Tarnished

by Cooper, Karina

  “I have to dance?”

  “Of course,” he said, eyes twinkling. “You don’t think the gentlemen would miss a chance to spin Mad St. Croix’s daughter about the floor, do you?”

  My back teeth ground. “I wish they would.”

  His laugh told me I’d find no help from him. He enjoyed watching the peerage deal with, as he put it, the blemish that was me in their midst. It wasn’t hurtful. I was a blemish; a curious boil on the face of the upper class.

  One part curiosity, one part irritation. Like a colicky thoroughbred.

  From what little I’d been told, my mother had been the darling of the upper class. Rumor had it that the Queen had favored her for a time, although all invitations stopped when she accepted my father’s proposal. My father’s reputation for towering intellect and eccentricity was as well known as my mother’s beauty. They’d been a strange match, I gather. A love match, even, which would explain why she married beneath her station.

  My mother had been beautiful. I was only a pale imitation.

  Soon enough, we stepped into the most lavish entry I had ever seen. I had no chance to admire the décor before Fanny spirited me into the ladies’ cloakroom, where I was swiftly divested of my outerwear. Fanny gave hers to the waiting maid, fussed with the folds of my gown, and snapped up the trailing fan I left dangling from my wrist.

  “Enjoy yourself, my dear,” she ordered.

  I would rather eat live bugs, but I firmly arranged my mouth into a demure smile and stepped into the ballroom at Fanny’s side.

  Right into my own personal level of hell.

  Chapter Three

  The heat swept over me like a tide. Conversation, the faintly irritating whine of the orchestra and the oppressive humidity of so many bodies crushed into one enormous room conspired to steal my breath, and I flinched.

  Fanny cupped a hand under my elbow. “There’s Lord Helmsley,” she said in my ear.

  Grateful for the reprieve from having to decide what to do, I let her lead me across the room, pardoning ourselves as we sidled around knots of gaily dressed girls and festively gowned matrons. I kept one hand in my skirts, constantly worried that my lacy train would end up beneath the foot of one of the many powerful elite.

  That was all I needed. To be accused of sending a duchess or some earl sprawling.

  Teddy’s smile was equally as pained as we met near the dance floor. Divested of his hat, stylish walking stick and overcoat, he looked both wealthy and elegant. And like he belonged in this mess. He bent his head so I could hear him over the music. “I understand the marchioness and her family are not here yet.”

  “What, to her own son’s ball?”

  He shrugged his thin shoulders. “Fashionably late, don’t you know.”

  “Rude,” I muttered.

  Teddy fought back another one of those cheeky grins and cleared his throat, proffering an elegantly beribboned card. “Your dance card, Miss St. Croix.”

  “The devi—” I caught myself before Fanny could, although she was already distracted, searching the crowd for faces she recognized. I was not the only unmarried lady at the ball, and many of the married women and chaperones were acquaintances of hers.

  Teddy dangled the card like a magician’s watch, and I snatched it out of his hand. “Thank you, sir,” I said through my teeth, but I channeled retribution into my eyes.

  He was unapologetic. “I shall seat Mrs. Fortescue, and return to claim a dance. Save an entry for me, won’t you?”

  “Only if you’re extremely fortunate,” I told him, but without heat. I liked that he doted on Fanny at these events.

  Still, I thought as I turned and studied the press of gentlemen and ladies, I turned out all right. My dress was much richer in color than strictly fashionable, but my coloring allowed me to skirt the boundaries of the preferred hues. My eye picked out gowns of azure blue and stunning green, each on the most lovely brunettes, though the dominant color by far was white and cream. Blondes were the absolute height of fashion, with my own fiery coloring primarily cultivated by actresses and ladies of the opera.

  Not exactly a mark in my favor.

  The heat battered at me from every direction, and I very much wanted a drink of something cool. That I was wilting so soon didn’t bode well for my flowers, and judging by the overly sweet fragrance filling my nose, mine weren’t the only bouquets at risk.

  I barely kept from grimacing as I fought back a sneeze. I wouldn’t stand out in the middle of a crowd waiting like some doe-eyed girl for a dance. I intended to a find a wall and stay there, come hell or damnation. I’d dodged the master of the house before, avoiding the meddlesome principle that forced the appointed man to ensure all ladies danced. It wouldn’t be difficult to lose whomever it was tonight.

  It was already a crush, and so early, too.

  I gathered my skirts in hand and took a step, only to jerk to a stop as my gown tightened around my hips. I staggered, flailed as my slippers skidded on the slick floor, and found my arm firmly held in large gloved hands. The room rocked, my hip drove into something solid and warm, and I gasped.

  “Oh, dear. Forgive me.”

  The voice in my ear was rich and polished; as fine as red wine and laced with the civil notes of an excellent education. Eton, I thought vaguely. Certainly rounded by some time spent abroad.

  My gaze traveled from the elegant hand at my elbow to the sleeve of a tailored black tailcoat, up the fine seams of a wide shoulder that needed no padding, to the starched wings of a crisp white shirt and white tie.

  He was lovely. And wholly unfamiliar. His sandy blond hair was brushed off his forehead, and a small, groomed mustache decorated lips set into a concerned line. His chin was strong but not bullish, his nose noble, and his eyes put me in mind of the jade statues Mr. Ashmore had once brought from China.

  They narrowed now, troubled. “Are you unwell?” he asked, and the fingers tightened at my elbow as if I would wilt to the floor should he let me go. “I’m terribly sorry, I had no intention of stepping on your gown. I feel quite clumsy.”

  I found my voice at the same time as I remembered how to direct my limbs to move. I extricated myself with no trouble, sinking into a small, graceful curtsy. “Your pardon,” I said, somehow remembering my social graces. Fanny would have been so proud. “I seem to be in your way.”

  He bowed in kind, the formal gesture sharp and extremely precise. “Then fortune looks favorably upon me tonight,” he replied. “Might I ask the pleasure of dancing with you in apology?” His eyes met mine without reserve or curiosity. “It’s a poor trade, I admit, but perhaps I may yet climb at least a whit in your esteem by the end.”

  Dance? I didn’t want to dance. I didn’t want to step onto the floor where so many eyes would watch my every step, but my would-be assailant didn’t appear to be in the habit of waiting for a rebuff. He took my hand, and before my mind could catch up with my body, we were among the dancers.

  The heat seemed less intense on the ballroom floor, perhaps due to the movement. Gloved hand around mine, my partner lead with masterful grace, easing into the fluid steps with ease. My skirts swirled in a froth of lace and tulle, and the music surrounded us as cozily as the dancers around us.

  His eyes remained with me, not roaming the crowd as so many gentlemen would when my lack of artful conversation bored them, and my cheeks burned. “Do you read the periodicals, sir?” I blurted, desperately grasping for something to converse about.

  His smile was controlled, but kind. “Often. Do you mean to say you do?”

  Oh, thank God. A commonality. “Every morning,” I told him, watching as his eyebrow twitched. Just enough. “Does that surprise you, sir?”

  He had the grace to think on it as he guided me into a docile turn. “It shouldn’t,” he finally allowed. “Tell me, what have you read of late?”

  Somehow, I didn’t imagine the murderous Leather Apron fit conversation, especially between strangers in a ballroom. I blindly cast for something, anyt
hing. And brightened. “Have you heard about Her Majesty’s new flagship?”

  The hand at my waist slid to the small of my back as he led me into a quick-paced promenade. I clasped hands with a gentlemen beside me, turned and circled again.

  My unnamed partner caught my hand and guided me expertly back into the pace. “The Ophelia,” he continued smoothly. “Yes, I’ve heard of her. A beauty of a sky ship.”

  “I hope to see her before she launches,” I said, and his eyebrow shifted up. Quizzical? Disapproving? I didn’t know. He said nothing, and as the silence stretched between us—as I stared into pale jade eyes and floundered for rational thought—I seized on a new topic. “You dance quite well, sir.”

  His eyes crinkled ever so slightly at the corners. “One of many such talents,” he said without modesty.

  But it charmed me, and I found myself curious to know more. “Many?”

  “I shan’t give away too many secrets,” he replied, “lest you think me uninteresting and leave me behind.”

  I chuckled.

  His gaze touched on my unpainted mouth, then flicked again to my eyes. “You dance elegantly,” he added.

  “One of few such talents,” I replied, twisting his own words, and the corner of his mouth quirked. “I’d best inform you now,” I continued lightly, “lest you think me actually interesting.”

  “Aren’t you?” My foot glanced off his, a shade too quick for the step, and his eyes flicked down to my skirts. Then up, twinkling. “I find you decidedly interesting.”

  “Boldly spoken,” I returned. “You don’t know who I am.”

  “An oversight I intend to rectify, I assure you.” A shiver ran up my spine at his serious words, and I took the time to study the crowd around the floor. Many were staring at us. Women’s fans were up, and a good deal of their eyes were affixed with such interest, dismay or outright contempt that I stumbled.

  My partner’s hands tightened, turning me so gracefully that I doubted my own misstep, much less that anyone had seen it. His gaze flicked out over my head, then returned to me. That corner of his mouth quirked again. “The dance will end, and I’m afraid I shall have to prevail upon someone to facilitate an introduction. To whom shall I ask?”

  I didn’t want to tell him. Bad enough that two strangers were dancing without an introduction. As soon as this unknown gentleman learned he took a madman’s daughter around the dance floor, he wouldn’t look at me nearly so kindly.

  And he was handsome. My heart fluttered as his feet moved beside mine, guiding me, spinning us both.

  My silence only caused him to dip close to my ear to murmur, “I shall prevail upon the master of the house, then. We are acquainted, he and I.”

  I opened my mouth, but before anything could be said, the strains of music died away. The gentleman stepped back, bowed smartly, and took my hand to lead me to the base of the grand stairway at the far side of the room.

  “There you are,” Fanny called as I curtsied again.

  “I return this young lady to your safe care,” my strange partner said, and bowed.

  I watched Fanny stop, stare and barely manage to curtsy before the man turned and strode through the crowd. Murmurs followed him, swirled around me, and I frowned at my chaperone.

  “Why is everyone staring?” I whispered.

  “Stop frowning,” she whispered back, but her thin cheeks were pale. “Do you know who that was?”

  “Certainly not the prince,” I said crossly.

  Fanny gave me a look designed to quell my temper as thoroughly as an ice bucket, and I resisted the urge to rub at my throat. I was hot, overcrowded, and I disliked not knowing what was happening.

  Suddenly, an orchestral flourish wound its way through the ballroom, and I looked up. Fanny took my arm, tugging me aside.

  Fashionably late to his own ball, His Lordship Benedict Kerrigan Compton, the Marquess of Northampton, stood at the top stair. He was splendid in his ballroom finery, but all eyes certainly were pinned on his lady wife in ice blue beside him.

  The flutter in my chest plummeted to an arctic pit in the base of my stomach as I gazed upon Lady Almira Louise Compton. The Marchioness of Northampton. She had been, once upon a time, fair. Her hair still held the gentle shine of golden hues faded from age. Her features were still striking, even from a distance.

  And, I noticed with a sudden wash of dread, her steely gaze was fixed on me.

  Behind her, a handsome gentleman with sandy blond hair bent his head to listen to His Lordship’s quiet words. What parts of my stomach hadn’t given over to ice now formed into a solid knot of spikes.

  I almost took a step back, but caught myself and raised my chin instead. A delighted murmur spread through the crowd at my back. As the marquis and marchioness stepped down the stairs, I watched my handsome stranger trail in their wake, studied the set of his fine shoulders, and recognized what I should have seen then.

  I had danced with His Lordship Cornelius Kerrigan Compton. The marchioness’s cherished son.

  If looks could be daggers, I would have been skewered and bloody under Her Ladyship’s scrutiny.

  “My lord and lady,” murmured others beside me in greeting. They were met with regal nods, smiles.

  “Your lordship.” Fanny eased into a curtsy beside me.

  Her grip tightened on my arm, and as the noble family stopped in front of me, my knees gave way enough that I could mirror her greeting.

  My eyes sank to the floor.

  Gasps began to trickle through the crowd. Then a single sound, as if the entire ballroom had collectively inhaled and now waited to let it out.

  I looked up, briefly wondering if I could be so lucky that one of the many glass chandeliers had dropped lamp oil on my hostess’s head.

  And met steely green eyes. He had his mother’s eyes, I thought, but couldn’t frame any other notion. As a single entity, the Marquis and Marchioness Northampton turned away, my civil courtesy unreturned.

  Fanny gasped beside me.

  The earl hesitated.

  “Cornelius,” his mother prompted, in tones so icy, it was if winter had swept in to suck the heat out of the overcrowded ballroom.

  He turned away, presenting me his rigid back, and caught up to his parents in two long strides. Cut complete.

  A buzz filled my ears; I was aware of a sudden flush climbing my cheeks. The room swirled around me, humming with the sensational scandal. Mad St. Croix’s daughter had been cut, coldly and with surgical precision.

  In front of all of London.

  The ballroom turned upside down as my eyeballs throbbed. Humiliation clawed at me, and as I fought the pressure hammering at my ears, I turned and forced my way through the gathered crowd. Using elbows, shoulders, anything I could, I jimmied my way between faces I didn’t recognize. I wasn’t sure where I was going, whether I was half led by a sudden grip at my arm or if I dragged my escort beside me, but I couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop to face the eyes undoubtedly pinned on me.

  I found the veranda doors, and a blast of cold air wafted over my face. I blinked hard, fighting back an angry strain of tears, to find Teddy hovering beside me, concern in his kind hazel eyes.

  “Cherry? Cherry, buck up, there’s a girl.” He tapped my cheek as if I’d faint, and I realized he’d stripped off a glove; a terrible outrage in the ballroom.

  A cold wind zipped over me, sharp as knives through the abysmal protection of my gown. My fists clenched so tightly, I heard each individual knuckle crack. “That horrible—” I began viciously, but got no farther as Fanny seized my shoulders and clutched me close.

  “My poor child,” she said softly.

  But there was steel in her reassurance. A tone I had long since learned to recognize. Mrs. Fortescue was angry.

  There simply wasn’t anything to be done about it. I’d been cut.

  I closed my eyes, allowing myself to sink upon the decorative iron bench beside me.

  “What shall I do?” Teddy demanded. “Shall I fetch a
glass of wine? Something to eat?” His fists clenched by his sides. “My pistols?”

  I winced. “No.” Fanny’s stranglehold loosened, and I patted her arm as I disengaged myself. The cold beat against my skin, but my blood surged with anger and shame. Cut in front of all of London proper.

  I wouldn’t easily live this one down. My household would feel the sting.

  “Something,” Teddy insisted. “There must be—”

  “Home.” I smiled, but knew it was a weary thing as I reached out to take Teddy’s bare hand in mine. I squeezed it affectionately. “Don’t let your reputation be sliced to ribbons for me, Teddy. Go back in and find ladies to dance with. Pretend it meant nothing.”

  His lips thinned.

  But he wouldn’t argue. He knew the game as well as I. Better, for it was his world.

  He squeezed my hand in turn, then bowed smartly. “Please take care of her, Fanny.”

  For once, she didn’t scold him for his familiar endearment. She nodded, her expression incensed. “Come along, my dove.”

  I rose, locking my knees as they wobbled. “Will I see you on Wednesday next?” I held my breath.

  He laid his hand over his heart. “Not for the world would I miss it,” he vowed, and vanished once more into the ballroom.

  That was my Teddy. With that single promise, something in my chest loosened. I could handle being cut from the Marchioness’s social graces. I could take to the lack of invites, even the whispers when I moved in public now.

  But if it had cost me Teddy’s company, I would have gone in and challenged the woman myself. Not, of course, that ladies dueled.

  But I would have tried.

  “I’m tired,” I said on a long exhale. Fanny laced my arm through hers, and I raised my chin, straightened my spine. I took a deep breath of the refreshing air, and added, “Shall we go home?”

  “Can you face the crowd one last time?” Fanny asked kindly, and I hesitated. All those eyes. Judging, pitying. Mocking, no doubt, as a cut from London’s leading matriarch gave them permission to do just that.