Her Cool Charms (Brides for the Earl's Sons Book 2)

by Isabel Simonds

  Bradford eyed himself in the mirror. With the lamplight softening the color of his hair to something between honey and tea, and his eyes contrasting with a dark brown suit, he had to admit he looked good. If only in certain lights. He was noticing the odd wrinkle here and there and, added to the thought of meeting Lady Steele at the party, it made him feel a little self-conscious.

  I don't know why I'm bothering. I'm sure she'll be there with the earl or count or whatever he is.

  The thought made him feel gloomy.

  He sighed. He wasn't going to let it spoil the evening. Elton was excited about it and he was going to do his best to make sure his little brother enjoyed himself. If that included taking Culver out onto the balcony and plying him with brandy, he would do it also.

  “You ready to go?” he asked.

  Elton nodded. “I think so. We want to be there early. Get the best spots.”

  Bradford nodded. “Exactly.”

  It wasn't exactly necessary to be early, but being so meant that you could reach the center of the hall first, and thus have a better chance of reaching the dance-floor when everything was about to start. Both of them knew, from experience, how crowded Lady Elington's balls tended to be.

  “I hailed a coach, sir,” their butler said, appearing as if magically in the hall just as they descended. “He's waiting round the corner.”

  “Thank you, Whitstock,” Bradford said, standing for the fellow to help him on with his coat. “We'll take a Hansom back around midnight.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Bradford headed out into the darkened street.

  The two brothers climbed up into the coach, the coach-driver took the reins and they were off, rattling over the cobbles towards Elington Place, a sumptuous townhouse in the Kensington area.

  “I wonder how many people will be there,” Elton said, drawing Bradford out of his silent contemplation of the view.

  “Um, well, certainly more than fifty,” Bradford smiled. Fifty would have fit comfortably into the hall at Elington Place, but they were both fairly sure she wouldn't stop there. The guest list was as lavish as the hall itself – recently stuccoed and picked out in gold-leaf – and they were sure to be rubbing shoulders with at least eighty people.

  One of whom is hopefully Lady Steele.

  Bradford shook his head at himself. He really ought to stop this nonsense. He turned and stared moodily out of the window, watching the London landscape rattle slowly by. At this time, the streets were drowsing in blue dusk-light and the torches and lanterns on the passing coaches shone through, bright dots of red and orange. He let the peace of the place settle around him, comfortingly.

  “We should make good time,” Elton said mildly. “The traffic's all cleared up.”

  “Yes,” Bradford agreed. “Until we reach the center.”

  “Mayhap,” Elton replied. He seemed lazily peaceful, and Bradford left him to it.

  The center was a little crowded – their coach came to a halt behind an elaborately-painted one with four matched cream horses, wearing plumes. The coachman on that coach was swearing and Bradford leaned out, wondering what the holdup was. He saw a barrow-load of vegetables spilled across the street, and sighed.

  “We might be stuck for a while,” he commented. He felt oddly impatient and shifted in his seat, tempted to jump down and ask the coach-driver to go round.

  “Well, then it's for the good,” Elton said, unruffled. “Perhaps if we'd been too early, we would have got stuck talking to someone we don't like.”

  Bradford chuckled. “You're probably right, brother,” he agreed, and leaned back in the seat. The vegetables were hastily cleared up by the watchman and the help of several beggars, carrying away armfuls of them and disappearing into the night. The coach rolled on.

  “There. We're here in plenty of time,” Elton said. He slipped his silver pocket-watch back into his pocket and leaned back, contented. Bradford nodded. He was right. The clock on the church-tower said ten minutes to eight, which was when the ball was due to start. They pulled up outside Elington Place after a minute or two, and the driver halted there.

  “Well, we're early enough,” Bradford said, jumping down, feeling his heels jar on the cobbles and wincing. He paid the driver, who raised his hat and then eased the coach around the drive through a space that looked barely big enough to fit a handcart. Bradford winced.

  “Well, let's go in,” Elton said, striding up lithely beside him as they mounted the stairs.

  “Yes,” Bradford nodded. “Ah, Lady Elington.”

  “Bradford!” the lady smiled. “And Elton!” she offered Bradford a powdered, rose-scented cheek to kiss as he took her arthritic hand in his. She beamed.

  “Two such handsome boys! Welcome. My, you do cut a fine figure, Master Elton. I declare you're taller yet.”

  Elton blushed. Bradford smiled. Lady Elington was tiny, reaching up to his shoulder, her hair a full, elaborately-styled head of snowy white, topped with a clasp that sparkled discretely. She was wearing diamonds and a white gown with spangles and her eyes outshone all the sparkle of her clothes. She grinned at him, making them all but disappear in the sea of wrinkles about them. She must have been celebrating a birthday past eighty years, but her vitality was almost girlish.

  “Well! This is a lovely gathering. In you go, boys!”

  Bradford smiled. He bowed to Lady Elington, and Elton did likewise. Then they headed into the interior of the ballroom.

  White, lamp-lit and crowded, the ballroom's warmth and color struck them like a wave. Bradford halted where he was on the top step, and simply stared around, blinking, as he let himself accommodate to the new space around him. The ballroom was buzzing with conversation and glowing with a hundred candles in elaborate chandeliers. The light sparked on gold-leaf, and washed a sheen of brightness over the polished marble of the floor. Two colors – black and white – the marble was laid out in triangles of increasing length, radiating out from the center of the room in an intricate pattern.

  “Well, this is Lady Elington's ballroom, all right – it suits her.”

  Bradford nodded. “Indeed, it does.”

  They took off their coats, handed them to the footman who took them carefully, then headed down the stairs to join the ball. The room was already fairly crowded, though there could not have been more than thirty people there ahead of them. It felt that way, because, while the house was sumptuous beyond reasoning, it was also still the scale of a townhouse – not really bigger than the ballroom at North Place, where they rarely hosted more than fifty guests.

  “There's room there,” Elton said, drawing them off to the right. “And we can get out onto the terrace too.”

  “Yes. Good plan,” Bradford agreed, joining his brother over by the wall, from where they could view the ballroom and the dance-floor at once. The door to the terrace was close to them here, making it possible to slip out when the air got too close.

  Bradford looked around. Many of the people he knew by sight, but some were new to him. He recognized faces from Almack's – which was unsurprising, since Lady Elington always knew newcomers first.

  “Laurel is always on time,” Elton said softly. Bradford realized his brother was looking for her, and joined the search. He was about to say that he hadn't spotted her when he saw Elton's face change. He was looking over to his left and he stared as if the sun had come out.

  He really loves that girl, you know.

  Laurel was descending the staircase, dressed in a pale yellow gown. Her hair was up and caught back in yellow ribbon and her long, pale neck gleamed in the candlelight. She turned and smiled softly at Elton and Bradford, simply witnessing it, felt his heart melt a little.

  On Laurel's left, and barely noticed by either party, was Culver. Bradford saw the fellow catch the glance and frown and stepped forward, protectively.

  The group drifted down and moved, seeming by unseen currents, towards their standing-place. Bradford stuck out a hand to greet Culver, already ready
to spring into action.

  “Good evening,” he said. “I haven't seen you since the croquet-party. How fared you in the game?”

  “I won,” Culver said, carelessly. Bradford wanted to hide a smile. Polished and poised, with that sleek, indifferent air that came with a certain kind of new money, Culver Presterly was something to see.

  “Well done,” Bradford said mildly, retracting his hand. “Um, have you taken refreshment?” He indicated the table on their right, trying to not make it too obvious that he was leading him away from the yellow-dressed vision at his side.

  “I had a drink earlier,” Culver said, shrugging one shoulder. “I'll take refreshment later.”

  “Fine,” Bradford said tightly. He looked round, trying to think of another way to distract the young man and give his brother time. His eye fell on the door to the terrace, and he was about to suggest that they go out to take air, when he heard a voice he knew.

  “Oh! Marguerite! You and your poetry...”

  Bradford stared. There, dressed in a gray-blue ballgown, her hair softly curled, shoulders bare, was Lady Steele. He took root on the spot, staring at her. She wore diamond earrings and a matching necklace and yet he barely noted these. It was her soft, lovely face, those big eyes with their long lashes, the gentle way her full-lipped mouth curved when she smiled that transfixed him.

  He saw a movement at the corner of his eye and suddenly remembered Culver. He glanced quickly at the younger man and realized he was as paralyzed as he himself was. He was staring at Marguerite.

  Dressed in dark blue silk, her black hair curled and tousled elegantly, Marguerite radiated a stiff sophistication that seemed to have stuck Culver to his sector of the marble floor like a nail in a board. Bradford's brow shot up.

  At that moment, Lady Steele's face changed. She saw them. He saw surprise register on her face, then shock. She gripped her companion's arm and she seemed about to lead them both away, when Bradford stepped forward, involuntarily. He was followed by Culver.

  “Good evening,” Bradford heard his own voice say. He bowed low from the waist, seemingly out of long habit. He straightened up and found himself looking into those soft blue eyes.

  “Lord Bradford,” she said, dropping an elaborate curtsey. “I wasn't expecting to see you here.”

  “Nor I you,” he said, feeling a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Though I hoped so.”

  Her blue eyes went wide and her mouth dropped into a little moue of surprise that made his loins tense. He focused briefly on the table behind to try and get a grip on himself. Then he turned back to her, breathed in the soft iris scent of her perfume and tensed himself against the onslaught of her charm.

  “Well, I couldn't not attend so kind an invitation,” she said, inclining her head towards Lady Elington, who still stood on the steps, ready to welcome the last, late attending guests.

  “Lady Elington's a sweetheart,” Bradford said warmly. Beside him, he became momentarily aware of Culver as the youth laughed uproariously at something Marguerite had said.

  Well I never did, he thought, feeling a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. It seemed solutions often turned up in the most unpredictable ways.

  “Your friend seems transfixed,” she said. Bradford nodded.

  “I never saw him more so,” he agreed. “Something's got into him.”

  Lady Steele smiled. “I think Marguerite and her charms may have contributed to that,” she said archly. “I think few can resist them.”

  “I think it rather depends on the person,” Bradford said, going red even as he said it. “There are some who shine as brightly, with an entirely different set of facets.” He bowed to her, feeling his cheeks heat.

  “My lord,” Lady Steele said, her eyes dancing with warmth. “I think that is...a lovely thing to say.”

  “Thanks,” he said, surprised by how tight his throat was suddenly. “I mean it.”

  Her eyes met his, large and liquid, and held. They were gray, mixed with blue, he thought, feeling himself drowning in those gentle, soft depths. Like a cloudy sky, or maybe water, when it reflects a storm. He had never seen such eyes before.

  In that moment, the ballroom faded to nothing – not even Culver, laughing loudly at some joke of Lady Marguerite's, could break the silence. He bowed again, and this time reached for her hand and kissed it. She wore no gloves, and her skin was warm and fragrant, softer than the silk of gloves could be. He straightened up, feeling his heart pound.

  “My lady...” he began, then trailed off as he stared into that sweet face. Not one of the many questions he had to ask her – who are you, where do you come from, how is it that you're Lady Steele, but never with a partner – fell silent.

  “Should we go onto the terrace?” she whispered, as a couple walked past them hastily, heading to the doors, and almost walked into her. “It's hot here.”

  “Yes,” Bradford said with some alacrity, then looked back at Culver, whom Lady Marguerite was doing a better job of engrossing than either he or all the diversions in Town together could.

  That's a problem about to be solved, he thought.

  Then all his attention was taken away as Lady Steele stepped sideways and her soft, fragrant body brushed against his. He reached for her hand to steady her – people shoved past on their way to the terrace doors, brushing her – and her fingers, warm and soft, curled into his.

  Bradford closed his eyes and knew himself in paradise.

  It was ridiculous, he thought wryly. He was the veteran of many encounters that had gone much further than the exchange of handshakes, and yet this woman's warm touch made his whole sense desert him.

  “Should we go out?” Lady Steele said softly, awakening him to the fact that he had taken root in the room.

  “Um, yes,” he nodded. They walked the last few paces to the door and slipped outside.

  Outside, the air was cool and soft. A light breeze ruffled his hair, though it was still warm outside. Lady Steele, her pale shoulders gleaming in the faint light, might take cold.

  “Here,” he said, taking off his coat.

  She stared up at him, surprised. Wordlessly, she dropped it round her shoulders. The velvet hung back from her body stiffly, in a way that made her curves all the more apparent for not fitting them. He stared.

  This woman is more beautiful than anyone I've ever seen.

  Radiant and gentle, her presence and the sweet curves of her seemed to exude a softness like the scent of roses and powder that made his senses swim. He wanted to bury himself in that softness, to lose himself in the wonder of her being.

  Not now, Bradford North. That's for much, much later.

  This was a woman he would pursue and take years in it, if he must. If he dared – for there was something that made him keep a wary distance, for all his intense attraction. He felt almost in awe.

  “It's a cool night,” she whispered, drawing him back to the present.

  “Yes, it is,” he nodded. In his shirt-sleeves, the air was certainly cooler. He walked to the railing – thick marble, carved in places and spaced with plant-pots – and leaned over.

  The breeze, cool from the distant river, scented with the faintest breath of new-flowering chrysanthemum – washed up the garden towards him. He breathed in headily and felt his body relax.

  This was paradise.

  He glanced sideways at Lady Steele. She stood at the railing, but she hadn't leaned on it, seeming tense. He frowned.

  “You seem ill-at-ease,” he said.

  “I'm cold,” she said, drawing the coat around her. She leaned against the railing, her plump forearms slightly dented where they rested on the marble. He stared and wished he could reach out and rest his hand on hers.

  “You are thinking troublesome thoughts?” he asked.

  “Not really,” she said. He could see her face was tense, though, and wished he could help her with whatever it was that worried her.

  If that worry wasn't somehow created by him.

  �
�Milady,” he said, deciding he should ask. “Begging your pardon, but...are you attached?”

  She turned and stared at him, her face a picture of horror. Then she laughed.

  “Oh! You mean...Lady Steele! I see. No. Lord Steele, God rest his soul, passed on three years ago.”

  “Oh.” Bradford looked away. The news was solemn, and yet he couldn't help a rising joy inside. He bit his cheek and tried to school his face to neutral. “I'm sorry.”

  “So was I,” she said softly.

  Bradford raised a brow. Of all the responses he had expected, it wasn't that. This raised a whole new series of questions – what had he been like? Did she miss him? How did he pass away? – but he knew he couldn't ask any of those. He could feel the tension in her, and guessed that this was a topic she was not ready to address – not now, and doubtless not soon either.

  “I think we should go in,” she said abruptly, turning to face him. She leaned back on the rail, and her eyes, when they met his, shone. He realized she was close to tears.

  “Milady,” he said, bowing low, thinking he'd offended her. “Of course. I'm sorry.”

  She stared at him. “You have nothing for which to be sorry,” she said. Her voice was low, and she looked down at her hands. He suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to enfold her in his arms and kiss that fragrant hair and hold her close.

  “Milady,” he said, clearing his throat. “Nor have you.”

  She stared at him. He saw a strange light in her eyes, as if his words had kindled something right inside her. He looked away, wondering where those words had come from, and why he chose to speak them here and now.

  “We should go in,” she said softly.

  “Yes,” he agreed.

  He stood back for her in the doorway, and she stepped aside to let another couple exit. She stumbled and he caught her arm and she leaned against him, her body pressed, suddenly, close to his.

  His whole body filled up with warmth, rushing through him from head to loins and back again. He drew a deep breath and steadied himself, leaning back against the wall. The couple passed and she leaned away and the contact broke.

  Not a moment too soon, or I might have been in dire straits just then.