* * * *
Nicholas looked down at Joanna in dismay. That prosy bore? Surely she could not prefer such a conceited, pompous, self-important, egotistical bag of wind as Fitzwalter?
Frantically Nicholas searched for something to say that would render Fitzwalter clearly ineligible as a prospective bridegroom. But the man was as meticulous in his habits as he was offensive in his vapidity. On the other hand, the fact that the clergyman had never had an original idea in his life was hardly a reason to rule him out as a possible husband for Joanna.
A bullet through the chest might well make him less than a perfect candidate, Nicholas thought with bloodthirsty relish. Fortunately, it need not come to that, because just in time he remembered a fatal flaw, not in Fitzwalter’s character, but in his family.
“Well,” he said looking down into Joanna’s trusting eyes, “the only thing you might wish to consider is that his mother, who would be your mother-in-law, reminds me very much of your own aunt.” And that, he thought, watching Joanna’s expression change to one of horror, quite nicely puts paid to the reverend’s matrimonial hopes.
“But you need not fret yourself,” he continued smoothly when she failed to suggest another candidate for his approval. “The Season is yet in its infancy, and there is still ample opportunity for you to attach the proper young man.”
Unfortunately, when he thought about it, the weeks seemed to be flying by at an impossible speed, probably because he was making no progress with Joanna. Therefore he should perhaps, before his time ran out, make an effort to court her more intensively—make it quite obvious to her that she had caught his interest.
Before he could open his campaign with a suitably flowery compliment, however, his attention was caught by some late arrivals, who gained admittance only minutes before the doors were closed for the evening. Three people only, a man and wife and their fair daughter, but at the sight of them smiling and nodding to acquaintances, Nicholas was filled with righteous indignation, which soon resolved itself into wrath.
The Dillons had apparently decided London offered more than Paris. For a moment Nicholas caught Belinda’s eye, and to his utter amazement, she smiled at him. Did the stupid chit not even have enough conscience to feel properly guilty for what she had done?
Well, if she was imagining that he was willing to overlook her deliberate abandonment of Joanna—to consider it as being of no more importance than the accidental misplacement of a shawl or handkerchief—then Belinda was dead wrong. And so he would not hesitate to inform her.
And he had no intention of mincing his words. It was about time someone pricked her bubble of self-importance, of amour-propre. Yes, those were the precise words to describe Belinda—she was so filled with love for herself, she could offer none to any other person.
* * * *
For a few moments Joanna had felt hope. After all, why would Nicholas be so quick to disparage her other suitors unless he himself were attracted to her? But she was chasing after a chimera—a mere illusion—and was once more giving in to the dangers of self-deception.
Because the moment Belinda had appeared in the doorway, looking exactly like a golden goddess, all Nicholas’s attention had been riveted on her. Even now, Joanna could sense his eagerness to join the ever-enlarging throng of young men surrounding Belinda. Moreover, from the look on his face, he was feeling despair at the mere thought of being too late to enter his name on her dance card.
Generosity of spirit made Joanna say, “If you would not mind, I am growing a trifle fatigued and would prefer to sit out the rest of the dance beside your aunt.”
Without displaying even the slightest pretense of reluctance, Nicholas hustled her off the floor and back to his Aunt Theo. As she had expected, he then quickly worked his way around the edge of the room to where Belinda was holding court.
Joanna wanted nothing more than to flee out into the night—to lose herself in London. But even if she could run away from Nicholas, she could never run fast enough to escape from her own heart, which was now surely breaking.
Chapter 10
“Why, Captain Goldsborough, how delightful to see you again,” The entrancing Miss Dillon allowed her dimples to appear, then frowned prettily and rapped Nicholas playfully on the arm with her fan. “But you have been too, too naughty, dear boy, staying away from us all this time. Why, it is now three full days since we returned to London, and this is the first you have shown your face. I am tempted not to let you have the waltz that I saved especially for you.”
There was a chorus of protests from the other young men crowding around her, and each one began importuning her to give him the waltz instead, but she merely laughed, a gay, tinkling laugh, like little silver bells. “No, no, my gallant captain must have his waltz, as a reward for the noble way he has served his country so bravely.”
Nicholas felt a deep revulsion at the thought of holding this heartless flirt in his arms and dancing with her, but he could not pass up such a perfect opportunity to tell her exactly where she stood in his estimation. Gritting his teeth to hold back the angry words that were welling up inside of him, he took the card she was holding out to him and scrawled his name beside the waltz, which was the next dance after the country dance now forming.
Laying her hand on his arm and giving it a most improper squeeze, Miss Dillon looked up at him and batted her eyelashes artlessly. “Oh, I do adore strong, silent men. They have such an aura of mystery about them, which I find most attractive.”
Immediately the men gathered around her stiffened their backs, shut their mouths, and attempted to look as if they, too, were strong, silent, mysterious men.
With a last merry laugh, Miss Dillon allowed herself to be led out by a young man dressed to the nines in bottle-green jacket, puce satin waistcoat, and canary-yellow knee breeches.
Nicholas retired to lean negligently against the wall, from which vantage point he watched the delectable Miss Dillon dancing so gracefully that she made the other young girls in her set look positively awkward and gauche in comparison.
The country dance dragged on interminably, and the waiting did not cool Nicholas’s temper in the slightest. Eventually, however, it was his turn to lead Miss Dillon out onto the floor. The music started, they began to dance, and at last he was able to express the feelings he had been bottling up inside him since he had first heard that she had abandoned Joanna.
“You are looking especially beautiful this evening, Miss Dillon. You quite take the shine out of the other young ladies.”
Even while preening herself at his compliments, she pretended a modesty he knew was as false as everything else about her.
“Oh, la, Mr. Goldsborough, you will turn my head with such flattery.”
“It is indeed unfortunate,” he continued, carefully keeping his voice low so that none of the other dancers might overhear him, “that behind your beautiful face and form you have such a cold, calculating heart and such a mean, petty spirit. Do you not find it amusing, O most beautiful Miss Dillon, how so few people have seen behind that mask you wear?”
She stiffened in his arms, and her mouth took on a pinched look, and for a moment she allowed the ugliness in her soul to show on her face.
“Tut, tut, Miss Dillon, you must not forget to smile. Remember, all eyes are watching you, and you must not disappoint—or disillusion—your faithful admirers.”
Her lower lip began to quiver adorably, and tears pooled in her beautiful green eyes, causing them to sparkle like emeralds. “Oh,” she said in a truly piteous voice, “how can you speak so to me? Is it perhaps jealousy, that I have been neglecting you to dance with so many others?”
“Bravo, Miss Dillon,” he replied with a smile every bit as false as her tears. “Well done, really well done. I had no idea you could do bathos so beautifully. Has it required long hours of practice in front of your mirror?”
She smiled in return, and her face lit up as if the sun had peeped out from behind the clouds, but in a low voice, which
no longer held the slightest resemblance to little silver bells, she said, “Why are you persecuting me this way? What have I done to cause you to harden your heart against me?”
“Why, you have done nothing to me—but then, I was never your friend, and it appears that you save your greatest treachery for your friends. It is only your closest friends, in fact, whom you callously abandon at the first hint of danger to your own skin.”
For a moment she looked truly puzzled; then he saw comprehension dawn—but not the slightest evidence of guilt. If he had seen the least sign of shame or repentance for what she had done, he would have given up his plans for revenge and returned her to her mother’s side.
“Oh, I understand now. Joanna is the one who has turned you against me. Really, sir,” she said quite earnestly, “it amazes me that you should believe such an untrustworthy, flighty girl. I do not know what lies she has told you, or how she has twisted the facts to make it appear that she was blameless. I am sure, however, that she did not bother to inform you that my mother told her quite specifically that there was no need for her to go running off to see her brother.”
Miss Dillon’s callous attitude was beyond belief, thought Nicholas, as was her glib manner of excusing her own inexcusable behavior.
“Unfortunately, Joanna was too willful to listen,” Belinda said, looking quite affronted. “Why, I myself reminded her that she must be sure to return in time to accompany us to Antwerp, but I might as well have been speaking to the moon for all the heed she paid my instructions. She was totally set on having her own way, no matter how inconvenient it might be for us.
“Really, Mr. Goldsborough, it must be apparent even to you that everything that happened in Brussels was all Joanna’s own fault. And I must tell you frankly, I feel it is quite wicked of her to try to lay the blame at my feet. ‘Pon rep, one would think the girl would have the decency, after all I have done for her, to show a little gratitude for my generosity, rather than spreading scurrilous lies about my character.”
Miss Dillon honestly believed what she was saying, Nicholas realized with amazement. The spoiled beauty was so totally self-centered, she had no idea of the enormity of the offense she had committed. She was apparently incapable of considering anyone else’s needs or desires—except, of course, if they chanced to affect herself. He was obviously wasting his time trying to bring her to a sense of shame for her actions.
“Do you know, Miss Dillon, as beautiful as you are, you remind me of an apple that appears perfectly delectable from the outside, but when one cuts into it, one discovers it is wormy and rotten to the core.”
Still smiling sweetly, she hissed at him, “And you, Mr. Goldsborough, may go to perdition and take your precious Joanna with you.”
“Why, I should be delighted to set out at once, Miss Dillon.” With one last smile, Nicholas dropped his hands and walked away from her, abandoning her on the dance floor as ruthlessly as she had abandoned Joanna in Brussels.
There were gasps of astonishment around him; then someone tittered, and someone else snickered. Then the whispering started and increased in intensity until it could be heard even above the music. Nicholas did not pause, nor did he acknowledge the stares that were aimed in his direction. He merely smiled, that wonderfully enigmatic smile of a strong, silent, mysterious man.
* * * *
Belinda had never in her life—never, ever—been put in such an embarrassing position. People were staring at her, which in itself was quite normal, but they were also making sport of her, which was totally unheard of. No one laughed at her—no one! She was the incomparable Miss Dillon; she was not an object of amusement!
“May I escort you to your seat, Miss Dillon?”
A suave voice sounded beside her, and Belinda turned to see a young man dressed in scarlet regimentals standing there. Vaguely she remembered meeting him in Brussels.
“Lieutenant Gryndle at your service. We danced together at the Craigmonts’ ball in Brussels,” he reminded her, and the kindness and admiration she could see in his eyes was a balm to her wounded spirit.
“Thank you, you are most gentlemanly,” she replied, casting her eyes down modestly.
Offering her his arm, he acted as if escorting abandoned young ladies from the dance floor were an everyday occurrence, scarcely worthy of remark.
After complimenting her on her dress and asking her if it was from Paris, he began to discuss French fashion with her in a knowledgeable way. Not once did he question her about or even allude to her present embarrassing predicament, for which he earned her undying gratitude—and more important, she even decided it was only fair to reward him for his gallantry by removing another’s name from her dance card and substituting his for the next waltz.
Lieutenant Gryndle, at least, was properly cognizant of the great honor she was thereby bestowing on him, and he was not slow to voice his humble gratitude for such preferential treatment.
* * * *
Owing to his family’s refusal to support his more extravagant habits, Lieutenant Peter Gryndle was presently residing in a miserably cramped room above a common tavern. He was also forced by a cruel and unjust fate, which had not seen fit to make him the heir to a fortune, to supplement his meager income as a half-pay officer by the judicious use of a deck of cleverly marked cards, which he had taken the liberty of removing from the pocket of a treacherous Spaniard. Now, however, if he played his cards right, he realized, concealing a grin of triumph at his own clever turn of phrase, he was about to correct that omission.
The lovely Miss Dillon, only offspring and sole heiress of a wealthy, doting father, had just been handed to him on a silver platter.
He did not, of course, have any illusions that her gratitude would last much beyond this evening. He would, therefore, have to make all haste in the next days to trap her in a compromising situation in order to force her hand.
Force her hand—oh, but he was being witty this evening. It was too bad he could not share the joke.
“You are smiling, Lieutenant Gryndle. Pray tell me what you find so amusing,” his partner said with a practiced pout.
“Forgive me, Miss Dillon, but I have so long dreamed of having an opportunity to waltz with you that I confess I am bursting with joy now that the blessed moment has finally arrived. You are my ideal, my goddess, and I would be content merely to touch the hem of your gown. But that you have so graciously, so generously condescended to dance with me—I vow, I am so overcome, I can scarce speak.”
She preened visibly at his fulsome compliments. Apparently she had an insatiable appetite for obsequious flattery, and he began to believe his task would be easier than he could ever have anticipated. Well, he was perfectly agreeable to feeding her as many honeyed phrases as she was willing to swallow.
* * * *
“You go too far, Nick.” Dorie scowled up at her cousin, who had just taken it upon himself to check her dance card for “undesirables.” Despite her outraged protests, Nicholas had scratched out Lieutenant Gryndle’s name.
It was not that Dorie especially wanted to dance with the lieutenant. She had, in fact, only been introduced to him this evening. But that Nicholas should be allowed to interfere in her life in such a heavy-handed way was clearly intolerable.
“The man is a cad and a bounder,” he replied. “He may still meet the criteria of the patronesses and be allowed into Almack’s, but he is hanging on to his place in society by the skin of his teeth, and there are already any number of high sticklers who are no longer willing to recognize him.”
“In case you have not noticed, I am not a high stickler,” Dorie retorted.
“I have noticed, and it is highly likely half of society has noticed. But in case it has never occurred to you, if you damage your reputation, you will also drag Joanna down with you and ruin her chances of finding a husband, and that I will never allow.”
Dorie stared at her cousin mutinously and wondered what he would say if she told him Joanna might be better served if her
reputation was ruined. Maybe then Nicholas would take a good look at what was right under his nose ... but no, he probably would not. More than likely he would decide it was his duty to marry her off to some man who could not afford to be choosy, such as a widower with ten children, or to some eminently respectable man like the Reverend Fitzwalter, whose own reputation was so elevated it could survive even the ignominy of his marrying a woman whose reputation was somewhat tattered.
“In fact,” Nicholas continued, “I shall give you a list of the men whom you are not to dance with or acknowledge in the slightest way.”
Dorie smiled her most innocent smile. “Thank you, Nicholas. I am sure I will find such a list most convenient.” She was not lying. Such a list would be quite handy—to let her know exactly whose acquaintance she should cultivate!
* * * *
“I declare, I will be thankful when I get Prissy married off,” Mrs. Esmerelda Cunningwood said for approximately the forty-fourth time that evening. “Then I shall never have to show my face in these hallowed portals again. I vow, Almack’s becomes more impossibly tedious with each passing Season. I declare, Cousin, I do not know how you tolerate it year after year.”
Keeping a deliberately bland expression on her face, Lady Letitia eyed her companion with barely disguised distaste. One could not, unfortunately, choose one’s own relatives. But Lady Letitia was also more than grateful that Prissy was the last of her cousin’s daughters. The woman had “vowed” and “declared” repeatedly that it was her intention to retire to Northumberland as soon as her youngest daughter was wedded, and Lady Letitia was more than eager to be quit of the woman forever. Relative or no relative, the woman was a crushing bore.
“I said, dear Cousin Letitia, that I do not know how you tolerate Almack’s year after year,” Mrs. Cunningwood prompted.
“I expect it is because I like watching the dances, Cousin Esmerelda. There is such a fascination in seeing the patterns shift in subtle ways, in observing the way partners come together, then break apart to dance with others.”
The Resolute Runaway Page 14