The Earl's Enticement (Castle Bride Series)

by Collette Cameron

  Turning her head, Adaira glanced behind her. She clinched his shoulder and hand, stumbling to a stop. Mrs. Winthrop and Count von Schnitzer stood at the ballroom entrance, a scowling Westbrook beside them.

  “I cannot believe after I spoke with Helene today, she has the audacity to put in an appearance tonight,” Roark muttered, urging Adaira back into motion.

  Standing stock-still in the middle of the dance floor would garner unsolicited attention in addition to launching unwelcome speculation. A noticeable buzz began circulating the room when he’d entered with Adaira. The hum increased markedly in volume at the appearance of Helene and von Schnitzer.

  Westbrook’s face bore an uncharacteristic panicked expression. Roark knew the butler hadn’t admitted Helene. She’d used one of the other unlocked entrances. No doubt the same one she’d used to pay her late night visits to him. Damnation.

  Adaira cast the pair a furtive peek. “But didn’t you invite her?”

  Roark shook his head. “Actually, no. She assumed she’d attend the events at Cadbury as she always has in the past. After the boating incident, I expressly told her Freidrick was no longer welcome in my home. I didn’t explain the change in our arrangement meant she was no longer welcome as well.”

  He presumed the obstinate woman would realize the obvious. Stupidity on his part. Brazenness on hers.

  There was no way in hell he was going to divulge to Adaira the details of his conversation with Helene terminating their association. He hadn’t been intimate with her for months. After meeting the tempting armful he now spun about the room, any desire to bed the widow had flown.

  Adaira turned her head ever-so-slightly to peek at Helene and von Schnitzer. They’d joined the rest of the dancers whirling around the sanded floor.

  “She’s glaring daggers at you. At us,” Adaira murmured.

  Roark lifted his focus from her face and met Helene’s hostile glower. “She had a misconception about her position. I rectified that this afternoon.”

  And it had been most unpleasant.

  The vulgarities spouting from Helene’s mouth would have a hardened trollop blushing. She’d truly thought to lure him into marriage. He’d never remotely entertained the idea and had never given her reason to either. He’d been determined his next wife would be of a different cut than Delia. Helene was too much the seductress to meet that requirement. Adaira might not be an innocent, but she was chaste and modest.

  And wholly desirable.

  Helene’s threats of retribution concerned him. And that viper of a cousin of hers. . . Slimy curs such as he were capable of innumerable reprehensible things.

  “She thought you were going to propose tonight,” Adaira said, no hint of retribution in her voice. She tilted her head, staring at him.

  Roark missed a step, but quickly fell back into rhythm. He met her gaze. When she was troubled, the brown of her eyes deepened. They appeared coffee black at the moment.

  How did she come by that information? She must have seen the question in his eyes.

  She colored adorably, then peeked at him through thick lashes. “I overheard some guests last night, quite by accident, I assure you. It seems others have been anticipating a proposal as well.”

  “Indeed?” Roark drawled dryly.

  The dance came to an end. He scanned the crowd. Spying Sir Hugh and Lady Ferguson, he maneuvered Adaira in their direction. Roark kept an eye on Helene the entire time. “Adaira, stay close to your family. I don’t trust either Helene or the count. I’m certain no good can result from their attendance.”

  He slanted his head in the direction of the disgruntled couple. Lord and Lady Bradford, Lord and Lady Bellingsworth, and several other cronies of Helene’s surrounded her and the count. Most likely squawking like distressed chickens in a henhouse.

  Why had he invited any of them? Ah, yes, it was expected and unforgivably rude not to. Ludicrous, hypocritical rules.

  Roark bowed to Lady Ferguson, then Isobel and Seonaid in turn as Luxmoore and Yancy dutifully returned the young ladies to their parents.

  “Gentlemen,” Roark said, “a word if you please. Sir Hugh, might I speak with you as well?”

  Yancy shot a perceptive glance to the group huddled and clucking across the ballroom. “Of course, Clarendon. We’ll meet you on the terrace.”

  Sir Hugh patted his wife’s shoulder and winked. “I’m not sure it’s fair leaving ye with three bonnie lasses and a roomful of smitten swains.” Waggling his thick eyebrows, he eyed a pack of young bucks hovering nearby. They darted hopeful glances at the Ferguson trio.

  Roark turned and coolly assessed them. One look at his face and the milksops scattered. “Perhaps someone should remain with you.”

  Where was Dugall? He was just the thing to dissuade the moon-eyed beaux.

  Lady Ferguson smiled, intelligence glimmering in her eyes. She met Roark’s gaze. “No need to worry. We’ll enjoy some lemonade or ratafia and wait for your return.”

  She perused the room. “Dugall is about somewhere.”

  Discerning woman.

  She recognized trouble when it raised its bothersome head. Or, in this case, two heads. Although Lady Ferguson appeared the picture of composure, he was confident she was aware of the tension permeating the room.

  Chuckling, Sir Hugh followed Luxmoore and Yancy through a pair of open French windows and onto the terrace paralleling one side of the ballroom.

  Lifting Adaira’s hand, Roark insisted, “Promise me you’ll not wander off alone. Not even to the retiring room.” He met four pairs of eyes, noting the wariness reflected in each. “Stay together, please.”

  “My lord, I assure you, my daughters won’t leave my sight. Your concern is very much appreciated.” Lady Ferguson sliced a covert glance across the too warm room. “They’re not here anymore.”

  Roark casually rotated on his heels, his gaze roving the ballroom. Blast. Where had they got off too?

  “Please excuse me.” Bowing once more, he strode to the terrace.

  Adaira admired the impressive figure Roark cut as he nodded and smiled to his guests. He never slowed his stride. She scarcely believed it. The same man she’d once disdained as a loathsome trow, had maneuvered his way past her carefully constructed barriers and had begun setting up house in her heart.

  She turned to her mother. “Do you think they’ll make a scene?”

  Mother, a minute frown creasing her brow, searched the room again. At Adaira’s question she swung her attention to her daughters. “I’m sure I don’t know, chére. How are you faring? These past two days have been trying for you.”

  Trying? Adaira bit back a sarcastic snort. “Yes, you certainly could say that.”

  “Mother,” Isobel said, “I’m sorry, but the lace at my hem is torn. It needs to be sewn at once, else it will rip further.”

  Seonaid nodded, a haunted glint in her eye. With a peculiar tone tinging her voice, she murmured, “And I’ve need of the necessary.”

  Did she really? Or, had she seen something?

  “I would welcome a visit to the retiring room.” Adaira stood, shaking her skirts. “My head aches a mite. A few moments rest and a cool cloth would be most appreciated.”

  As one, her sisters and mother rose to their feet.

  “Let’s use the one above stairs,” Adaira suggested. “It will be less crowded than the two below, I think.”

  Mother linked her elbow with Adaira’s. “Isobel, take your sister’s arm.” With a final glance about the room, she swept to the entrance. “To the retiring room, mes chéris.”

  Adaira breathed a silent sigh of relief. They reached the retiring room without encountering Mrs. Winthrop or the count. Thankfully, the chamber, which looked to be an unused sitting room given the connecting door, was unoccupied except for a maid.
>
  One look at the room and Adaira grinned. Roark’s Aunt Beatry’s chambers. They had to be. She’d been a dog lover. Apparently she had unusual decorative preferences, too.

  A pair of rather garish orange and yellow floral settees was situated across from each other. Two armchairs, each sporting black needlepoint poodles, were positioned between them at either end. A marble-topped table centered between the furniture contained a huge bouquet of flowers, a pitcher of water, and several glasses. Intricately painted screens situated on the far side of the room probably concealed chamber pots.

  A shelf with various knickknacks, including some truly hideous cumbersome statues of dogs, was to the right of the unlit fireplace. A life-size sculpture of a hound sat before it. More heinous dog statues and figurines were arranged neatly atop the mantle. A table to the left of the fireplace was covered with all manner of fallalls and feminine whatnot.

  Another long table before French windows, which Adaira presumed opened onto a balcony, held mirrors, brushes, combs, pins, what appeared to be rosewater, and various cosmetics.

  Isobel promptly removed her gloves. “I’ve need of a needle and thread. Oh, and scissors, please. I’ve torn the lace on my hem.”

  “I’d be happy to do it for you, miss,” the maid volunteered.

  Isobel smiled kindly. “There’s no need, but thank you. It’s only a small rip. I won’t even have to remove my gown to repair it.”

  “The sewing supplies are over there.” The maid gestured to a table beside the fireplace.

  Isobel quickly set about mending her gown while Seonaid attended to her needs. Adaira removed her gloves. After straightening the fingers, she draped the gloves on the settee’s back. She turned to the maid. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know your name.”

  The girl dipped a quick curtsy. “It’s Clara, miss . . . er, my lady.”

  The poor servant had no notion who they were or how to address them. Although it wasn’t customary, Adaira quickly made informal introductions.

  “I’m Adaira Ferguson, and these are my sisters, Isobel,” she indicated Isobel with a flick of her wrist, then pointed to the screen across the room which hid Seonaid. “And Seonaid.”

  Taking a seat, she waved her hand in her mother’s direction. “That lovely woman is our mother, Lady Ferguson.”

  Clara gawked at Adaira. “Coo, you’re to be my new mistress.”

  Adaira squirmed on the settee. Even the servants knew? Of course, they did. They were the first to know. “Ah, yes. Well, um, as to that. . .”

  “I think you are the bravest woman I’ve ever met! You saved his lordship’s life.” Clara stood, hands clasped and worship in her eyes staring raptly at Adaira.

  This certainly is awkward.

  Adaira sent Mother a peep from beneath her lashes. She’d settled in one of the armchairs and smiled tolerantly. Was there a twinkle of amusement in her eyes? Adaira yanked a frilly pillow from behind her. She tossed it on the seat beside her. “Um, thank you. Have you any headache powders? And might I trouble you for a cold cloth?”

  If the servants were discussing her, she could be sure the rest of the household was as well. It came as no surprise, but disconcerted her, nonetheless. Egad, what else had the guests been discussing about her and Roark?

  He knew she wasn’t skilled in ladylike attributes. Certainly, he had no idea just how lacking in natural talent she truly was. Sewing, planning menus, diplomatic conversation, pouring tea, acting the part of a gracious hostess—her skills were nominal at best. Atrocious better described them.

  And she didn’t care much about improving her abilities.

  Returning to the ball wasn’t something she relished either. Mrs. Winthrop and her cousin lurked somewhere below. And there was still supper to get through.

  “Here you are, miss.” Clara handed Adaira a glass of liquid and the cloth.

  The girl’s hands were deformed. Clara’s fingers were webbed together. Several were mere stubs, difficult to even identify as digits. Adaira met the maid’s gaze. No sense pretending she hadn’t noticed. To do so would only embarrass Clara more. “Do you find it difficult to do things?”

  Clara smiled and held up her hands. “I know they look odd, but I can do most anything, even sew and cook.”

  Isobel giggled. “Addy cannot do either.”

  Adaira was fighting the urge to poke her tongue at Isobel, when a pale-faced Seonaid reappeared from behind the screen. Mother promptly rose from her chair. She hurried to Seonaid. Laying one hand on her forearm, she pressed the back of her other hand against Seonaid’s forehead. “Are you feeling unwell?”

  Mother hesitated, for the briefest of moments. “Or . . . have you had a vision?”

  “Yes, a vision.” Seonaid scanned the room before marching to the fireplace. She grabbed the poker, then spun to face the door. “I’m afraid we’re about to be interrupted.”

  Setting the glass and cloth on the table, Adaira threw Isobel a questioning glance. She stopped sewing in mid-stitch. They snapped their gazes to Mother and Seonaid. Their sister stared at the entrance, poker angled like a sword. Mother snatched the log tongs, her focus trained on the door. Isobel snipped the thread before seizing a pair of scissors.

  Adaira looked around frantically. Her gaze landed on a revolting pug statuette. Springing to her feet, she charged to the shelf. She grasped the bulky figure with both hands. No, it was too awkward. She whirled to the center of the room. There, in the corner by the wardrobe, rested an ancient parasol.

  She dashed across the room. She’d barely wrapped her fingers around the worn handle when the door crashed open.

  CHAPTER 30

  Adaira edged closer to her mother and sisters. Each posed in a defensive stance before the cold hearth. Oh, to have her riding crop. Father returned it to her this morning, but one hardly toted a whip around at a ball. Poor Clara. She stood bug-eyed, mouth agape, gawking at the Ferguson women.

  Mrs. Winthrop sailed into the room. Stabbing them with a hostile glare, she called over her shoulder. “They’re alone.”

  Count von Schnizter and his son appeared on either side of her. When had Freidrick arrived? He had the same sullen glower and perpetual sneer he’d worn when she’d seen him last.

  Thank God Maisey took Kiki to the kitchen for the evening. If Freidrick tried to find the puppy, he wouldn’t be able to. One of the lads who helped the cook had taken the dog to his quarters for the night.

  Clara, taking her cue from the Ferguson women, laid hold of a battered cane. She scuttled to stand beside Adaira.

  “What are you doing here?” Angling her chin, Adaira directed her comment to the count. “Men are not permitted in the retiring room. You must leave at once.”

  Chuckling, he moved farther into the room. Freidrick remained at the door, checking the corridor every few moments. The count’s lewd gaze roved over her sisters and mother before sliding to Adaira. Invisible snakes slithered across her suddenly cold flesh.

  “Who will make me? Sie Frauen?” He shook his head and ran a finger across his upper lip. Deviance and lust vied for supremacy in his piercing rodent eyes.

  Mrs. Winthrop raked them with her gaze and smirked. “Look at them, Otto. Such a vulgar display of aggression. But one expects no more from barbaric, uncouth Scots.”

  Mother tilted her chin. “Votre parodie d’une robe est beaucoup plus vulgaire," she said in her soft French accent.

  Clara choked on a giggle. She understood French?

  Confusion flickered on Mrs. Winthrop’s face. She sent a desperate glance to von Schnitzer. He shrugged his shoulders and continued his salacious leering.

  Adaira chuckled. “You don’t speak French, Mrs. Winthrop? Dear me, a social grace you’re deficient in? Tsk, tsk.”

  She glanced at her sisters and sighed. “I suppose I must i
nterpret. Never let it be said Scots are ill-mannered.” Adaira swung the parasol in a small arc. “Mother said, ‘Your travesty of a gown is far more vulgar.’”

  And indeed the garment was a disaster. Pink and white, it quite obviously was intended for a much slenderer, considerably younger woman.

  Mrs. Winthrop’s bosom threatened to gush over the bodice and blacken both her eyes if she blinked too hard. That was, if the seams didn’t burst first. Or the straining buttons pop loose and put someone’s eye out.