by Allison Lane
"You would rather appear demure.” Lady Marchgate nodded. “Quite a proper attitude, and a welcome relief from Very Forward Girls and their Selfish Plots.” She cast a fulminating glance at Laura. “But too much modesty can seem dowdy. In your case, white turns your face sallow. Green would be a better choice, or perhaps blue.” She raised her arm to bring her green shawl closer. “No, Hartford is right. Definitely green. It brings out a touch of green in your eyes that is quite intriguing."
"Thank you, my lady. Your confirmation is most welcome.” She stifled a sigh. She must now acquire a green gown. But there was little she could do about it. Hartford was even more revered than Brummell when it came to ladies’ clothing. That he had sought her out with his gentle suggestion was an honor.
Laura's smile was forced. Too late Mary remembered that Hartford had ignored Laura's attempts to attract him. Not that Laura wanted him. She thought his lisp ridiculous, his manners effeminate, and his interest in decorating and women's fashion suspect.
Now Laura gave in and glared. “Again you've shamed the family,” she snapped. “Your taste is so bad that even the gentlemen are goaded to fix it."
"What an odd complaint,” said Lady Marchgate coldly. “Hartford's advice is sought by the highest in the land, but he bestows it only on those he deems worthy."
"As it happens, I heard his comments last evening,” added Lady Horseley. “He commended Miss Mary for knowing that simple lines suit her better than ruffles, flounces, and excessive ornamentation.” She cast a disparaging look at Laura's gown. “His only suggestion concerned color."
Even Laura understood the message. She blanched. Two of society's most powerful matrons were now implacable enemies.
The ladies left, making room for more callers. The rest of the day passed smoothly with Laura as a pattern card of propriety. But Catherine had noted Lady Horseley's set-down. The moment the last guest left, she exploded.
"That was a despicable scene, Laura. Malicious, childish, and unworthy of a lady. I won't tolerate spite.” Mary tried to leave, but Catherine motioned her to stay. “You've no cause for jealousy."
"Jealousy?” Laura's face purpled. “Why would I be jealous of her?"
"Do you need a reason for your megrims?” demanded Catherine. “You may think me unaware of your tantrums, but you are wrong. It was a mistake to treat you like a adult capable of conducting your own business. I should have stayed close at hand every minute to prevent trouble. You have a wonderful advantage, Laura. Your face draws immediate attention. With adherence to manners, you could become the darling of society. Instead, you scheme to ruin those around you. I've had enough of your selfish arrogance, as have others. Lady Marchgate was displeased, and Lady Horseley would gladly flay you after today's demonstration. Either can ruin you."
"Absurd,” said Laura with a snort. “No one will blame me for telling the truth. My court grows larger every day."
"Enough,” snapped Catherine. “Most of your court are preening puppies who won't think about marriage for many years. The ones ready to set up their nurseries demand more than a pretty face. They want a wife they can trust, who will cause them no distress. I don't know how you reached the advanced age of two-and-twenty without learning that a lady never reveals irritation in the drawing room, and that the world rarely arranges itself to suit her desires. Reputations can change in an instant, and often do. Where was your vaunted credit when Mr. Rankin turned against us last year?"
"That had nothing to do with me."
"Of course not. You were entirely blameless. Yet for nearly a fortnight, everyone in Exeter considered you a whore."
Laura gasped.
"Yes, a whore. Never mind that they'd doted on you for years. One sordid rumor, and they turned their backs. If not for Blake, you would still be an outcast. So do not underestimate the power of rumor. And do not prattle to me of truth. The only truth that matters is what people choose to believe. And right now what they choose to believe is that you are a vindictive harpy seeking to destroy your own sister out of misguided spite."
Laura sputtered, but Catherine had not finished. “How long do you think your credit would last if someone repeats those old lies in town? Do not think it impossible. Many people heard echoes of the tales at the time. They could be revived in an instant if anyone felt irritated enough to do so. And Lady Horseley was certainly irritated when she left. I believe her next call was on Lady Beatrice.” Lady Beatrice lived only two doors away.
Laura burst into tears. “I am sorry, Catherine. I don't know what came over me. But it won't happen again."
Mary didn't believe her, escaping to the window during the subsequent exchange of apologies. She wished she could leave, but she dared not try. Catherine would chastise her as soon as she finished with Laura. And rightly so. She had goaded Laura into making those cutting remarks by allowing Lady Marchgate to see her own disgust with Mr. Griffin.
But she was wrong. Once Catherine had soothed Laura's distress and dismissed her, she demanded that Mary visit the modiste in the morning and order at least three new gowns. Blake would cover the expense. But Mary could not insult Hartford by ignoring his advice.
Mary finally reached her room, torn between embarrassment and fury. She dreaded the Cunningham ball this evening. Not only would she have to face Lady Marchgate again, but she had no idea what Laura would do. Had those tears been genuine, or would she plot some new revenge?
Two hours later, a footman pounded on Laura's door. When she tried to dismiss him, he ordered her to Blake's study.
Mary cursed. Catherine must have told him about the at-home. But his criticism atop everything else would make Laura worse. Heaven only knew what she would do.
The study shared a wall with Mary's bedchamber. At one time, the two rooms must have been one, for the wall was the thinnest in the house. Normally that did not matter—Blake rarely conducted business there—but today was different.
"I have never been so embarrassed in my life,” he snarled the moment the door closed. Perhaps he did not realize how thin the wall was. “Lady Marchgate was so incensed by what she calls your malicious attack on Mary that she dispatched a letter to me at my club."
"She exaggerates. I merely expressed sympathy because her only beau was arrested last night."
"Do not twist the truth with me,” he snapped. “Catherine heard every word you said—and the tone, as well. I am through with your arrogance. You care nothing—"
Mary tried to ignore him, moving to the far window and concentrating on a book. But Laura shouted that the tale was a lie. Blake questioned her sanity, swearing that she was incapable of behaving like a lady. Something crashed against the wall. He threatened to send her back to Seabrook Manor. Laura screamed that it was Mary's fault. Everything was Mary's fault. Mary was scheming to ruin Laura's Season, because she hated Laura's beauty. Hated the competition. Hated—
Mary pulled a pillow over her head, covered her ears, and tried humming loudly. But the voices still buzzed in her ears.
A quarter hour later Laura fled the study, slamming the door behind her.
"Dear Lord,” Mary whispered. They had to leave in an hour. Laura would never calm down in time, and she had a long history of outrageous behavior when furious.
She wished she could stay home. Eighteen months ago public scorn had pushed Laura into compromising Blake. Tonight was sure to be embarrassing, though at least Grayson was out of reach.
Her eyes drifted to his peonies.
* * * *
Mary slipped unnoticed into an empty antechamber, glad to escape for a few minutes. The ball was every bit as nerve-wracking as she had feared. Laura was flirting with every man in the room, from the greenest cub to old Lord Delwyn. She had demanded that Mr. Fitzhugh dance with her, despite knowing he was a scoundrel.
Blake's scold had only been the beginning. Lady Marchgate had cut Laura the moment she arrived. Then Lady Horseley had accosted two of her admirers and sent them away. And they weren't the only defect
ors. Two others now hovered near Miss Harfield. Several were spending the night elsewhere, probably waiting until they knew the outcome of this contretemps.
The final outrage occurred when Mr. Larkin and Sir William Burney asked Mary to dance. It didn't matter that Laura had already awarded those sets. Nor did it matter that Mary had danced with both of them previously. Laura considered the offers personal insults.
Mary had cried craven and left the ballroom.
Now she settled near the window and pulled out her sketchpad. Two lamps burned softly on the mantel, and the draperies stood open to the terrace, providing just enough light for drawing. The seductive dimness soothed her nerves.
She had yet to manage a satisfactory sketch of Grayson. The latest attempt depicted him as a mouse at the mercy of a cat resembling Lady Horseley. Yet he was not just a victim of unkind tongues. Another sketch showed him as a border collie protecting lambs from a shadowy wolf. A panther. An eagle. A wise old owl.
Nothing.
Again she reviewed what she knew of him, searching for inspiration.
At age eighteen, he had been one of London's wilder rakes—and one of the least discreet, or so gossip claimed. Mary suspected the fight with his father had prompted that wildness. Rothmoor had probably questioned his masculinity. What better way to prove him wrong than to flaunt an endless parade of bed partners? But Grayson had soon settled into the accepted youthful indiscretions, abandoning opera dancers for a succession of increasingly expensive mistresses as his finances improved. No matrons were linked with him, and no one claimed he had seduced maidens until Miss Irwin.
Lady Debenham swore that Lady Rothmoor had exerted considerable influence on Grayson. She'd been French, the daughter of a duke. The horrors that followed the revolution in her homeland had spawned a deep-seated aversion to killing that she passed on to her son. At least her own death had been bloodless—a fall on the stairs. But Grayson had discovered the body. He'd been twelve.
Mary shook her head as her pencil sketched his hand. Binding his wound had imprinted it on her mind. Warm. Powerful. Yet gentle as it had stroked a terrified dog. Many times it had returned in imagination, sifting her hair, caressing her body, teasing her until she yearned for more. Tonight was no different. She shifted in the chair, uncomfortably aware of heat growing between her legs and of throbbing in her breasts. Knowing she should not encourage such thoughts, she forced her mind back to Grayson. He was a daily topic of conversation.
The first Lord Rothmoor, who had acquired the title from Charles II, had been a cosmopolitan man equally at home in court, with scholars, and on his estate. Lady Beatrice's grandmother had known him well, so Lady Beatrice had heard many tales about his love of the arts, his patronage of artists and musicians, his role as a privy counselor, and his curiosity about anything mechanical. Grayson seemed much like that forebear.
The third earl had left court after a falling-out with George I, returning to his Yorkshire estate. The fourth and fifth earls stayed there, venturing away only to make a truncated grand tour to relatives in France. Both had married French cousins before returning home. Thus the current earl didn't understand Grayson's interest in London.
Picking up the pencil, she sketched a dozen trees looming over a sleeping kitten, branches stretched out to gouge it in the eye.
Still not good enough.
* * * *
Gray skirted the edges of Lady Cunningham's ballroom, exchanging pleasantries with friends and accepting congratulations on his recovery. Some sounded insincere, but none were overly hostile—not that he expected to find his enemy here. He'd never felt the eyes indoors, so he'd concluded that the man was either an unscrupulous competitor hoping to take over his company, or a mad scientist seeking revenge because Gray had refused to fund him. Unfortunately, he could not name a likely candidate for either role.
He avoided prolonged conversation, for his immediate goal was the door, which seemed as distant as China. Attending this ball had been a bad idea. Nick was not here, nor was Justin. Unfortunately Miss Seabrook was.
"Damnation,” he mumbled, smiling at Lady Debenham.
The chit had accosted him the moment he'd entered the ballroom. “I am delighted that you are over your ordeal, Lord Grayson,” she'd cooed, fluttering her eyes as she pressed against his side. “It must have been terribly painful."
"Who the devil are you?” he'd blurted, shocked at her behavior. Even Mary's warning had not prepared him for this. Nobody was this forward.
"You are so droll.” Her smile made his skin crawl. “Dance with me. I've this set free."
"I never dance without a proper introduction,” he said firmly. “Now run along and find your governess. You shouldn't leave the schoolroom until you master basic manners."
She'd blanched but ignored his irritation. Grabbing his arm, she'd moved closer than ever. “Then walk with me, my lord. Were you quite deathly ill?"
"No,” he'd said dampeningly, pushing her far enough away that their bodies no longer touched. “I have been at my office."
Again she flashed a brilliant smile. “You must describe your business, sir. Shipping, isn't it? It sounds fascinating. We can talk more easily in the garden where it isn't so noisy."
He'd stopped so abruptly she stumbled. “I will not be responsible for ruining you,” he swore, “though your own bad manners are likely to accomplish that without my help. Nor will I allow you to ignore the gentleman to whom you promised this set."
"But you are that gentleman, my lord.” Again her lashes fluttered.
"I am not.” Jerking free of her grip, he cut her dead, then stalked away.
Amazingly, Lady Marchgate smiled, nodding civilly as he passed. It was the first sign of approval she'd offered in three years. Something must have happened since he'd seen Mary in Hatchard's yesterday. She would have warned him if his danger had increased.
Now his mind remained on the Seabrook sisters even as he greeted Lord Wigby. Mary had seen enough scandal. She didn't deserve more, which stopped him from denouncing Laura to the world. But would denunciation cause a scandal? No one seemed to care that he'd just cut her dead.
"The chit is far too arrogant,” announced Wigby, nodding toward Miss Seabrook. “Treats her family like servants, especially her sister."
Gray winced.
"And she spreads exaggerated tales about anyone she considers a rival,” added Lord Edward Broadburn, joining them. “She swore Lady Eleanor Mannering used to sneak away from school—which we all know is untrue. Lady Marchgate is furious with her."
That explained the lady's smile, but Lord Edward hadn't heard the actual exchange, and Gray's own experiences made him wary of accepting gossip.
The moment Miss Seabrook stepped into a set with young Ingram, Gray headed for the door.
Griffin's arrest was the other topic on everyone's lips. The situation was not as tidy as Gray would have liked, but it would do. The runner had reached the room just as Griffin tore the girl's gown, breaking her necklace in the process. Since the jewelry was still in his hand, they were charging him with theft. And since the doctor was distantly connected to a duke, Griffin would pay. Those pearls would send him to Botany Bay for twenty years.
So far no one had thought to ask what a runner had been doing in that hotel corridor. He hoped no one ever did. But Mary need no longer fear being trapped alone by a scoundrel. He wanted to tell her the story, but she wasn't in the ballroom—he'd already looked behind palms and pillars. She was probably in the retiring room again. Laura was attracting censure tonight. Mary would have fled the embarrassment.
He was beginning to understand her. Mary was intelligent, sensible, and highly competent, but she undervalued herself badly, particularly in social situations. Her sister had made sure of that, calling her plain, clumsy, and inept so often that Mary now believed it. Thus she couldn't see how her eyes sparkled, how the freckles across her shoulders drew the eye unerringly to the swell of her bosom, how animation turned her face beautiful. So
mehow he must convince her of that truth. She deserved the happiness her sister had denied her.
White's would be his safest retreat this evening. He cast one last glance over his shoulder as he reached the stairs, then cursed. Though the set was still in progress, Laura had abandoned Ingram, probably claiming a torn hem. She was closing on him fast.
Gray bolted toward the street, but ducked behind a statue of Zeus the moment he cleared the ballroom doorway. Leaving by the front door would be too slow—waiting while a footman fetched his greatcoat, then waiting again while a groom summoned his carriage. She would arrive long before his coachman. He could cause a scene that would insult her unforgivably, but for Mary's sake, he would rather not.
Several antechambers lay in the other direction. When three gentlemen momentarily screened him from view, he slipped into the first and headed for the window overlooking the terrace. He could walk to White's, then send a servant for his greatcoat and carriage.
But he'd crossed only half the room when the door burst open behind him.
Furious, he turned to face her. “What the devil do you think you are doing?” he demanded.
"Talking to you. I know you have hesitated to greet me because you feared your reputation would tarnish mine, but that is silly. My credit is high enough to improve yours."
"You belong in Bedlam,” he began, then cursed himself for arguing with a madwoman. “Leave this room at once."
But footsteps approached in the hallway. She must have been expecting them, for before he could react, she threw herself against him, shouting, “We are discovered, my love."
CHAPTER NINE
Gray shoved Laura into a chair, so angry he could barely see. “You are the most vulgar hoyden I have ever met,” he hissed. “And I've met plenty."