The man’s name was Lord Hatfield, but James kept silent, for his attention was totally and completely fixed on the vision coming toward him, swirling and spinning, smiling and sparkling.
She drew closer, then he heard the swish of her silk gown, smelled her perfume, and just as she twirled in front of him, their eyes met. There was that look again—that haughty, indifferent little smirk.
By God, she was a magnificent creature.
Then he considered making a wife out of her. She would certainly not fade into any wallpaper he’d ever seen, and judging by the way his body was reacting to her now—buzzing to life like a brand-new, flickering electric lamp—he knew any hope that this could be a simple business matter was thoroughly ridiculous.
Bloody hell, he was not interested in any kind of marriage that stirred passions, regardless of its profitability. In fact, he was wholly determined to avoid anything like that at all costs. Surely there were other ways to manage his finances.
“Lucky baron,” Whitby remarked, after she’d gone by.
“Why don’t you dance with her then?” James said, feeling irritable. “Or have you already?”
“Not yet. Soon, though. I believe I took the last spot on her card.”
Right, then. Her card was full. There would be no dancing with the heiress tonight. Probably for the best, James thought. If he knew what was good for him, he would dance with a few wallflowers, then take his leave.
The waltz ended and he and Whitby wandered about the room, stopping to chat with the Wileys and the Cartwells and the Nortons. They reached the far corner and picked up champagne glasses from a passing footman.
At that moment, they noticed the heiress turn from her conversation with Lord Bradley and begin to walk directly toward them. Her mother came hurrying along behind her.
“Good heavens, is she coming over here?” Whitby said with a frown of shock and some alarm.
It was a most uncompromising rule of polite society that a lady never dashed at a gentleman in a ballroom. She waited quietly for him to speak to her.
Americans, James said to himself, with an amused shake of his head.
Whitby straightened visibly as she approached.
“Good evening, Lord Whitby,” she said. Her voice was deep and sultry, like velvet. Just as James had imagined it would be. “It’s lovely to see you again.”
The orchestra started up again, with a minuet.
Whitby smiled, and James could sense his friend’s strong interest in the woman before them. Her mother came up late behind her, looking flustered.
“Wentworth,” Whitby said, “may I present to you Miss Sophia Wilson and Mrs. Beatrice Wilson, of America. His Grace, the Duke of Wentworth.”
Miss Wilson offered her gloved hand.
Did she know that she was breaking another rule? That unmarried ladies did not offer their hands to gentlemen—especially not in ballrooms?
“Your Grace.” She did not curtsy.
James held her hand briefly. He knew a mistake like that could pulverize a young woman’s social prospects in an instant.
Did she even care?
Probably not, for she must know that it was that very quality among her fellow countrywomen here in London—those who made the most of their “uniqueness” by breaking all the rules—that amused the Prince of Wales and had turned these beautiful American heiresses into such curiosities. “Honored, Miss Wilson.”
He let go of her hand and gave a slight bow.
“I believe I saw you at the Bradley assembly last evening,” she said.
“Indeed,” James replied. “I was there for a short time. You left early, however.”
“I’m flattered that you gave my presence a second thought.”
She certainly was bold, James thought, and right in front of her mother. He glanced down at the small woman with the enormous jewels around her neck, her eyes round and questioning, as if she were struggling to follow what was going on. James wondered what to make of her.
“Are you enjoying your visit to London, Mrs. Wilson?” he asked the woman.
“Yes, Your Grace. Thank you,” she replied, seeming flattered that he had asked. Her voice had a sharp, thorny quality to it.
The young heiress wore a pleasant expression as she gazed down at her mother. Then, with disinterest, she turned her attention back to James, and he guessed that this was all for her mother’s benefit, to satisfy the woman’s desire to present her daughter to a duke.
“And where is your home, Your Grace?” she asked. “What part of the country?”
“Yorkshire,” he told her.
“I’ve heard it’s lovely in the north.”
He made no further comment, and there was an awkward, uncomfortable silence.
“Do you have siblings there?” she asked.
“I do.”
“Brothers or sisters?”
“Both.”
“How nice. Do they travel to London with you when you come?”
Whitby cleared his throat as if to say something, and James somehow knew his friend was going to correct the heiress on her behavior, for she had made another error.
James suspected it was just as unimportant to her as the last one.
“Miss Wilson,” Whitby said quietly, almost in a whisper. “If I may… Such personal questions may be acceptable in your home country, but here in England, they are considered rather intrusive. I only mention it now as a friend, to save you some embarrassment. Has no one told you that?”
He said it kindly, as gently as possible, but still, the mother appeared quite horrified at the situation. Her daughter, however, revealed nothing of the sort.
“Yes, I’ve been told. But I thank you all the same. It’s very kind of you to want to look out for me.”
Whitby made a slight bow as if to say, “you’re welcome,” and all James could do was try not to laugh out loud and say “Brava!” to the girl.
Perhaps Whitby was right. Perhaps James was more of a rebel than he’d thought, for why else would he be so highly entertained by such a display. She had smirked at the English social code and didn’t seem to give a damn. That’s likely why Bertie was so taken with her—because of her daring nonconformity. It was a good thing, too, for if not for the prince’s enthusiastic endorsement, she would be finished.
James glanced down at the frazzled mother, who had gone pale and seemed to think all was lost. He simply had to ease the poor woman’s mind.
“I am disappointed to hear that your dance card is full,” he said to Miss Wilson. “Perhaps next time I will arrive in time to—”
A look of panic flew across her mother’s face. “Oh! No, Your Grace! Her card is not full! I’ve kept one dance open. The last one.”
Somehow, he was not surprised. James smiled. “Then would you be so kind as to allow me to claim that spot?”
“Oh, yes! Yes!” The mother grabbed clumsily for the card at her daughter’s wrist, tugged it downward and quickly penciled in his name.
The small woman’s cheeks flushed with what he could only describe as a mixture of triumph and ravenous hunger. There it was again. Nothing new, though English mothers of marriageable daughters usually did a better job of hiding it than this one.
Miss Wilson smiled politely. “I’ll look forward to it, Your Grace.”
Just then, a gentleman appeared out of nowhere, took her hand and led her to the center of the floor. James watched her intently as she began a Quadrille.
Mrs. Wilson excused herself and ventured off toward a group of ladies, and James was left standing with Whitby, who immediately chided himself.
“What was I thinking? Correcting her like that?”
James laughed. “She certainly took it well.”
“Ah, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she decided to cross me off her card tonight. Damn my idio
cy. I was hoping to make a good impression. But really, unless she wants to be cast out of London altogether, she should be familiar with our manners and customs.”
“I do believe she is, Whitby. She just does what she likes.” Before James walked away, he patted his friend on the arm, and added quietly, “Good luck with that one. You’ll need it.”
He decided at that moment, to give up the idea of any kind of match with her—dowry or no dowry—for somehow, she had managed, in that brief, casual encounter, to again stir what had for years been consciously and contentedly still.
Near the end of the night, James found his mother standing by the door where there was a breeze, fanning herself and looking displeased.
“I saw you talking to the American,” she said right off.
“Lord Whitby made the introduction.”
“Hardly. I saw her march right up to you, bold as brass.” She glanced in the other direction. “Those Americans are always introducing themselves.”
James stood in a relaxed position beside his mother, hands clasped behind his back.
“Lord Weatherbee’s daughter is out, you know,” his mother said. “Have you spoken to her this evening? She’s a charming little thing. Shame about Lady Weatherbee. Passed away last year.”
The dowager duchess knew she should never push young girls in James’s face. She knew how much he loathed it, and that to do so did more harm than good.
“Look, there’s Lily,” the duchess said. “Dancing with that baron. Unfortunate, isn’t it, how short he is?”
James watched his sister dance by. She appeared to be enjoying herself.
A few minutes later, the final dance of the evening began. He had been waiting for it—rather impatiently, he had to admit.
Spotting the heiress at the precise instant she spotted him, he smiled and inclined his head, then took a step to go to her. But his mother, whom he had completely forgotten just now, grabbed hold of his arm.
“You’re not going to dance with her, are you?” she asked, the lines on her face deepening with concern.
Smoothly, James pulled his arm from her grasp. “You forget yourself, Mother.”
She released him and took a step back, her face pale with pent-up frustration.
Her displeasure had no effect upon James, however, for since he had become a man, they both knew she could not control him. Beatings in the schoolroom were no longer possible, and God knew, he felt no obligation to please or appease her. No desire to make her happy or proud.
James let the altercation roll swiftly off his back, then straightened his tie and started off across the room toward the heiress.
Chapter 3
James closed his gloved hand around Miss Wilson’s and stepped into the “Blue Danube” with confidence and grace. He did enjoy dancing, and he was pleasantly surprised at the ease with which the heiress followed his lead. On her feet she was weightless as a cloud. She smelled like flowers. He wasn’t sure what kind, only that they reminded him of spring when he was a boy—of the rare afternoons when he was permitted to go off on his own, over the green grass and heath and bracken, down to the pleasantly calm, secluded lake.
He hadn’t thought of such things in a long time.
“You dance well,” he said at last.
“Only because you are a strong lead, Your Grace.” She said nothing more, and he found it strange that she was not talking. He’d seen her converse with every other partner this evening. She had always been talking and smiling and laughing.
“Why won’t you look at me?” he asked, eager to dispense with polite courtesies and get straight to the point.
“Most of the other ladies aren’t looking at their partners,” she replied.
“But you’ve been looking at your partners all evening. Why not me? If I’ve done something to offend, I should like to know what it was, so that I may make amends.” He spun her around to avoid bumping into another couple.
“There has been no offense. You simply strike me as a man who doesn’t enjoy light conversation. Beautiful turn, Your Grace.”
“Why would you think such a thing? Do you believe yourself clever enough to judge a man by taking one look at him?”
“You’re very direct.”
“Why bother with niceties,” he replied, “when plain speaking is so much more efficient.”
She took a moment to consider his question. “Well, Your Grace, since you prefer candor, I shall confess that I’ve heard gossip—that you are considered dangerous. Therefore, I feel compelled to exercise some caution with you. At the same time, I do possess a mind of my own, and I’ve always been reluctant to believe every piece of idle chatter I hear. I wanted to decide for myself what kind of man you were, so I watched you this evening. I noticed that you haven’t smiled once, except at that lovely dark-haired woman a few minutes ago—the one in the cream-and-gold dress—nor have you moved about the room. You don’t seem to enjoy socializing, and from that, I can only assume that you don’t have much to talk about, or much interest in what others have to say.”
Good God, what an answer.
But there was more.
“As far as being clever enough to judge a man by taking one look at him,” she said, “let it be known, Your Grace, that I took more than one look at you. Both tonight and last night.”
More than one look. Was she flirting, or just supporting her rebuttal?
James pulled her a little closer. “Allow me to understand. You noticed that I haven’t moved about the room this evening. But have you not heard the old adage that still waters run deep?”
For a moment, she pondered that. “Then what does that make you? Hidden and unexplored? Or dark and abysmal?”
They whirled past a statue of Cupid spouting water into a little pool. “That depends,” he replied. “Which do you prefer?”
After a few seconds, she chuckled. He spun her around again, and she followed him flawlessly.
Sophia gazed up at the handsome English duke leading her around the floor and fought to catch her breath. Her heart rate was accelerating, and she wasn’t sure if it was the exercise—dancing and swirling about the room at such a marvelous speed—or the preposterous subject matter of a conversation like this, with a man who had been labeled “dangerous” by “good” society.
He spun her around at the edge of the dance floor, then moved toward the center. What skill on the floor! This was by far the best dance of the night.
“Ah,” he said, “I see a light in your eyes. You are enjoying yourself, perhaps reconsidering your first impression of me? May I dare to hope that you are beginning to find me moderately charming?”
Sophia couldn’t help but smile. “Perhaps moderately, Your Grace, but no more than that.”
She felt his hand slide up her back and wished her brain would behave. There was no need to notice where his hand was from one second to the next.
“That is a start, at least.” Then he twirled her around again.
The waltz was coming to an end, and disappointment muddled James’s thoughts. He found himself quite unable to accept that this would be the last time he would speak with Miss Wilson.
He could always come to another ball, he supposed, but people would take notice and distinguish who he hoped to see. Not that he cared what people thought. It would matter only to his mother.
He didn’t care about that either. In fact, something about going against her wishes tempted him.
James made another turn about the floor and Miss Wilson followed him capably. The corner of her mouth curled up in a delicious little smile, and a base, male instinct sparked and flared in his veins.
He wanted her. Every inch of her. There was no doubt about it. And being the highest-ranking peer in the room, he was likely at the top of her peer-shopping list.
A small part of him felt a sweep of satisfaction at that—to
know that if he desired her and all her bags of money, he could probably have both.
It was highly uncharacteristic of him, he suddenly realized, to enjoy being the object of women’s ambitions. He supposed he was looking at his own mirror image. With the cash that would come with her hand in marriage, and her desire to elevate her social standing, she was as much an object of ambition as he.
The music ended, and the dance was over. James stepped away from the heiress and for a moment they stood in the center of the ballroom, staring at each other. He knew he should say good night to her, return her to her mother....
“I shall call on the Countess of Lansdowne tomorrow afternoon,” he announced, “if she will be at home.”
Calmly and coolly, Miss Wilson inclined her head. “I’m sure the countess would be pleased to receive you.” Then she gestured toward the edge of the room, now almost cleared of guests. “I see my mother.”
Her mother...yes. James offered his arm and escorted Miss Wilson off the floor.
“Your Grace,” the older woman said, smiling brightly.
James bowed slightly. “Mrs. Wilson. Do enjoy the rest of your evening.” With that, he turned and took his leave.
During the carriage ride home from the ball, Sophia was in a daze. Her mother and the countess sat together on the opposite seat, gloating and scheming, exhilarated by the fact that Sophia had danced with the duke, and that he had held her captive on the floor afterward, simply gazing at her.
Sophia barely heard a word they said. She was staring out the window, feeling weak and breathless. He had been such a magnificent dancer. The way he held her about the waist…. It was effortless to float along with him, to follow his strong lead about the room. It was as if she’d had wings.
She struggled, however, to remember that her mind must rule her emotions, especially when she recalled what the young woman at the assembly had said about him. A cruel lot, all of them.
“I wonder when you’ll see him again,” Florence said to Sophia.
As she stared numbly at her mother and the countess, she recognized a look of victory in their eyes. She heard the words ‘He’s a duke!’ bouncing off the walls inside the carriage, even though no one spoke the words aloud.
To Marry the Duke (American Heiress Trilogy Book 1) Page 3