by Allison Lane
"Relax. You will be fine.” He held her eyes, pulling her an inch closer than propriety allowed.
"What about you? Only yesterday you were weak as a kitten. And that limp is not completely gone.” She'd noticed it as he dashed into the antechamber.
"Ankle sprain, but I'll manage.” He twirled her through a complicated turn that she hadn't known she could do, then grinned, flashing his dimple. “What did she mean about cream cakes?"
"One of my less stellar moments.” It was hard to keep a smile on her face while revealing what a bad bargain she really was. “I tripped on the edge of a carpet and crashed into a footman, who dropped a plate of cream cakes on Lady Jersey's head. I was sure she would cancel my voucher on the spot, but she merely glared at me, then turned her ire on two girls who giggled."
"I would love to have seen it. But since you have a voucher, I will accompany you to Almack's tomorrow."
"Will they let you in?"
"Certainly. Lady Jersey just confirmed my standing by presenting me as a suitable partner for the waltz. They never actually revoked my voucher, though they would have done so had I attempted to use it. I wonder why she decided to accept me now."
"To punish Laura. Since she granted our vouchers, she cannot like such public evidence of poor judgment."
"Perhaps.” He pulled her another inch closer. “I won't object."
Mary's knees again melted, though she knew he sought only to convince society that they were in love. To deflect her mind so she wouldn't disgust him by revealing feelings he didn't want, she concentrated on the crowd. Faces spun past, frozen as if in a painting.
Lady Marchgate, smiling indulgently. Even that rigidly proper matron enjoyed a betrothal waltz, particularly when it provided a slap in the face to a girl she disliked.
Lady Beatrice, delivering some pronouncement to Lady Debenham.
Lord Whitehaven, nodding approval. That boded well.
A young sprig in the towering cravat of the fop, glaring. Mary shivered at the hatred in those eyes.
"Who is the dandy next to Lady Wilkins? Green jacket, flowered waistcoat, chin shoved upward by his cravat."
On the next turn, Gray spotted him. “I don't know,” he admitted. “Just down from school, I expect. He can't be above eighteen."
"He has the oddest look on his face, as if our betrothal were the final insult to a life already made intolerable."
"I doubt it.” He squeezed her hand. “He's probably bilious from too much punch. Not everyone is concerned about us, my dear. Most of society has resumed its dissection of Griffin's arrest, Blackthorn's latest attack on Atwater, or Mannering's new bride."
Or Laura, but neither of them mentioned her.
Once the dance ended, Gray escorted her to supper. News of their sudden betrothal was already on the wing, bringing the curious from other gatherings and producing the heaviest crush of the Season. Lady Cunningham's ball would be remembered for a long time.
But Mary couldn't forget that malevolent face. She had seen hatred in its purest form before, so the dandy's thoughts were clear. As were his intentions. As soon as the crowd of well-wishers thinned, she turned to Gray. “Can you take me home?"
"Of course. You must be exhausted."
She nodded numbly.
"Everything will be fine,” he promised, seating her in his carriage. Rockhurst House was only two streets away.
"I hope so, but I'm too tired to think. How about you? Do your injuries still bother you?"
"Only a trifle.” He dropped into the seat across from her and crossed his arms. “Now suppose you tell me why we are courting new scandal by disappearing alone."
She dropped her voice so the coachman would not hear. “Miss Ormsby identified that young man—the one I spotted when we were dancing."
"The cub who drank too much?"
"That's the one. But he wasn't foxed. I know hatred when I see it. If looks could kill—"
"But they can't."
"Not by themselves. But hatred too often leads to trouble. He is Leonard Turner, Miss Turner's younger brother. According to Miss Ormsby, his friend had to constrain him from attacking when Blake announced our betrothal. He is enraged that you are happy—which raises the question of whether he is responsible for your accidents."
CHAPTER TEN
Mary invited Gray inside, but he declined. She understood. Their sudden betrothal left him in a daze, and her news about Mr. Turner was the final straw. She'd seen his brain shutting down from the shock.
Her own was little better. Never again could she slip away to hide from society. No matter how crowded she felt or how many mistakes she made, she must stay in the public eye. Everyone would be watching her closely. Laura had already brought disgrace on the family. She could only pray she wouldn't make it worse.
But upholding the Seabrook name was not her biggest problem. She also must protect Gray's. He would one day be an earl. Would her country ways and nervous faux pas shame him? He deserved better than a bluestocking bird lover. Why hadn't she applied herself more firmly to Miss Mott's lessons in manners, music, and entertaining?
It would reflect poorly on Gray if people thought he had chosen a poor-spirited wife. And hiding would cast doubts on their claim of a love match. Somehow she must convince people that she was worthy of him. He deserved no less.
Sighing, she climbed slowly upstairs. Catherine and Blake would demand a complete explanation in the morning. At least Gray's flowers would support their claim of a courtship and explain Laura's supposed jealousy.
She must also write her brothers. William would be furious with Laura, and he would never approve of Gray. William was a prude—there was no other way to describe him. His primary interest was his estate, his voice growing animated only when discussing crop rotation or the benefits of manure. It had taken Catherine a month to persuade him to let Laura and Mary live at Rockburn Abbey, for he had heard that some of Blake's friends were rakes.
Andrew would accept anything that made her happy, though he, too, would be furious with Laura. His closest friend had been one of her early victims. If only he were here. He had long been her favorite brother. Only he could advise her how to turn this debacle into a workable relationship. Catherine couldn't help, for her own marriages had been love matches.
Her youngest brother Thomas was still in school, but he would welcome Gray the moment he learned about Gray's ships. He had recently evinced an interest in sailing, though at sixteen he was a little old for the navy. They preferred to start potential officers as cabin boys.
She also needed to learn more about Gray, starting with his name. Details like that could put the lie to their supposed courtship, and she could not trust gossip to have the facts right.
On the thought, she stopped in Blake's study to check Debrett's Peerage. It took only moments to find the entry. Viscount Grayson, heir to the fifth Earl of Rothmoor, christened Oliver Leslie Dubonne after his father—that explained why he never used the name. The entry was brief, listing only his date of birth and his London direction. The book had been compiled before he acquired his Sussex estate.
Replacing Debrett's, she pushed open her bedroom door, then cursed. She should have expected another confrontation.
"I hope you're satisfied,” hissed Laura from the chair by the fireplace. “You ruined everything."
"I see you are clinging to your fantasies,” Mary said wearily. “Go to bed, Laura. You brought this on yourself."
"Me?” Laura surged to her feet, whirling to confront her sister. “You stole the man I wanted. How dare you?"
"I stole nothing!” Mary tossed her reticule on her dressing table, relieved that Laura had not shredded the peonies in her fury.
There was no way to avoid an argument, and that was probably good. It was time to step out of the shadows and stand up for herself. Gray had forced her to recognize how cowed she had become.
"Just because you want someone does not mean he returns your regard. Only an idiot would try to force a st
ranger into marriage. Yes, a stranger,” she snapped, ignoring Laura's protest. “You know nothing about him beyond malicious rumor, most of which is false. Didn't that fiasco with Blake teach you anything?"
"I learn from every encounter.” Laura's eyes blazed blue in the candlelight. “Blake taught me to be bold. Too much preparation gives others a chance to interfere. Just as Kevin taught me the need for an audience."
"You will rot in hell for what you did to Kevin. He would never have bought colors if you hadn't hounded him. I've never met a man so unsuited for war. I hope his ghost haunts you forever."
"Why should it? Sneaking away to the army was his choice. We could have shared a glorious life, following adventure around the world. But no matter. He proved himself unworthy. As did Blake. Imagine preferring an insipid widow burdened with a sniveling brat."
Mary's jaw dropped to hear Catherine and Sarah described thusly.
"But this time would have been perfect if not for you,” continued Laura. “I would be married at last."
"Hardly. What self-respecting gentleman wants a scheming wife? Hasn't it sunk into your head yet that a man can lock his wife away if he chooses?"
"No one would do that to me. Everyone loves me."
Mary shook her head. Laura had abandoned reality. Maybe there was a streak of madness in the family after all. God knew logic could not explain her delusions. “Gray hates you. He would flee the country rather than tolerate your antics. He called you a vulgar trollop, a madwoman, and a spoiled child."
"I don't believe you."
"Why? You were standing right there. Everyone in the hallway heard him. But you never listen when you are scheming. He was fleeing your plots when you cornered him in that antechamber."
"The only plotter was you, seeking to destroy my happiness."
Mary shook her head. “You can't duck this one by claiming innocence, Laura. Three hundred people watched you throw yourself at him. And hundreds more have heard the tale by now. You were the main topic of conversation in the ballroom. Most consider Lady Caroline Lamb a pattern card of propriety compared to you. They were already tired of your airs and graces, so don't expect forgiveness."
"Of course they'll forgive me. They will see how you stole my beau."
Mary's temper snapped. “For God's sake, Laura. He was never your beau! This is not one of your gothic novels where you can rewrite the ending to match your fantasies. You are ruined, and I'm betrothed. And there is nothing either of us can do about it."
"There has to be. It isn't fair that you will have the life of excitement and travel I want."
"What excitement? What travel?” demanded Mary. “Gray stays on his estate except when business draws him to his shipping office. He left England only once in his life—for one week in Brussels to negotiate a contract. Hardly the high adventure you seek."
"That's a lie. His ships travel all over the world."
"But he doesn't go with them,” explained Mary patiently. “He employs captains to sail his ships and agents to arrange his cargoes. He prefers a quiet life at home.” She tried to imagine a sensitive bird lover who fainted at the sight of blood craving adventure, but the image would not form.
"I don't believe you.” Laura surged to her feet, dashing her cup into the fireplace. “You are lying to spite me. You've always hated me because I am beautiful and you aren't. But you'll be sorry you interfered. Grayson may play your game tonight, but you'll soon bore him. Within the week he will jilt you as publicly as he jilted Miss Irwin."
"Another of your fantasies. Miss Irwin was just like you, trying to force an offer from a man she didn't know. He refused."
"Lies!"
"No. You've also ignored the fact that he's been courting me since arriving in London. Who do you think sent me the peonies? They aren't the first, either, as Barhill can attest."
"I don't believe you. You probably sent them yourself in a pathetic attempt to seem interesting—as if anyone would believe so dull and ugly a girl could attract a suitor. That stupid bird proves it. You draw weird little pictures like that all the time. But you won't take him away. You won't! He loves me and must despise the very thought of touching you."
"Laura!” Blake stood in the doorway.
Laura's bravado collapsed. Fear flashed through her eyes.
"In my study. Now!"
Laura stormed out. The moment the door closed, Mary sank into a chair with her head in her hands.
Had she ever known Laura? Gray's voice echoed in her head. She has criticized you from the moment she first looked into a mirror.
Tonight had torn the scales from her eyes in more ways than one. The family had accepted Laura's bouts of kindness and occasional benevolence as the real person, excusing her fits as childish whims she would eventually outgrow. But they'd had it backwards. Laura had manipulated them from the first, using smiles and a helping hand to screen her selfish determination.
But those fits defined the real Laura, the venal Laura. She craved excitement the way most people craved food. And she would do anything to find it, causing fusses and even scandal whenever she was bored. She wanted to be a goddess, waited on by an army of servants, worshiped by thousands of men, envied by every woman. She wanted to see the world, which she imagined to be an exotic place offering limitless adventure, though never discomfort. Some of her dreams grew from books, but most were the product of imagination—if only their mother had lived; if only their father had been a wealthy pirate or pasha or king; if only she had taken London by storm at seventeen instead of wasting precious years buried in the country. She used her belief that fate had abused her to justify any dishonor.
And she was growing worse. Gone was the girl who had helped Catherine distribute food and clothing to the parish poor, had run the household after Catherine's first marriage, and had helped care for the Seabrook tenants. Gone was—
Voices interrupted. Mary wished she'd told Blake how thin the wall was. The last thing she needed tonight was another argument.
"Your reputation will never recover,” said Blake coldly.
"You exaggerate.” But fear trembled in Laura's voice.
"Not at all."
"Then why not blame Mary? It's all her fault!"
"No! I am through with your spite,” he snapped. Something thudded—perhaps a fist on his desk. “Mary is blameless, as everyone in that ballroom knows. So far, they impute your tantrum to jealousy."
"Me jealous of her? That mealy-mouthed ingrate. That—"
"Enough! I will not tolerate another word. There isn't a soul in society who will support you now."
Laura burst into noisy sobs.
Mary flinched. Laura often used tears to elicit sympathy, weeping inconsolably until her listeners were willing to forgive anything if only it would comfort her.
Donning a nightrail, Mary climbed into bed and clamped a pillow over her ears, but it did no good. The pillow was as thin as the wall.
"Tears do not affect me,” said Blake coldly, having let Laura wail for several minutes. “I've seen you produce them too often."
"If you think to send me back—"
"No,” Blake interrupted. “I won't choose the easy way this time. There will be no retreat to the country. You would shame the family by causing new scandal the moment you arrived. Thus you will stay under my eye."
"You mean you will ignore this misunderstanding and do nothing to punish Mary for her interference?” Laura's tears were gone in a flash, buried under fury.
"Mary is innocent, and if I hear another word to the contrary, I will lock you in your room for the remainder of the Season. From now on, you will behave like the proper miss you are not. At Catherine's urging, I covered your perfidy once—something I would not have done had I known about your earlier crimes. I should have turned you over to Squire Baker when he offered for you last summer. Instead, I let you wheedle a Season from me—and look at how you've repaid me. No more cooperation, Laura. This time you will face the consequences. If any invitation in
cludes you, you will accept it. You will maintain an even temper no matter what people say or how often they cut you. And you will not utter a word, even by innuendo, against Mary or Grayson. Is that clear?"
Laura agreed with alacrity, clearly believing that everything would be back to normal by morning.
Mary sighed. They could expect hysterics the moment the morning post arrived. It would bristle with cancellations.
* * * *
Gray found Nick in the reading room at White's. The club would not be crowded for another hour, so they would have privacy for a time. He needed it. Too much had happened this evening—Laura, Mary, Turner...
His head was ready to explode.
"You are early,” remarked Nick once the steward delivered wine.
"I am betrothed."
Nick bolted to attention. “What?"
"I have been courting a most charming girl for some time,” said Gray lightly. “She is delighted with my gifts, especially the Daurian peonies I sent round this morning."
"Not that rose and gold variety!” exclaimed Nick. “They cost a fortune."
"And worth every shilling, though these particular ones came from my hothouse. I spoke to her sponsor this afternoon and paid my addresses this evening. She accepted."
Nick pursed his lips, eyes riveted to Gray's face. “Whom are we discussing?"
"Miss Mary Seabrook.” He chuckled. “She is quite out of the ordinary and will make me a perfect wife. We share many interests."
"Whoa.” Nick drained his glass and poured another. “Let's try this again. Now that I know the public tale, how much of it is true?"
"You have always been a student of human nature, Nick.” Gray shook his head. “No one can take you in for long. It is true that I am betrothed. It is true that Mary and I are friends and that I've sent her flowers on two occasions, most recently the peonies. It is also true that I had considered offering, but was put off by her unscrupulous sister.” A slight stretch, but not much.
"I know you dodged the sister at the Oxbridge ball. I covered for you."
"I should not have gone out that evening. It was too soon after meeting that footpad. Mary read me quite a scold for it.” He sipped wine. “As for the rest of the tale, Rockhurst will claim we spoke this afternoon."