The Wicked Guardian by Vanessa Gray Read Free Book Online Page B

benignly on them both as her coachman tooled the black barouche into the park.
    It was nearing five o’clock in the afternoon, the most fashionable hour to be seen in the park. She was already acquainted with many of the famous beauties, the Duchess of Rutland, Lady Cowper. Lady Hertford bowed to them both as they met, and Lady Jersey, the regent’s great friend, passed by on the other side.
    It was a balmy afternoon, the mildest of breezes lifted Clare’s curls, and soon she began to feel more comfortable. It would be too much, she thought, to expect her to feel at home in this world, but apparently Benedict had not passed the word that she was hopelessly naive. At least the Countess Lieven smiled kindly at her, she noticed, and Lady Warfield, by her countenancing of Clare, gave her as much credit as she could.
    “There’s Lord Alvanley,” said Eugenia, her plain face lighting with impish amusement. “Do you know that he likes apricot tart so well that his cook makes one a day, and there is always a fresh one on his sideboard?”
    “Doesn’t he get tired of it?” marveled Clare. “I vow I should not want the same taste day after day.”
    Lady Warfield laughed. “So one should. But Alvanley, you know, never eats it. And yet he is the most good-natured man in the world and I dote on him.”
    “Then why...?”
    “Because he might want to,” said Eugenia, “eat it, I mean.”
    Lady Warfield demurred. “I think he has simply forgotten to tell them he no longer wants the tart. He’s terribly absentminded, you know.”
    Diverting as was the gossip of Lady Warfield, seasoned by the unexpected humor of Eugenia, yet the constant spectacle of dandies and more sober gentlemen, of ladies in their superb carriages, provided much entertainment for Clare. She forgot her own troubles in marveling at Lady Melbourne’s proud demeanor, when everyone knew she had borne children by several different fathers.
    Or learning that two gentlemen had wagered five hundred pounds the night before at Watier’s on the outcome of two flies climbing up the wall—the bet fell through when one of the flies buzzed away, leaving behind him an acrimonious dispute as to whether the bet was still valid.
    Her enjoyment faded when she saw, with sinking heart, Marianna Morton cantering gracefully toward them. Clare’s glance slid past Marianna to the sober-clad horseman behind her. Choate, of course.
    A flush mantled Clare’s cheek as she fell into confusion. What could she say to him? How would he greet her? Like the hoyden that he must have thought her? She clenched her hands together in her lap and waited for the blow to fall.
    It did not fall. She heard Lady Warfield and Eugenia greeting Miss Morton, and knew that Benedict spoke to the Warfields. And to Clare. She forced herself to look up, unable to conceal the apprehension in her eyes.
    Lord Choate, however, seemed to regard her with indifference, and spoke only the merest commonplaces, and soon she began to believe that she had refined too much upon the incident the other day. More proof, if it were needed, of her greenness.
    Before she could bring herself to answer Benedict’s remarks, Marianna had nodded to them and moved off, Benedict dutifully in her wake.
    “She does remind me,” said Eugenia thoughtfully, “of my old governess. Remember Patterson, Mama? Such a disciplinarian, Clare. I was quite afraid of her.”
    “Miss Morton has far too much ton for you to speak of her thus,” said Lady Warfield repressively.
    “I’m sorry, Mama,” said Eugenia. But she gave Clare a glance brimming with amusement, and Clare smiled back. It was helpful, she thought, to consider the splendid Miss Morton in the irreverent light that Eugenia cast on her. Clare decided, suddenly, that she did not like Marianna Morton in the least.
    The barouche now turned, on Lady Warfield’s order, and began the return journey. Harry Rowse cantered up and spoke to them, his eyes lingering on Clare. He was a