“How thoughtful,” Belle replied, her tone dry.
“Wasn’t it?” Crecy said, nodding, and then her face fell, her lovely grey eyes showing a hint of dark, bruised lavender storm clouds. “At least I’d thought it was thoughtful. Now, I suppose I must conclude that he arranged the whole thing to get me alone. Oh, Belle, why are men so underhanded? I’d much rather know that a fellow had nefarious intentions for me than have him be charming to my face and then spring it upon me. At least you know where you stand then.”
“Crecy!” Belle exclaimed as her sister looked up with a puzzled expression.
“What?” she demanded, obviously none the wiser as to her sister’s distress.
Belle shook her head with impatience. “Never mind, now. You and I are going to have a talk, dearest, but not until my toes have thawed out. Come along, I’m freezing, and you’re getting a red nose.”
“Pooh,” Crecy exclaimed with impatience. “Much I care for a red nose! The question is,” she added, her expression one of deep concern, “how am I to get such a delicate thing back to the house?”
“No, Crecy!” Belle exclaimed, folding her arms. That was the last straw. “You will not take that nasty skeleton back to the house, I forbid it!”
“You said it was lovely!” Crecy replied, equally annoyed, her tone accusing.
“Y-yes, well ...” Belle stammered, caught out in her lie. “And I know it is, to you, dearest. But to most people it’s ... it’s creepy and ... ugh. No, Crecy, just no!”
“Oh, but Belle!”
“No.”
Belle grabbed her bewildering sister’s hand and towed her forcibly away from her irresistible treasure. For heaven’s sake, why couldn’t the girl have a fancy for bird spotting - live birds, at least - or ... or ... knitting! Anything but dead things!
“I could get a little box,” Crecy continued as Belle tugged her back to the house.
“No, Crecy.”
“I could,” she added, sounding sulky and defiant by this point.
Belle pursed her lips and nodded, and then replied, her tone light-hearted. “You could,” she agreed. “And I could tell every young gentleman who has the vaguest interest in you, that you would simply adore it if they composed a love sonnet to your beautiful eyes.”
Crecy stopped in her tracks and stared at her sister with a combination of horror and clear admiration for her evil genius. “Oh, Belle, you wouldn’t!”
Belle grinned at her. “Bring that wretched snake to the house and try me,” she suggested with a sweet smile.
“Well, of all the low ...” Crecy muttered under her breath, stalking off ahead of her sister. Belle grinned and followed her back to the house.
Crecy had managed to get some distance ahead of her, clearly walking off her annoyance, by the time they returned to the main doors of the castle. Belle looked up to see a towering, dark figure exit the building and stride down the stairs towards a waiting carriage. He was an impressive sight, with the stature and breadth of shoulders of the marquess himself. But where Lord Winterbourne’s hair was a dark brown, this man’s hair was black as a crow’s back, glinting blue in the sun.
Belle watched with misgiving, as instead of giving a polite nod and carrying on, Crecy stopped in her tracks to stare at the stranger. She looked every bit as rapt as she had with the blasted skeleton, and Belle felt a chill of foreboding.
The man stopped, too, no doubt arrested by her sister’s beauty and her all too obvious interest. Belle hurried to Crecy’s side and took her arm. This close, she could see the man’s eyes were a vivid and rather unusually dark blue. They were also as cold as the bitter landscape around them.
“Hello,” Crecy said, sounding uncharacteristically shy, her eyes never leaving the man, and her tone rather breathless.
Belle gave her arm a sharp tug, praying she would move, but the man was staring at her with equal intensity, a slight frown between his eyes.
“You have me at a disadvantage, madam,” he said, his tone as icy as his gaze, though Belle thought she detected a note of curiosity there too.
“Forgive us, sir,” Belle said, tugging at her sister’s arm. “We did not mean to disturb you.” She gave Crecy a hard pinch, which seemed to snap her out of her reverie, and she glanced at Belle and then blushed, finally following her away from the man. Everything about him had set warning bells ringing in Belle’s ears. He spelled trouble - in every sense of the word. And yet as Belle hurried her up the steps, she realised that Crecy had turned her head to stare at him again, and he watched her retreat in return, with equal intensity.
Belle shoved her sister through the door and turned back to glare at the devilish-looking man, but he had entered his carriage, slamming the door shut behind him. She drew in a sharp breath as she recognised the crest on the door. In white, gold, blue, and sable, it was unusual and disturbing. The two main devices on the shield were notorious, and synonymous with only one name. That name made her heart thud with fear.
Two black crows, shot through the neck with an arrow.
Good God, that was Viscount Demorte.
She turned on her sister, who was wearing an unusually guarded expression, but held her tongue as she discovered the Bridgeford twins chattering together as they came down the staircase. Belle made their excuses, saying with perfect honesty that they were chilled to the bone and must go and warm up and change their boots before luncheon. She needed to speak with her sister, and fast. Crecy was hiding something, and Belle was increasingly concerned as to exactly what that something might be.
Chapter 12
“Wherein our unhappy heroine is forced to take action.”
Belle sat up in bed, staring into the darkness. She had slept little and ill, and now, at barely five am, was very wide awake.
Her conversation with Crecy had been fruitless and had only served to make her more ill at ease. Crecy denied knowing the Viscount Demorte, and from the man’s own words, that would appear to be the truth. He showed no recognition towards Crecy, and heaven alone knew it was not a face that one easily forgot. Belle had the troubling sensation that Demorte would certainly not forget it now. But worse, far worse, than that was Crecy’s obvious fascination with the man.
Oh, her sister had laughed it off and disclaimed, but Demorte was dark and dangerous, and his mind, if the gossips were to be believed, was broken. He was a tangle of troubled thoughts and dark deeds and an outcast from polite society, and if that wasn’t the perfect recipe for Crecy to find utterly intriguing, Belle would eat her best bonnet.
She had never understood her sister’s fascination with the darker side of life, her need to mend and love things that to most people were ugly and beyond repair. But Crecy’s heart seemed drawn to such pitiful creatures, to the point where she had once been very close to serious injury at the jaws of a vicious dog. The poor creature had been so badly injured that it was out of its mind with pain. Its leg had been a broken mess and it could not comprehend that Crecy had determined to save it. All it knew was its own terror and suffering, and it had lashed out accordingly.
If not for the quick-thinking intervention of a passing stranger, who knocked the creature senseless with a riding crop, Belle dreaded to think what might have happened. Crecy simply didn’t see the danger to herself, only the pain and suffering in another fellow creature. And suffering was something her sister could not stand by and view without taking action. When she’d discovered that the dog had been destroyed, she’d sunk into a depression that had lasted for weeks.
It surprised Belle that the marquess had not taken her attention, but then Crecy seemed to have formed the ludicrous notion that Belle was somewhat interested in the man herself, which was ridiculous. It was beyond ridiculous, in fact. She couldn’t be in the man’s company for more than a minute before she was driven to fury, and allowed her temper to throw her good manners to the four winds and give him a piece of her mind. No. The marquess was of no interest to her whatsoever.
Which was why she spent the best part o
f the following hour thinking about him, no doubt.
Belle cursed with frustration. Tomorrow was their last day at Longwold and the night of the ball. It was her one and only chance to secure Nibley as a husband, and thereby both herself and Crecy a future.
It was unlikely that she would get a better chance, as the man didn’t socialise much, even during the season, and for all she knew, it could be weeks before their paths crossed again. No. One way or another, she had to bring him up to scratch or they were in all likelihood doomed, and that wasn’t being melodramatic, either. Between their dwindling finances, Aunt Grimble’s threats, and Crecy’s disturbing reaction to Viscount Demorte, Belle was desperate. By midnight tomorrow, she would have her marriage proposal, and she didn’t care what she had to do to get it.
***
Edward stalked the ballroom like a caged bear with a bad case of claustrophobia. He knew he should be gracious, smiling, charming ... all of that. But the part of his mind that ought to be connected to such ingrained social graces seemed to have been disconnected. Perhaps that was what had been damaged in the war? Maybe that area of his brain was what lay beneath his scar?
In what he realised was a self-conscious gesture, he touched his fingers to the ragged line of skin that lay beneath his thick hair. His flesh prickled, disturbed somehow, though he wasn’t sure why. All he knew was that when he ought to simply smile and make an inane comment about the weather or give a polite compliment, all that came out was some contemptuous remark or a forbidding scowl that sent everyone scurrying in the opposite direction.
It wasn’t as if he cared, precisely. Being left alone, after all, was his dearest wish, but Violette had worked so hard on this event and it was supposed to be his apology to her for all he had put her through, after all. The least he could do was try and act like… well, if not like he was enjoying it, then at least as if he wouldn’t rather stick pins in his eyes than endure another minute of it. Even if it were true.
With depressing predictability, he felt his eyes follow the infuriating Miss Holbrook across the dance floor. Merely because he had decided he must keep an eye on her, though. If Miss Holbrook were going to try and snare Nibley, and he felt certain after her admission the other night that this was the case, this was likely her last and best chance.
She was currently dancing with Lord Lancaster, the handsome young man obviously going out of his way to be agreeable to her. No doubt that the fool was hoping for her to put in a word with the divine Lucretia. He felt a stab of annoyance on her behalf. Edward might not interact with his fellow guests, but that wasn’t to say he was deaf, dumb, and blind. He had seen the nauseating displays of gallantry towards Miss Lucretia, and the resigned, accepting expression in Miss Holbrook’s eyes.
Surprisingly, she never seemed the least bit resentful towards her lovely half-sister. Rather, she seemed to accept it with a private smile of amusement. In a rare moment of generosity, he wished that there were a single man here with an ounce of wit and judgement who could see that she was every bit as lovely as Lucretia, only ... in a rather less obvious way.
You had to really look at Belinda Holbrook to notice the fact that she was really rather ... well, extraordinary. But nobody really looked at her, no one looked at her at all, not when she was always standing in the shadow of her sister’s dazzling beauty.
But that wasn’t to say the wretch wasn’t up to something, because he was damned sure she was.
The dance at an end, she returned to her sister, and there was something in the slightly jittery, haunted look in her eyes that made him utterly certain. She had something in mind, and he wasn’t going to let her get away with it.
It wasn’t that he wished her ill; he hoped she did catch herself a wealthy husband. Good Lord, with the amount of simpering misses he’d endured having shoved in his face since he gained his title, he could hardly begrudge someone who genuinely needed to make a good match for survival’s sake. But that didn’t mean he would sacrifice poor Nibley at her altar.
Despite himself, he imagined the two of them together, and experienced such a rush of anger that he felt quite off balance. But that was simply because it was such a ridiculously ill-conceived match, he reasoned, searching for solid ground. Yes, that was all. Miss Holbrook was too strong-minded, a force of nature, that one. She’d organise poor old Nibley until he had to ask how to tie his own cravat, and she’d no doubt tell him, too! He smothered a laugh, coughing as someone threw him a puzzled look.
No, no, that would never do. Miss Holbrook needed a firm hand and a man with the focus and determination to bring her in line. With those words an intriguing image of his own firm hand full of an ample portion of Miss Holbrook flitted into his mind. A rush of desire and a flush of heat swept over him, so intense that he made his way out of the ballroom with haste, searching for a little peace and quiet to calm his wayward thoughts.
What the devil had gotten into him?
Once he had time to think about it, he realised that he had not been with a woman for, good Lord, it must be well over two years! No wonder he was crawling out of his own skin. Strange that he should be overwhelmed by such feelings with such suddenness, though, after years without so much as a thought in that direction. Why on earth his libido should awaken and go into overdrive for the stubborn and outspoken Miss Holbrook, though, he had no clue. If he was truthful, however, he had to admit to a strong desire to see that no-nonsense, practical young woman flushed and flustered and at the mercy of her own passions.
Despite himself, he smothered a grin at the idea. Yes, he would like to see that.
No. No. No!
He would not!
Good Lord. Whatever was he thinking?
With his thoughts in such a holy tangle, he almost didn’t notice the footman heading back into the ballroom bearing a note. Wouldn’t have noticed at all, if the fellow hadn’t looked so furtive. Like maybe he’d been paid to be discreet. Following the chap back into the ballroom, he watched with growing concern as the fellow sidled up to Lord Nibley, whispered in his ear, and passed him the note.
Waiting until the footman had retreated, Edward strode up to a puzzled-looking Nibley and snatched the note from his hands.
“I say!” Percy exclaimed, looking startled and really quite annoyed. “What the devil are you about, Eddie? That’s mine!”
“Oh, no, it isn’t,” Edward growled, and with such fury that he surprised even himself. Though he wasn’t angry at Nibley. At least he oughtn’t be. But he felt rather that perhaps he was.
Nibley seemed to agree as he backed away a little.
Edward swallowed, and prayed that the note wasn’t, in fact, perfectly innocuous.
Or perhaps that it was?
“It was delivered by mistake, Percy. Please forgive me,” he said, praying the man would leave it at that.
Nibley frowned at him, and damn it, why did the fellow have to choose this particular moment to grow a backbone?
“But it’s got my name on it!” he objected, trying to reach for the note. Edward tucked it into his waistcoat and gave Nibley a hard stare. It must have been an effective one, as the fellow paled.
“It was a mistake,” Edward repeated, each word spoken in a precise, clipped tone.
Percy swallowed and nodded. “A m-mistake. Understood.”
Edward let out a sigh of relief and grinned at Percy, slapping his shoulder. “There’s a good fellow.”
Percy stumbled and looked even more horrified, so Edward left him before things got any more awkward.
Rushing once more away from the ballroom, he paused in a quiet corner to rip the missive open. He refused to notice that his hands didn’t seem entirely steady.
Lord Nibley,
Please forgive me for writing to you in such a shocking manner, but I find I have no option. I am in the most dreadful fix and can think of no one else in whom I might confide.
I know it is most irregular, but please, would you meet me in the library as soon as you are able? I beg
that you might be able to aid me in this moment of difficulty.
Miss Holbrook.
Edward stared at the words and discovered that his heart was beating too hard and too fast. He crumpled the note in his hand as anger flooded his system. I am in the most dreadful fix and can think of no one else in whom I might confide. Why those words should make him so utterly furious, he simply couldn’t fathom. Especially as the whole thing was a hum, in any case. She just needed a device to manoeuvre Nibley into position, and this was it.
He gritted his teeth and refused to acknowledge what had really burned him the most badly. But after all, if she was going to be so underhand and manipulative as to trap a man into marriage, why not go for the prize? Surely, a marquess was a far greater achievement than a mere baron? And surely, he was a more attractive option than Percy Nibley? Nibley, for the love of God! If you stood the man in a strong breeze, he’d likely fall over.
Edward paced, totally uncomprehending as to why he should be so bloody irritated. It wasn’t as if he wanted to get married. He must, at some point, of course, to produce an heir, lest the title go to whatever deviant offspring his mad cousin managed to produce. But not yet, and certainly not to Miss Belinda Holbrook!
He hauled in deep breath, only too aware that the wretched creature was even now awaiting Nibley in his library. His lips thinned into an unpleasant smile as he relished the idea that she must be quaking in her boots. Well, he’d damn well give her a reason to quake, and to regret that she’d ever had the audacity to try to serve such an underhanded and wicked turn on one of his friends. Telling himself severely that this was the only reason for what he was about to do, he set off to find the dreadful Miss Holbrook.
Chapter 13
“Wherein our heroine gets rather more than she bargained for, and our hero is hoisted by his own petard.”
Belle paced the library with her heart thudding an uneven rhythm in her chest. What on earth was she doing here? Of all the low, despicable things to do, trapping a man into marriage had to be one of the lowest. To think she had become such a creature. She wanted to cry.
One Wicked Winter Page 10