charged to the dowager’s side. It was all too clear to Randall that the rest of the room vanished from their sight. If his uncle wanted the dowager viscountess as his new countess, Randall would do his utmost to make it come about. He would be the model escort for Larissa, regardless of his personal opinion of her.

  Randall turned to address Larissa. He knew she no more cared to dance with him than he with her. However, tonight, he would be more than happy to partner her—for his uncle’s sake.

  Without a word, Larissa accepted. He led her onto the dance floor. There she smiled. Trying to present a positive image to the viscountess, Randall thought. At least they could agree on that one item. Or so he hoped.

  At the end of the set, Randall took Larissa on his arm toward her aunt, giving a pleasant smile of his own. “I don’t want you ruining their happiness,” he voiced in threatening tones.

  “Me? If anyone is a killjoy it is you.”

  “Miss Quinn, if we were not in public, I certainly would take delight in….”

  “What? In what?” Her eyes blazed in fury, never losing her cadence in step beside him.

  “Take great joy in bending you over my knee and disciplining you like the spoiled brat you are.” He held his false smile in place.

  “Spoiled brat?” she gasped and spit back. “You indulgent prig.”

  “Undisciplined wench.”

  “Arrogant wastrel.”

  “Cheeky chit.”

  “Pretentious fop.” Another step brought them in the company of Rushton and Viscountess Claiborne.

  “I can see you two are getting along splendidly,” the dowager greeted.

  “Oh, yes. Famously,” Larissa agreed, her glacial eyes upon Randall.

  “Quite famously,” Randall seconded.

  “Did I not tell you, my sweet?” Rushton reassured his amour, soothing any doubts she may have harbored.

  “I am so very glad you were right, as always.” She patted Rushton’s hand and disengaged her arm from his. “If you gentlemen will excuse us. I wish to speak to my niece alone for a moment.” She turned Larissa to one side and took a few steps away.

  “Would you mind if I were to leave you in Sir Randall’s care for a dance or two?” the viscountess said to Larissa. “Rushton is a most persuasive man. He assures me you are quite safe with his nephew. I must say, I am quite taken with him myself. I am persuaded he will serve well as an escort.”

  “No, Aunt. You go right ahead. I’ll be fine.” Larissa returned to Randall’s side. She laced her arm through his and gave him a superb smile, pretending to flourish in his company. Without a doubt, it was solely for her aunt’s benefit.

  Now that Larissa would be watched over, the dowager viscountess left on Rushton’s arm. She leaned toward him and whispered something confidential and they both broke into a hearty bout of laughter, making quite a spectacle of themselves.

  “You’d best mind your temper,” Larissa warned, watching her aunt retreat.

  “You’d best mind your tongue,” Randall countered.

  “I feel we would both be better off if you left me in Lord Fenton’s care when he arrives,” Larissa suggested. “And that will leave you to Lady Dorothea.”

  Randall knew better than anyone how stubborn Larissa was once she got an idea in her head, and his first impulse was to accede. However, he was not one to give in so readily. After all, he had just promised to keep watch over her. He couldn’t very well just leave her to someone he hardly knew. Or could he? Randall was tempted, and it might not take much to sway him to her perspective.

  “I do not see why we need suffer because of their budding romance,” she continued, trying to drive her point across.

  “Their ‘budding romance’ as you put it, is all that I am interested in, at the moment.”

  “Is it really?” She smiled, her eyes positively glowed. “Wouldn’t Lady Dorothea be interested to hear that.”

  “You leave Lady Dorothea out of this,” Randall warned. It would do his case no good for Dorothea to hear of his interest from Larissa.

  Larissa tilted her head, looking over his shoulder and gesturing to someone with her fan. “Here she comes now.”

  Randall turned to see Lady Dorothea approaching at this inopportune moment. “My lady,” he greeted, sketching a bow. He couldn’t very well put her off now.

  “Sir Randall,” Dorothea acknowledged. “Miss Quinn.”

  “Sir Randall was just speaking of you, Lady Dorothea.”

  “Were you?”

  “He was just pondering of your whereabouts, and now,” she shrugged, “here you are. I shall leave you two alone as soon as Lord Fenton makes his appearance.” She perused the room and glanced every now and again at the doorway. “I do hope he arrives soon. I find a threesome so awkward, don’t you?” Her face brightened. “Ah, here he is now. Lord Fenton,” Larissa called to him in soprano tones.

  “Miss Larissa.” Lord Fenton placed a kiss on the back o
f Larissa’s hand, holding it far longer than he needed to. “Lady Dorothea, and Sir Randall, how nice that we meet again.”

  “How nice,” Randall echoed without enthusiasm, playing along with conventional ballroom etiquette.

  Larissa interrupted. “Oh, Lord Fenton, I’m afraid I cannot bear to step foot onto the dance floor if I do not find something to drink this instant.”

  Lord Fenton took this as a personal challenge. “I cannot have you experience another parched moment. Let us find the refreshments.” He nodded to Randall and Lady Dorothea. “If you will kindly excuse us.”

  Randall watched Lord Fenton lead Larissa away. That presumptuous puppy and that ill-tempered chit most certainly deserve one another, Randall thought.

  “Do you disapprove, Sir Randall?” Dorothea asked.

  “Disapprove? Why should I disapprove? I don’t give a fig one way or the other.” Randall forced himself to look at Lady Dorothea and smiled, taking interest in her. “Your delightful presence is the only thing making this evening worthwhile.”

  “How kind of you to say,” Lady Dorothea remarked. She blushed and in a quick, light flutter waved her fan in front of her face, drawing it downward to stop at the low neckline of her gown. Randall’s eyes followed the fan and lingered at her revealing décolletage.

  Two evenings later, Aunt Ivy and Larissa readied themselves for an outing to Vauxhall Gardens. Of course, they would never have ventured there without male escort. Aunt Ivy considered the place “an alfresco adventure.”

  “You look charming, my dear,” Ivy praised with maternal pride. “Is it Sir Randall who has put that delicate bloom on you cheek?”

  “Oh, Aunt,” Larissa sighed, wondering if she should tell her aunt the truth. “I do not care for Sir Randall. In fact I can honestly say we do not rub along well together at all.”

  “That is very strange, indeed.” Ivy placed her hand on her cheek and gave Larissa a puzzled look. “I was under the distinct impression you two got along tolerably.”

  “Do not mistake my intentions, Aunt. All we can do is tolerate each other.”