The Irresistible Buck

CHAPTER ONE ~ 1802 Lord Melburne yawned. As he did so, he realised that he was not tired but bored, bored with the picture of fat cupids discreetly veiled that faced him over the mantelshelf, bored as well with the pink satin curtains festooned with silk bows and tassels and bored too with the over-scented overheated room itself. His eyes lit on his coat of superfine blue cloth thrown over the chair and his white muslin cravat lying negligently amongst the bottles, lotions, salves and perfumes on the overcrowded dressing table. And the boredom of realising that he must rise and put them on made him yawn again. “Tu es fatigué, mon cher?” came a soft voice from beside him. He looked sideways to see two dark eyes raised to his, two red lips pouting provocatively and knew that they also bored him. It was indeed an unfortunate moment for his Lordship to discover that he was bored with his mistress. Lying beside him against the lace-frilled pillows, she was wearing only a ruby necklace, on which he had expended quite an exorbitant sum of money, and red satin slippers to match the stones. He recalled almost incredulously that he had pursued her ardently only a month ago. It had undoubtedly added some piquancy to his wooing that the lady in question, Mademoiselle Liane Defroy, was hesitating over whether to accept the protection of the Marquis of Crawley or that of Sir Henry Stainer. The Marquis might have a higher social position, but Sir Henry Stainer was undoubtedly the wealthier. Both were generous to an extreme, both were members of the much-vaunted set of Corinthians that circled round the Prince of Wales and were habitués of Carlton House, the Prince’s majestic home in London. That Lord Melburne had filched Liane from under their aristocratic noses had not only given him a quiet satisfaction but had also made the Prince laugh uproariously and declare that he was irresistible when it came to the fair s*x. It was this irresistibility, Lord Melburne thought now with a frown between his eyes that made life so incredibly boring. The chase was all too short and then the conquest was all too monotonous. He found himself wishing that he was back with his Regiment and that there were battles still to be fought and won with an endless stream of Frenchmen to be chased and killed. The damned Armistice, he complained, had restored him to civilian life and all he could say was that it now seemed cursed dull. He made a movement to rise and Liane’s little hands fluttered towards him. “Non, non!” she exclaimed. “Do not move. It is still very early, and we have so much to say, tu comprends!” Her lips were very near to his. He was overwhelmingly aware of the heavy scent that she used, which he thought was far too sweet, too sickly and now only added to his feelings of distaste. He seemed almost to shake himself free from her clinging arms as he rose to his feet. “I must get to bed early,” he said, reaching for his cravat. “I am leaving for the country tomorrow.” “For ze country?” Liane repeated, her voice rising a little. “But then why? Why are you leaving me alone? C’est la folie! London is very gay, there is so much, how you say, pour t’amuser. Why should you wish to go where there is only ze mud?” His Lordship next fixed his cravat with the experienced hand of a man who can dress competently without the help of a valet. “I have to see an old friend of my father’s,” he replied. “I should have gone last week, but you persuaded me, Liane, against my better judgement to stay on in London. Now I must do my duty. “C’est impossible!” Liane protested, sitting up on the bed with the rubies round her neck flashing in the light of the candles. “Have you forgotten ze party tomorrow night, ze party to which we are all invited, tout le Corps de Ballet? It will be very gay and I think also very naughty. You will enjoy it.” “I have my doubts about that,” Lord Melburne responded, shrugging himself into his coat. He stood for a moment looking down at her with her long hair dark as a raven’s wing that fell below her waist, at the small piquant face with its tip-tilted nose and wide mouth, which had seemed so entrancing only a few weeks ago. She was actually a clever dancer and she exploited her few talents very skilfully. But he wondered now as he looked at her how he had ever endured the banality of her conversation, the artificial flutterings of her hands, the shrugging of her thin shoulders and the coquettish way that she would veil her eyes with her long mascaraed lashes and contrive to appear mysterious. There was in fact no mystery, Lord Melburne had discovered. She looked up at him now, noting almost automatically how handsome he was and how outstanding even in a room full of other good-looking and well bred men. It was not only his looks, she thought, as so many women had thought before her, that were so attractive, it was not only the squareness of his jaw or those strange grey eyes, which seemed so uncannily penetrating that a woman felt, when he looked at her, that he searched for something deeper than mere surface attraction. No, Liane perceived with a sudden understanding, it was the cynical lines running from nose to mouth, the twist of his lips that somehow seemed to sneer at life even in moments of enjoyment and the sudden twinkle in his eyes, which belied that very sneer when one least expected it. Yes, he was irresistible and with a smile she held out her arms towards him. “Don’t linger in ze country,” she said softly, “I wait for you, mon brave. C’est ce que tu desires, n’est-ce pas?” “I am not – certain,” Lord Melburne replied slowly and, even as he spoke the words, he realised that he had made a mistake – The scene that followed was noisy, unpleasant and yet inevitable. He left Liane sobbing hysterically on the pillows and wondered as he went down the narrow staircase why he could never end an affair as neatly as other men of his acquaintance did. When they parted from their mistresses it was easy, a mere question of money and perhaps a diamond or two, and there was no ill will. With him it always meant tears and recriminations, protestations and then the inevitable plaintive, “What have I done? “Why do I not attract you anymore?” “Is there someone else?” He knew the questions only too well and they were all too familiar. As he let himself out by the elegant yellow-painted front door and slammed it behind him so that the polished brass knocker went rat-rat, he told himself that this was the last time he would be such a fool as to set his mistress up in a house of her own. It was fashionable to have an opera dancer under one’s protection, to take her driving in the Park, to provide her with her own carriage and pair, to expect her to remain ostensibly faithful until the liaison came to an end. But where this termination proved amicable and uncomplicated where other men were concerned, Lord Melburne was invariably different. He found himself pursued by clouds of tears and broken-hearted letters, with pleas for an explanation and an almost obstinate refusal to believe that he was no longer interested in her. His carriage was waiting, the discreet closed carriage he used at night for such visits. The coachman had looked surprised at seeing his Lordship so early and lifted the reins with a jerk. The smart footman, having closed the carriage door after his Lordship, sprang back onto the box and said out of the corner of his mouth, “Bet you that’s ended!” “Can’t be,” the coachman answered. “’E ain’t been with ’er more than a month.” “It be ended though,” the footman said confidently. “I knows the look on his Nibs’s face when ’e says finish and finish it be.” “Never did care for those Frenchies,” the coachman remarked. “The one ’e ’ad before last, ’er be an English mort. Now she’s a real high-stepper.” “’E were tired of her within three months,” the footman said with relish. “I wonder what makes ’im tire so easy.” Inside the coach his Lordship was asking just the same thing. Why did he suddenly and usually unexpectedly find a woman no longer attractive? He had enjoyed parading Liane in front of his friends. He had taken her to the gaming halls, to the Albany Rooms, to Mott’s and Vauxhall Gardens. It had seemed to him that she outshone every other woman in such places. She was gay, she was amusing, she had a joie de vivre and a vitality that galvanised everyone who spoke with her. “You are a damned lucky fellow,” Sir Henry Stainer had said to Lord Melburne and the envy in his friend’s voice had been most gratifying. He wondered now if Sir Henry would stoop to pick up his leavings. But if it were not Stainer, there would be more than a dozen others only too willing to vie for the favours of the Frenchwoman who had captivated the fancy of quite a number of the most fastidious and spoilt young bloods of the Beau Ton. ‘And yet I no longer want her,’ Lord Melburne thought. He stretched out his legs so that they rested across to the seat opposite. “To hell with it!” he said aloud. “To hell with all women!” He knew it was absurd that he should be feeling slightly guilty over the scene that had just taken place. He knew too that it was Liane and not he who was breaking the rules. The arrangement between a gentleman and his mistress was supposed to be entirely a commercial agreement. They enjoyed each other’s company, it was a woman’s job to be as fascinating as possible and to extort by every means she could think of the maximum amount of payment for her favours. But there was never supposed to be any question of love, heartthrobs or hurt feelings. And yet where Buck Melburne was concerned the rules always went by the board. He had been called ‘Buck’ since he was only a little boy. Even his relations had difficulty in remembering what were his real names. It was a nickname he acquired after he appeared for the first time in a suit of satin knee breeches and he managed even at the age of six to wear them with an air that brought the exclamation from one of his father’s friends, “Gad, he looks like a Buck already!” The name had stuck and there was no doubt that it was most appropriate. The Prince of Wales followed the fashions he set with his plain well-cut coats and exquisitely tied cravats, his dislike of ostentatious jewellery or anything that pertained to the Dandy Set. And the name was appropriate for other reasons as there was no one in the whole country who could tool a coach or a phaeton so skilfully and he had a far better seat than any of his contemporaries when he rode to hounds. He could shoot more accurately and box with an almost professional skill. Buck Melburne was the most sought after, the most envied and the most irresistible man in London. It was, however, with the lines of cynicism engraved deep on his face and his mouth set in a hard line that his Lordship stepped out of his carriage in Berkeley Square and entered the hall of his London house. He handed his hat and cane to the butler. “I shall leave for Melburne at half after nine o’clock tomorrow morning, Smithson,” he said. “Order my high perch phaeton and tell Hawkins to go ahead of me in the luggage cart. The fast one, not that Noah’s Ark he tried to use the last time I went to the country.” “Very good, my Lord,” the butler replied, “There is a note here for your Lordship.” “A note?” Lord Melburne queried, taking the envelope from the silver salver that was held out to him. Even before he touched it, he knew who it was from. He was scowling as he walked down the hall towards the library where he habitually sat when he was alone.