The Wastrel. Margaret Moore

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      “I believe we have arrived,” Clara said softly, suddenly terrified.

      She knew nothing of these people and little of the aristocratic world they inhabited, for her mother had been disowned before Clara was born. What did they know of hers—of watching how every tuppence was spent, of the small, stuffy flat they lived in, of the noise of the neighbors and the street? What would they make of her, a woman of no great beauty whose mother had had the effrontery and bad taste to fall in love with her dancing master, and worse manners to marry the fellow? How could her guardians have accepted this invitation? How could they be so willfully blind?

      She looked at them again, her uncle thoughtfully surveying the town house, her aunt breathless with anticipation—and was ashamed of herself. Why shouldn’t they be there? Aunt Aurora was the kindest, sweetest person Clara knew. Her uncle was an intelligent, well-read man who could have been a success in almost any field, if his mother had named him anything other than Byron. She was a lady’s daughter, of higher rank than even Lord and Lady Pimblett. She would remember these things, and hold her head high.

      After they disembarked, Clara reached into her reticule and brought out the exact amount necessary to pay the cabbie, leaving a similar amount for the journey home. The cabbie squinted at the coins in his palm, sniffed scornfully, then clicked his tongue to alert his horse and drove off.

      “That poor man does not have the artistic sentiment, 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 СКАЧАТЬ