by Anne Gracie
But the way he’d emerged from the shadowy corner of his box, that look in his eye—dripping with superiority. Standing there, looking down his long nose at her, so arrogant with that I-rule-the-world expression. It had annoyed her from the very first time she’d met him, when he’d become betrothed to Rose.
Thank God that hadn’t worked out. She might have been related to him by now.
As soon as he’d stepped forward she realized that he’d been watching her for some time. She’d felt a prickle of awareness, but had told herself that of course somebody would be looking at her, that at the opera everybody looked at everyone else. But the faint, disturbing prickle hadn’t gone away.
She was a little bit embarrassed that she’d broken her fan on that other man, but he’d kept talking on and on loudly after she’d asked them several times to be quiet. And the fan was a delicate one, easily broken, so it hadn’t actually hurt him. Just made him realize she was serious.
But when the duke had picked it up, his long fingers playing with the broken ribs as he eyed her in that knowing way . . . And then when he’d refused to give it back to her, sliding it into his pocket as though he had every right to keep it—and what would he want with a lady’s fan, let alone a broken one?—it was a move calculated to spark her temper. And then, to insult the performers . . .
When her temper rose, her tongue loosened. Perhaps she had gone a bit far, speaking like that to a man she barely knew, and in public, but it was true—men like the duke did assume the world was theirs to rule, that nobody else mattered. But other people did matter.
That faint, mocking smile, that knowing glint in his eye, that ironic lift of his eyebrow—just one brow—she couldn’t say why it was all so annoying, only that it was. And to call the glorious singing caterwauling . . .
He’d deserved it.
“Oh, Aggie, stop ranting at the gel,” Aunt Dottie interjected. “What’s done is done, and if you want my opinion, it won’t hurt those boys to have heard a few home truths.”
“Those boys? We’re talking about the duke, not those other ones—though she shouldn’t speak like that to any gentleman. And as for home truths—she mortally insulted him, or did you not hear it?”
“I heard every word. But that duke—handsome, brooding devil that he is. I do like a bit of arrogance when it’s deserved, and I suspect in his case it is. The man has potential, but it won’t hurt him to be taken down a peg or two.”
“Potential? He’s a duke!”
“Yes, dear, I noticed, but he’s also just a man, and a man, as dear George pointed out, who has no doubt been indulged and spoiled and pampered all his life. I’ve never had any time for that silly mother of his.”
“The duchess is a friend of mine,” Aunt Agatha said stiffly.
“Yes, I know, strange as it is. Can’t think what you see in her, Aggie—and, yes, I know she’s your goddaughter but you needn’t be friends with a goddaughter—but of course, she’s a duchess, so of course you’re friends.”
Aunt Agatha made an offended huffing noise and stared out the window for a minute or two. Aunt Dottie glanced at George and winked. George grinned back at her.
Aunt Agatha thought of another grievance. “And that reminds me, Dorothea. What did you say to the duke as we were leaving?”
Aunt Dottie smiled. “I reminded him about our ball, of course—Rose did give him an invitation, didn’t she, George?”
“Yes,” George said. “In person.” He hadn’t exactly received it with pleasure. His response at the time had been scathing. She’d added her own mite: If you came, you could demonstrate to the ton your supreme indifference. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? He’d ignored her, acted as if she wasn’t even in the room.
“Of all the foolish things,” Aunt Agatha snapped. “Of course he won’t come to the ball. Why would he court humiliation? Attend a ball that was to have been his own wedding ball and is now to celebrate Rose’s hole-in-the-corner marriage to a nobody? Ridiculous!”
“That boy will surprise you,” Aunt Dottie said tranquilly.
“Which one?” George asked.
“Both of them, I hope. Rose’s husband is a dark horse, and the duke is a dark horse of a different color.” She clapped her hands. “All these lovely handsome young men. I’m so looking forward to the ball.”
Aunt Agatha snorted.
Chapter Five
Surprises are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable.
—JANE AUSTEN, EMMA
Several evenings later, Sinc called in at Everingham House to collect Hart for a card night out with friends.
“Won’t be a minute,” Hart told him, shuffling through a pile of invitation cards. “Just need to get this off. Help yourself to a drink if you want one.”
Sinc sauntered over to the bottles and decanters set out on a side table and with comfortable familiarity helped himself. “What is it?”
“Just need to respond to an invitation.”
Sinc’s jaw dropped. “Respond? But you never respond to invitations. Famous for it.”
“Nonsense.”
“You are, you know. So what’s this extraordinary acceptance for, then?” He swirled the wine in his glass, sniffed deeply, then drank.
“A ball.”
Sinc choked. “What ball?”
Hart didn’t respond. He’d found the invitation he was looking for and had begun to scrawl an acceptance.
Sinc drained his glass, refilled it, then said in an airily casual tone, “Which ball is it again?” It was so unlike him that Hart looked up with a frown.
“What is it to you?”
“Might be going too. Could go together. Company, y’know.” Sinc made an expansive gesture. “Depends on the ball, of course. It wouldn’t be the Rutherford ball, I suppose?”
Hart snorted. “The Peplowe ball, though why it matters to you, I can’t fathom.”
“Doesn’t matter a bit, old fellow. Not a bit, not a jot. Just being friendly, makin’ conversation, don’t you know.”
Hart eyed him thoughtfully. “You’re babbling, Sinc. Now why would that be?”
“Babbling? Me? Not a bit of it. What’s the world coming to when a chap can’t inquire about the plans of another chap without being accused of babbling.” Avoiding Hart’s eye, he turned to refill his glass.
“You’ve bet on me, haven’t you?”
“Me? Bet?” Sinc said with a feeble attempt at indignation.
“On whether or not I’ll attend the Rutherford ball.”
“Pfft! Bet on you? My oldest friend? As if I would. Good heavens, what an impertinence that would be.” He darted a glance at Hart. “You’re not going, are you?”
“Of course not.”
“Damn.”
“Problem?” Hart asked dryly. Of course Sinc had bet on him. Sinc bet on everything.
“Dropped some wine on my breeches.” Sinc scrubbed energetically at an invisible stain.
Hart returned to his note.
“So . . . the Peplowe ball tomorrow night,” Sinc said. “What brought that on? I thought you hated balls.”
Hart gave a lazy shrug.
“But you never attend balls—only for that short time when you were engaged to Rose Rutherford. And you can’t be pining after Lady Rose because that was the most cold-blooded arrangement I’ve ever—” Sinc’s eyes brightened. “Oho, so that’s it.”
“What is?” Hart signed the note with a flourish.
“Everyone knows the Rutherfords and the Peplowes are practically joined at the hip. You’re hoping to meet up with Lady George, aren’t you? I told you she was a charmin’ gal—oh.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re not planning to punish her for that little contretemps at the opera the other night, are you, Hart? Because if you were . . . well, it wouldn’t be gentlemanly.�
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Hart raised a brow. “Contretemps? I have no idea what you’re talking about. I merely wish to purchase her horse.”
“Her horse?” Sinc gave a crack of laughter. “Naturally, you’re going to a ball for a horse.”
“I think you’ve had quite enough wine.”
“Not nearly enough, if you’re going to a ball to see a girl about a horse. A horse.” He chortled. “Of course you are. Nothing to do with a bright-eyed girl who just happened to set you on your ear the other night.”
“She did not set me on my ear,” Hart lied. He hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind.
“No? I could feel the undercurrent between you. Positively crackling, it was.”
“You are imagining things,” Hart said coldly. “There was no undercurrent. I am only interested in her horse.” He folded the note, addressed and sealed it.
“Yes, yes,” Sinc said in a soothing tone. “Of course, her horse is the attraction.” He paused a moment, then added, “So why not simply make her an offer? To buy the horse, I mean. Not make her any other kind of offer.”
Sinc had definitely drunk too much, Hart decided. “I did make her an offer for the animal. She refused.”
“Told you she would.”
“It was an opening gambit. She’ll sell. That stallion is far too strong for a lady.”
Sinc pulled a doubtful face. “You didn’t think it too strong for her the other day when you thought she was a youth.”
Hart stood abruptly. “It’s time we left.”
Sinc drained his glass and set it on the side table. “I always knew it took wild horses to drag you to a society ball, but this is a new one on me. Going to a ball to buy a horse indeed. Most of us just toddle down to Tattersall’s and make a bid . . .”
* * *
* * *
George stepped out into the garden for a little fresh air. It was a warm night and Lady Peplowe’s ball was “a frightful squeeze” which meant it was a tremendous success. Why people didn’t just say that was beyond her.
It wasn’t just fresh air she was seeking, though. She’d spotted Lord Towsett weaving his way toward her with that look on his face—again. Would the man never listen?
She’d immediately headed toward the conservatory—it had been locked but she knew where the key was—resolving to have it out with him once and for all. She had a plan.
She’d refused him three times so far, and from the determined expression on his face tonight, he was planning to make it four. She already knew his long-winded declaration speech by heart—it didn’t vary much. Of all the charming young ladies in the ton this season, she was, according to Lord Towsett, the fortunate one who met all his requirements.
Requirements indeed!
Pudgy, pompous and supremely smug, Lord Towsett expected her to be overwhelmingly flattered by his offer. He’d blinked when she refused him the first time—quite pleasantly and politely—then laughed and said he understood what she really meant, and what a naughty puss she was to keep him dangling. He knew what ladies were like, he’d said, saying one thing and meaning another.
“No, I mean it,” George had insisted. “Thank you for your offer, Lord Towsett, but I decline.”
The second time he’d proposed to her, she had been less pleasant and more firm. “I won’t marry you, Lord Towsett, not now, not tomorrow, nor any time in the future. I said no last time, and I meant no.”
In answer to which he’d chuckled knowingly and called her a naughty puss again. It was infuriating.
The third time he’d proposed, she’d been curt, there was no other word for it. “Lord Towsett, stop pestering me! I have no interest in marrying you and I never will. So just go away and leave me alone.”
But the man was as stubborn as a pig. Once more he’d shaken his head in an infuriatingly understanding manner and told her he would never give up hope.
“Give it up,” she’d told him. “There is no hope. I will never change my mind. Find some other girl to annoy.”
And here he was again. And here she was, slipping into the conservatory to lurk amid the ferns and the palms.
It was all Emm’s fault, of course. The last time Lord Towsett had proposed, she’d told Emm in a fit of temper that if he had the gall to propose to her again, she would have no alternative but to punch him on his very prominent nose.
Of course Emm had been horrified, and before George left for the ball this evening, she’d had to promise that she would neither hit nor slap nor smack nor kick Lord Towsett, nor tip wine or ratafia or hot tea or cream trifle with jelly and custard over him. Or in any way make a public scene.
Unfair tactics. She knew George never broke a promise.
“Just avoid him,” Emm had finished airily. Never having had to deal with the man and his impenetrable ego.
It was Penny Peplowe’s birthday ball and both Penny and Lady Peplowe were particular friends of the Rutherfords. Lady Peplowe had gone out of her way to befriend Emm and the girls when they’d first come to London and knew nobody. And Penny was a dear, jolly girl and George wouldn’t upset her for the world.
Besides, she’d been looking forward to Penny’s ball for ages.
Emm was no longer up to attending balls, and given the state of affairs between George and Aunt Agatha, she’d asked Aunt Dottie to play chaperone. Living in Bath as she did, Dottie rarely got to attend large and fashionable London balls and had been looking forward all week to donning a pretty new ball dress and catching up with old friends. There was also a certain perceptible glee in her demeanor at being asked to play chaperone instead of her older sister.
George wasn’t going to break her word to Emm—not technically, anyway—nor ruin Aunt Dottie’s night. Nor Penny’s birthday, or Lady Peplowe’s ball. But she sure as anything planned to ruin Lord Towsett’s evening.
She’d come up with a Plan.
She would teach him that when she said no she meant it. She wouldn’t hit or kick him, and though there would certainly be a scene, inside the dark conservatory it would be perfectly, beautifully private.
She glanced down at the bucket of fishy-smelling sludgy liquid that Lord Peplowe kept for fertilizing his beloved plants. Her promise to Emm had made no mention of accidents with smelly buckets . . .
If Lord Towsett called her a naughty little puss one more time—and he would, oh, yes, he would . . .
She grinned to herself. She had a short, scathing speech of her own to deliver, to be punctuated with the contents of the bucket. Afterward she would show him to the back gate where he could make a discreet, reeking, squelching exit.
He’d never bother her again.
Fanning herself gently with a fern frond, she waited. It was a warm night; the air inside the conservatory was humid and the smell of the bucket . . . She wrinkled her nose. Covering the bucket with a large shallow saucer, she moved it onto a shelf closer to the doorway. It was better there, more conveniently to hand.
She moved back to where the smell wasn’t so bad. And waited. What was taking him so long? She was sure he’d seen her come in.
The conservatory door opened. Aha! George peered through the shadowy tangle of greenery. Was that him? He was just a dark silhouette, outlined against the bright globes of lantern light that illuminated the garden outside where Lady Peplowe’s servants had hung dozens of pretty Japanese-style lanterns.
The silhouette moved and she cursed under her breath. It wasn’t Lord Towsett after all. This man was taller, leaner, broader shouldered.
She edged farther back into the shadows. She didn’t want to be caught lurking in here by some stranger.
Slow, heavy footsteps came toward her, crunching over the crushed limestone that covered the conservatory floor.
George held her breath.
She jumped as the door burst open, and three ladies tumbled in, laughing. One called out
, “Such a delightful tease you are, Hart.”
Hart? George stiffened. She only knew one person called Hart. The Duke of blasted Everingham. What on earth was he doing here? He never attended society balls. And what was he doing sneaking into the conservatory? She cursed under her breath.
She recognized one of the ladies—Mrs. Threadgood, a married lady with something of a reputation—her long-suffering husband was no doubt inside in the card room. She was with another lady of about her own age. The third was much younger, the other lady’s daughter, perhaps.
Mrs. Threadgood laughed coyly. “Naughty boy, you wanted us to follow you, didn’t you?”
The ferns rustled beside her. George stiffened. The duke had retreated into her dark corner. Over the rich, fecund scents of the conservatory—and the faint reek of the bucket—a crisp, masculine cologne teased her senses. He was close enough to touch. She was trapped.
Did he know she was there? She stood frozen, barely breathing. Curse him, curse him, curse him!
Two of the ladies had seized lanterns from the garden and were approaching down separate pathways between the plants, chanting, “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” The lights bobbed and swayed as they came closer.
Any minute now she’d be discovered, hiding in the dark conservatory, alone with the duke.
“Get rid of them,” the duke murmured.
George jumped. He did know she was here. “They’re your ladies, you get rid of them,” she whispered. She didn’t want to be found here at all.
“You want them to find us both here alone, together in the dark?” He sounded amused. Of course, no one would blame him. It was always the women who were at fault in these things.
The ladies with their bobbing lanterns were getting closer. Curse them. Curse him.
George took a breath, then stepped out into the lamplight, saying coolly, “Were you looking for me, Mrs. Threadgood?”
The ladies stopped dead. One held her lantern higher. “Good heavens, Lady George, is that you?”
George inclined her head. “Yes, I’m having a little rest. It was so hot inside. I felt a headache coming on but didn’t want to spoil the evening for my aunt. It’s so cool and refreshing in here.” She paused, then added, “Were you looking for someone?”