Beloved by Stella Cameron Page B

anything
     but each other, so they won’t know if I’m miserable, will they?”
    “Ella.
” Mama’s deep amber eyes clouded. “You should have warned me that you only agreed to come to London because you knew Saber
     was here. At least I could have been prepared. I could have attempted to coax him out of hiding.”
    Ella couldn’t bring herself to tell Mama the awful story of what had transpired between Saber and herself on her second visit
     to his home. “I doubt he’d pay any attention. He is selfish, and foolish to boot. He deserves to have his ears boxed.”
    “His ears boxed?” Mama giggled. “What an odd notion. Something tells me you’d better not try any such thing, miss.”
    “How can I? He continues to cower in his dark house.”
    Mama turned to Ella. “How do you know about his house—dark or otherwise?”
    Ella opened the white lace fan that matched her gown. “I was merely guessing,” she said. “His behavior at Sibley’s would make
     anyone think of dark places. I do not like this gown.”
    “I beg your pardon? You chose the gown.”
    Ella congratulated herself on a neat diversion. “I chose it to please convention. White makes me look sallow. I detest pale,
     lifeless colors. In fact, I detest dresses of any color. I shall not wear them again once I return home—which will be very
     soon. May we go back to Hanover Square now, please?”
    Before Mama could respond, while her mouth was open to deliver what would undoubtedly have been a deservedly brusque retort,
     a narrow, brown-haired man thrust himself in front of Ella. He said, “Good evening, Miss Rossmara. I am Pomeroy Wokingham,
     a friend of your father’s.”
    Ella gazed into flat, pale gray eyes. She could not seem to look away.
    “Perhaps the viscount mentioned us? My father is Lord Wokingham?”
    Ella heard Mama’s sharp intake of breath before she said, “Good evening, Mr. Wokingham. How nice of you to introduce yourself.
     If you’ll excuse us, Ella and I—”
    “Lord Hunsingore suggested I come and speak to you, Ella,” he said with an oily familiarity that turned her stomach. “He thought
     you’d enjoy being taken for a stroll in the gardens. I understand they’re considered handsome.”
    A stout woman emerged from the richly garbed throng and touched Pomeroy Wokingham’s elbow. She wore deep mauve satin with
     a turban that did not quite match, and clasped a buxom, very red-haired girl by the wrist.
    Pomeroy spared the older woman a hooded stare. “Madam?” he said coldly. His chilling eyes moved on to the younger female.
     He glanced from her round, china blue eyes to her pouting lips, to her large, immodestly covered breasts. Ella noted that
     his attention lingered where tightly fitted, strawberry pink tulle strained over twin mounds of blue-veined white flesh.
    “Mr. Wokingham, I am Mrs. Able. The Reverend Able’s wife. Your father and my husband have met on a number of occasions, but
     of course, you know that. We don’t see you in church, but your family has a long and happy history with St. Cecil’s. I understand
     Octavius introduced our little Precious to you at the Rectory when you were last in Lancashire. I’m sorry I wasn’t at home
     on that occasion.”
    Pomeroy hadn’t had his fill of the red-haired girl’s breasts. “Regrets are mutual on this occasion.” Slowly, his attention
     slid to Mrs. Able. “Please give my regards to your husband.” With that he contrived to stand between the Ables and Ella. “As
     I was saying, Miss Rossmara, we should take a turn around the gardens.”
    “It isn’t warm,” Mama said. “I don’t think Ella and I should enjoy being outside.”
    “Ella will have the benefit of my cloak,” Pomeroy said, barely parting his thin lips. “Lord Hunsingore thought that an admirable
     idea.”
    Alarm flashed over Mama’s face. “You cannot possibly be suggesting that the two of you…Well, can you?”
    “Come, come now,” Pomeroy said, very quietly.