A Lady Unrivaled

by Roseanna M. White

  Ella offered that tight-lipped quarter smile that was as big as was polite after such a conversation in which she had no part. An acknowledgment, nothing more. And recalled the way Rushworth had flirted with her six months ago, during the one time they’d really been near enough to exchange words. It had struck her as odd then. As odd as that light in his eyes struck her now.

  Cayton stepped before her. Scowling, of course. And practically hissed, “You are not smiling at him. Are you mad?”

  No one but she could have heard the low accusation, but still. She sent her gaze to the ceiling. “The word is polite, Lord Cayton. A concept, granted, with which you seem rather unfamiliar.”

  “As caution is a concept unfamiliar to you.” He turned, held out his arm. Though one would never call it invitation in his eyes. “Shall we go in?”

  The others were already filing out the door. Brook on Stafford’s arm, Catherine on her brother’s, Whitby glancing over his shoulder at Ella and Cayton with a lifted brow.

  She folded her arms over her chest. “I am surprised you would dare to escort me rather than leaving Lord Whitby to do so. What if I mistake your attention for interest and start planning the wedding, my lord?”

  Cayton didn’t budge, not so much as a twitching facial muscle. “Surely you are not so daft as to ever wish for a future with my surly self.”

  It was rather amusing to listen to him growl over absolutely everything. She made a point of giving him her most mischievous smile. “Don’t be so sure. I have yet to test the limits of my reason.”

  He looked pointedly at his arm—in part, she suspected, to hide the laughter in his eyes. “Sometime tonight would be preferable, Lady Ella.”

  “Well, that’s rather quick for a wedding, don’t you think?” With a bat of her eyes, she slid her hand onto his arm and stepped near to his side. “I would prefer September. The autumn foliage would provide the perfect backdrop for my auburn hair when you paint my wedding portrait.”

  He’d led her one step but stopped at that, a single brow lifted. “Pardon?”

  “October, then? It may be a bit cool. Do paints behave strangely in the cold? I’ve no experience with them. I was an absolute dunce at anything artistic.”

  She’d done it—she’d caught him completely off his guard, and the bafflement in his eyes eclipsed the surliness.

  She deserved some sort of prize for that.

  He shook his head. “Why would you think I have any more experience with paints than you have?”

  Ella tugged him forward—Whitby was still lingering in the hallway waiting for them—but nodded toward the painting of Addie. “That, my lord, was done by someone who had spent entire days just watching her. And done, moreover, with love.”

  “I hardly think—”

  “Plus.” She grinned. “You had paint in your hair this morning. I didn’t know at the time what it was, but now it becomes clear. Bright blue paint.”

  Cayton sighed . . . but tugged her a bit closer. “Cobalt. And I’m going to have to sack my valet yet—he’s supposed to catch those things before I leave my room.”

  A chuckle tickled her throat. She’d been right. And realizing that he had such talent, that he indulged it in more than occasional poetic talk . . . Perhaps her instinct to like him wasn’t so misplaced. Maybe, just maybe, it was Brook who was wrong about him, not her.

  They moved at a leisurely pace toward the door, though Whitby preceded them when he saw they were coming. Ella angled her head to look up at Cayton’s profile. “Why do you hide it, my lord? You have an admirable talent.”

  He snorted. “Wildons are not artists. They are empire builders.”

  “And what is the point of building empires but to have the leisure to explore the arts?” She shook her head.

  He inclined his, his gaze straight ahead but his attention quite obviously hers.

  She might as well push, then. “Besides which, you’re not a Wildon. You’re an Azerly. Cayton, not Stafford. And what of that side of your family?”

  The arm under her fingers rose as he shrugged. “I never really knew my father’s people. It was the duke who served that paternal function.”

  The duke, then, who filled his head with such utter rot about what was expected of him? She’d never met the man, but she suddenly didn’t like Stafford and Cayton’s grandfather one whit. “Well, if he failed to see and encourage your gift, then he was a fool.”

  Cayton started and turned wide eyes on her. “No one speaks so of my grandfather. He was a duke.”

  “As was mine, and my father. That makes them no less people, and no less apt to be wrong now and then.”

  “Well.” He faced forward again. “Be that as it may, I was never of a mind to shout my habit from the rooftops. It didn’t suit the image I wanted to portray.”

  The image Lady Melissa had fallen for—a young buck at his best in society, rousing the rabble and losing wagers at the races. “I daresay that image was no more pleasing to your grandfather.”

  A gruff laugh slipped out as they stepped into the hallway. “Ah, but that he could attribute to the wild ways of youth. My propensity for poetry and painting would have been far more worrisome.”

  “Poetry too?” She leaned a bit closer—and did at least keep her volume low. “I should have known. Castles in the clouds and winged unicorns.”

  The scathing look he sent her as they trailed the rest of the party into the dining room might have been a bit more effective had they not been talking about his inner artist. “Breathe a word of it to anyone and I’ll . . .”

  The dining room was brightly lit, the electric chandelier looking new and beautiful, dripping crystals. Ella grinned up at him. “You’ll what, pray tell, my lord?”

  “I’ll think of something. I’m very imaginative.”

  She couldn’t help but chuckle as he delivered her to a chair beside Lord Rushworth’s, across from Whitby.

  Brook sent Cayton a long-suffering look. “Are you being rude to Lady Ella, Cayton?”

  He didn’t look the least bit perturbed as he took his place at the head of the table, Catherine to his right and Stafford to his left. “I don’t know what you could possibly mean, Duchess.”

  When Brook sat, the rest of them followed. “You had manners once. I saw them.”

  “No,” Stafford said on a grin. “He could simply feign them.”

  Brook muttered something, but it must have been in Monegasque—Ella had no clue what she said. Though whatever it was made Stafford laugh.

  Ella pressed her lips against a smile . . . and Lord Rushworth turned her way.

  Ten

  A fruit tart sat before her, only half-eaten. Which was a shame. Ella would have liked to finish it, but it was difficult to enjoy her dessert when four sets of eyes kept glaring in her direction. Solely because she wasn’t being outright rude to the man at her side.

  What was she supposed to do, refuse to answer any of Lord Rushworth’s questions? What purpose would that serve? Yet every time she replied to some inquiry as to the weather in Sussex or her family’s plans for the Season, they all looked at her as though she had committed some crime—the Staffords, Cayton, even Whitby.

  It was definitely enough to put one off one’s sweets. And the tart was perfection, so that deserved a bit of mourning.

  Brook only toyed with hers too. Her face had grown paler and paler throughout the meal. She now put down her fork, swallowed with what looked like effort, and turned to Rushworth. “Forgive me for acknowledging the invisible elephant, but I daresay we all tire of niceties. Why did you wish me to come tonight, cousin?”

  Beside her, Lord Rushworth took his time swallowing his bite of tart and then dabbing at his mouth politely with his napkin. His posture was exactly what one would expect from a lord—perfectly upright and yet perfectly at ease. No strain to speak of discomfort at the question. No hunch to hint at defensiveness. No leaning forward to denote aggression.

  Cayton had called him dangerous. And Ella had
no reason to doubt him, but . . . but he did not seem dangerous.

  Which perhaps made him all the more so.

  His smile was gentle. Indulgent, even. “Of course. Perhaps if we are all ready to adjourn back to the drawing room? You look as though you could use a rest, Duchess.”

  Catherine was the first to push away from the table. “As do I. I’m going to my room.”

  Now Rushworth went tense. “Kitty—”

  “You don’t need me, Crispin.” She tossed her napkin onto her barely touched plate. “Good night.”

  The brother sighed as his sister retreated from the room without so much as glancing at anyone. She hadn’t said a word all through the meal, and had eaten perhaps one bite for everyone else’s five. Ella said a silent prayer for her as she set down her napkin and stood . . . and added one for Brook when her friend’s face went even paler upon standing.

  Perhaps she should have indulged Stafford’s request to get Brook away from all this. Had it just been selfishness on her part to enlist Brook’s help in remaining? Ella hadn’t thought it so, not when her whole purpose was to relieve her brother of this worry. But maybe she was no better at judging what was helpful than she was at knowing a person’s hidden heart.

  Lord Rushworth was watching her, a smile upon his lips and his elbow proffered. “May I escort you back to the drawing room, Lady Ella?”

  She didn’t even discern the danger in this man, who clearly had motives her eyes couldn’t see. What did that say about her?

  Still, she had no choice but to accept his escort. Though the rest of the party didn’t seem to agree. She could feel their stares drilling into her as she tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Thank you, my lord.”

  He darted a quick glance at their scowling companions and led her out of the dining room with a grin. “You would think I had just committed a crime.”

  She couldn’t help but chuckle at that observation. Even if that did earn her even sharper gazes drilling into her back.

  Rushworth’s eyes positively twinkled as he leaned down just a bit. “I must say, my lady, I didn’t realize you would be in Gloucestershire, but a more pleasant surprise I couldn’t have devised. I have long wished for the chance to get to know you better.”

  “Have you?” Not the ladylike response, to be sure, but the shock slipped out. Yes, he had flirted with her last September—once. But it was as unexpected now as it had been then. She would have sworn, had anyone asked her, that Rushworth would have been the type to be annoyed by her personality.

  Much like his sister.

  Yet his gaze was warm as he continued smiling at her. “I have. Do you know the first time I saw you?”

  Ella lifted her brows and tried to think of a ball or fête or soirée they had both attended last season. Her only season. “I’m afraid I don’t, my lord. I know we were in a few of the same places last year, but . . .”

  “It was before that.” He drew her down the hall, toward the same room they’d been in before, with Addie and the late Lady Cayton smiling down on them. “At Whitby’s house party, before you were out. We weren’t introduced, of course, but I was there when you learned that Lady Regan had just accepted Lord Thate’s proposal, though your brother was courting her.”

  That drew her brows together. She remembered the day, of course. The day she had first met Brook. The day the late Duke of Stafford had died and news of it had reached his grandsons. But she certainly didn’t recall Rushworth having been nearby. “Forgive me, my lord—I’m afraid all I recall from that day is that announcement itself, and then the sad interruption when the news of the late duke’s death reached us.”

  “Oh, I don’t expect you to have noticed me. I had only just returned from the hunt, and . . .” They stepped into the room, and he glanced over his shoulder at the others who were hot on their heels. His smile looked resigned now. “I suppose this is a waste of breath. They would have already prejudiced you against me.”

  Now what in the world was she to say to that? Assure him that they hadn’t—though of course they had? Demur and take the excuse to walk away? Put him in his place with a biting, caustic remark?

  She never had perfected the art of the caustic remark though. She could tease with the best of them—it came of having a brother who teased her incessantly—but she suspected none of her scowling friends would much appreciate that reaction.

  So she opted for honesty. A smile that was polite but not encouraging, and she slipped her hand from his arm as she said, “I make my own judgements, my lord.” Faulty as they may often be. Let him imagine what he would about which she had made here.

  His returning smile was a great deal warmer than hers had been. “I expect nothing less from a lady of your caliber.” He turned back toward the door as she made for the couch . . . Though his gaze seemed to snag on her as she moved, and his eyes narrowed.

  She had always rather liked her profile, but really—it wasn’t that intriguing, was it? But when she sent him a questioning look, he merely faced the others, refreshing his smile.

  An odd man, to be sure. Ella took a seat on the couch and smoothed the skirt of her evening dress . . . and knew immediate guilt for dwelling on anything so trivial as whether or not Rushworth was enamored with her when Stafford and Whitby entered, Brook sandwiched between them.

  She had a hand pressed to her stomach and absolutely no color left in her checks, even as she waved away the buzzing males with an insistent, “I am well.”

  “I knew you should have stayed home.” Stafford’s face was set in hard lines, and he ignored his wife’s attempt to bat him away. “We can finish this conversation another time. Cayton, if you could have our car—”

  “I am not ill, nor am I an invalid. I am perfectly capable of having a conversation.” She speared Cayton with a glare that said if he obeyed his cousin, he would meet with pains of torment.

  Cayton did an admirable job of not smiling. He skirted the edges of the room and perched on a chair on the far side, well away from where Brook sank slowly to a seat beside Ella.

  “Are you really all right?” she asked her friend in a murmur.

  Brook swallowed. “Oui. Ça va.”

  Ella frowned right along with Stafford and Whitby. When she lapsed into French, it usually bespoke a state other than “all right.”

  “I’ll get right to the point.” Rushworth, rather than sitting, stood before the mantel, in nearly the exact place Ella had before the meal. His expression was one of concern, his posture shouting consideration. “I know we have had our differences, cousin, and that you think Kitty and I had a hand in Pratt kidnapping you, that we have a stake in the diamonds—”

  “I think it?” Brook’s nostrils flared, but it didn’t seem to be from emotion so much as a more physical feeling. “It goes well beyond my opinion. Cousin.”

  No anger flashed. From where Ella sat, she saw not a flicker of anything in his eyes. Nothing but the same concern. He splayed his hands. “I know I will never convince you otherwise, and I shan’t try. Especially since, at this point, I will be quite frank and admit that, yes, I need the diamonds. Not by choice but because of Pratt.”

  Ella shifted and wished she had opted for a seat on the fringes too.

  Stafford folded his arms over his chest. “Even now you will blame it all on him, though he is dead? And is he responsible for stealing from Nottingham last autumn too?”

  Now puzzlement dimmed Rushworth’s eyes—for a moment, though he shook it off. “If you will allow me to explain. Duchess, did Pratt ever mention to you that he had already found a buyer for the jewels?”

  Brook’s nod was short, her breathing so even she had to be making an effort to keep it so. “He mentioned . . . a Russian princess.”

  “Indeed. But I don’t suppose he mentioned that he had already accepted partial payment for the jewels?”

  Brook pressed her lips together. Stafford gusted out a breath.

  Rushworth braced an arm against the mantel. “I still ha
ve not been able to ascertain who this buyer is—but his men paid me a visit and made it quite clear that if we do not produce the diamonds in short order, my sister will be held accountable for the promise her husband reneged on.” He straightened again, desperation burning now in his gaze. “So you see why I come to you. Doubt all you want about my person and my innocence, but you cannot doubt my care of my sister. You cannot.”

  “We don’t have them.” Her voice tight, Brook drew in a slow breath. “I am sorry, Rush. But we honestly don’t. Perhaps you should just return the money—”

  “Pratt sank it directly into Delmore, which should come as no surprise to anyone who saw the state of the place.” He paced toward Cayton, pivoted, came back their way. “Perhaps had we realized before little Byron died and Kitty lost it all, we could have liquidated parts of his estate. But now—I am desperate, cousin. I cannot let harm come to my sister, but I fear what these men will do. And there is simply no way I can pay the debt from my own reserves.”

  “But we don’t have them. And honestly, I haven’t a clue where they are now.” Brook rose slowly and then blinked too rapidly. “And even if I did—there are holes in your story, Crispin. You say you learned of it after your nephew’s death. So tell me, why were you willing to steal from Nottingham beforehand?”

  His eyes returned to their previous blank state. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Then we are at an impasse, non?” She strode for the door. “Excusez-moi. Je . . .”

  Ella leapt to her feet at her friend’s first wobble. Stafford and Whitby were right there too, matching panic in their eyes as Brook’s frame sagged. She never had a chance of striking the floor, not with her father and husband at her side, but their strong arms didn’t keep her head from lolling and her knees from buckling.

  Ella pressed a hand to her lips, rushing forward even though she knew well she could do nothing to help. “Brook!”

  “Call for the doctor!” Stafford turned his frantic gaze on Cayton. “She needs to lie down.”