I resolved to find out why. I’d be lying if I didn’t confess to a small hope that his desires might, even a little, echo mine. And when I idly pondered this, I caught myself frowning.
Why did I bother with this charade? What could the earl possibly give me, aside from an endless eternity of balls and soirees, that I would find interesting?
The gondola stopped, and he helped us alight with firm, sure hands.
Butterflies danced in my stomach. The instant my foot touched Lady Rutledge’s spacious docking berth, they moved into my throat. My eyes narrowed as tiny spots began to dance in the corners of my vision.
I would have given good coin for even a tiny grain of opium.
As though he could read my apprehension, Lord Compton lowered his head to murmur, “I have never seen a more lovely lady. You shall be the talk of the ballroom.”
“Of course I shall be,” I replied smartly. “The madman’s daughter has an earl on her arm.”
His smile danced in his eyes. “The madman’s daughter has every right.”
It was as if he’d swept my feet from beneath me. Staring, I had no choice but to hasten my steps, follow his lead until I was divested of my cloak and blinking in the light of a thousand glittering shards.
The ballroom was already full, lit by two enormous chandeliers dripping with crystals. Color swirled around me, and I was only dimly aware of my name being announced to the throng.
That it came on the very heels of Earl Compton’s was enough to set the room on its collective ear.
A murmur set up. My cheeks burned. I must have stumbled, or perhaps I simply failed to remember to walk as appropriate, because my toes were suddenly ensnared in the hem of my gown and I entertained a vivid picture of myself pitching face-first into shame.
A warm hand slipped into mine, raising it in formal display. Steadying me. I looked over the bent curve of our joined hands to find Compton’s eyes on mine. Twinkling.
He was supporting me.
The thought came like a whisper, a dream. He knew I was uneasy, could sense the gossip starting around us, and here he was, showing what he thought of it. More, he was sending a very clear message to the gathered throng.
Whatever cut delivered only days ago, it was undone.
The butterflies in my stomach whispered to something much more insidious; terribly reminiscent of the warmth a draught of laudanum engendered from lips to belly. I stared at him as if he were a different man, and for the first time, I wondered if I’d done the man a terrible disservice.
In the corner of my eye, I saw a flutter of matronly fans, and I turned my head just enough to see the Marchioness Northampton furiously waving her fan at her reddening face.
“Oh, dear,” I breathed.
“Your dance card,” Compton said, ignoring the frenetic motions behind him. The music soared, quickly drowning the furious mutterings.
I blinked at the long, beribboned card thrust into my hands. “There must be some mistake,” I gasped. “My lord, this card is nearly full.”
“No mistake.” He let go of my hand, nodding behind me.
I turned, smiled ear to ear as I saw Teddy winding through the gaily dressed throng toward me.
“Save a dance for me.” Compton’s breath warmed my ear, and I clutched my card to my bosom as he added softly, “Perhaps I shall be so bold as to take two.”
And then Teddy was bowing, handsome as a blade in his formal black tailcoat, and I was curtsying. He took my hand, his expression pensive, and led me to the floor. Within moments, he’d found the pace, and we whirled into the dance with aplomb.
My friend glowered at me. “Why are you here with him?”
“What?” I tipped my head back, smiling. “You sound like a child, Teddy. What’s the matter?”
“Compton.” His eyes tracked something over my head, and I glanced around to find the earl bending his ear toward his mother. She was gesturing sharply, but his expression remained inscrutable. “I thought we’d be clear of the rotter,” Teddy added grimly. “Are you asking for more trouble?”
I shook my head. “He’s my escort tonight. His invite, even.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
To be fair, I’d thought the same. “He’s apologizing.” I stepped lightly, broke hands with Teddy to turn with a young miss in lovely pale blue, then returned to Teddy’s grasp as the dance dictated. “He’s disagreeing with his mother even now,” I added. “She doesn’t look happy, does she?”
“Harpy,” was all my friend had to say on the matter. We broke again, turned in separate circles with nearby dancers, and came together once more. “I don’t trust him.”
“Nor I,” I admitted, and realized that it was true. Any man who frequented an opium den was suspect. Any woman, for that matter. I, of all people, knew this to be true.
Yet, was it this very knowledge that made him seem more . . . tenable?
Impossible. “But,” I continued, smiling into Teddy’s eyes, “he came to my home and apologized in person. To show he means it, he invited me here. My Lord Compton’s grace has been enough to put me within reach of Lady Rutledge, Teddy. Perhaps if I impress her, I won’t need him anymore.”
Was it true? Even I didn’t know.
Teddy’s frown only deepened. “Will you still need me?”
I almost laughed. But somewhere, I think I realized how worried my dear friend really was. “Of course,” I said solemnly. “I will always need you.”
Finally, a smile shaped his mouth, and his demeanor seemed to ease. “Married or no,” he told me as the music ended and the dancers thanked each other graciously, “I lay claim to our Wednesday debates.”
“Always,” I promised. “And I have no intentions of marrying. Why must I keep reminding everyone of this?”
He only levied an inscrutably indifferent look at me from beneath heavy-lidded lashes as he escorted me into Fanny’s care.
I danced, it seemed, for most of the night. Gentleman after gentleman appeared before me, their names on my card. Old and young, finely dressed to a man, my night became a sea of faces and names and meaningless conversation. I remember laughing as one man, a tall gentleman with sandy blond chops barbered at his jaw, tipped his head to mine and complimented me most artfully on my stature.
“I am short, sir,” I replied with matter-of-fact asperity. “It’s not a difficult word.”
“Too succinct for you,” he told me, but his lips quirked in a manner I found most familiar. His dress was certainly fine and fashionable, every detail tended to with absolute precision.
His hair was darker blond than Lord Compton’s, but there was something to the jaw maybe that caused me to frown at him. “Would you consider me rude if I confess to not hearing your name?”
“Terribly,” he assured me as he led me into a sedate turn. His feet stepped among my many skirts with ease, but his muddy-brown-and-green eyes twinkled. “I think I shall leave you guessing.”
He did, but I was certain I’d met him before. Somewhere. Perhaps on another ballroom floor, another night past? I couldn’t possibly keep track of them all. A quick scan of my dance card told me I’d long since lost track of who I’d danced with.
But whatever his name, or his intent, my mysterious yet familiar partner left me with a moment’s peace. I found a wall and braced my shoulder against it as if it, and not I, was the one needing support. Once more, I frowned at my dance card. The Honorable Fairbanks Fitzgibbons? No, I had an impression of a dark-haired man with an enormously bulbous nose.
I remember feeling his name a most unfortunate jest.
Teddy’s name was clear, as was Lord Compton’s. A bevy of gentlemen whose names I only vaguely recognized.
And then my eye hitched on one in particular. I stared.
“Was that young Lord Piers?”
I bit back a startled sound as Fanny’s voice drifted over my shoulder. My fingers clenched over the card, guilty gaze rising to meet my chaperone’s cheerful smile. “Er,” I managed.
“I believe it was.” Lord Piers Everard Compton, the Earl’s youngest brother.
No wonder he’d seemed so familiar.
What was it with the Compton men and their deuced love of anonymity?
“Dancing with both Compton gentlemen, are you?” She slanted me a raised eyebrow. “Daring the marchioness doesn’t seem quite the thing, my dove.”
Except I was positive I’d seen those elegantly barbered chops before. I sighed. “I’m not daring anyone,” I told her.
Her mouth pursed. And then, as if flicking away the conversation, she said brightly, “Never you mind.” She curled gloved fingers around my arm. “Come along.”
“Fanny, where—”
“Smile, my dove.” She pulled me into a group of other matrons. Her face was all but alight with excitement. Without so much as a by-your-leave, I was bustled off, introduced to Lady Rutledge—a massive woman with an impressive bosom and hair too dark to be naturally free of gray. Her gown was stunning silver, accented with a large cameo depicting three Greek maidens at play.
The lady inspected me through a single gold-rimmed monocle, raised her eyebrow and said baldly, “So you’re the madman’s daughter.”
“I’m a madman’s daughter,” I replied immediately and without thought, “but if I’m the only one in existence, I shall requisition a banner to proclaim my exceptionality. Perhaps I shall drape it across Westminster Abbey?”
Gasps resounded around me.
Lady Rutledge’s mouth pursed. “Your mother was a friend of mine.”
“My mother was the toast of the ball, I gather.”
“That she was, much to the dismay of some.”
I tilted my head. “Who?” The words were exchanged too quickly for me to leash my tongue.
She squinted at me through the monocle. And then she smiled, but only enough that her eyes narrowed with it. Her fleshy cheeks raised up. “A certain marchioness, for one,” she told me. “Don’t tilt your head like that, you look like a rotund bird.”
I resisted both the urge to compare her gray gown to the hide of a pachyderm and the sudden desire to look around me, scanning the crowd for icy green eyes and a pointed stare. The marchioness had disliked my mother? That certainly explained much of her disdain toward me.
Well, that and her son’s determination to play the gentleman probably made her want to spit brass tacks.
I straightened my posture. “My apologies.”
Lady Rutledge nodded, as if pleased. “Are you a reader, girl?”
I tucked my hands behind my back. “I am.”
She sniffed. “Fashion and gossip, no doubt.”
“I detest fashion,” I returned, “although I’m quite taken with the concept of tea gowns.” Her eyes narrowed. “Unfortunately,” I continued gamely, “my chaperone refuses me to have any.”
“Hmph. Gossip, then?”
“I hate, loathe and abominate gossip,” I replied, but my civil tongue had developed an edge.
My throat dried as she stared at me.
“What say you about the current hypothesis of aether-to-oxygen?”
“Cherry,” murmured Fanny beside me, her expression worried, but she subsided as Lady Rutledge raised a silencing hand.
“Well?” she barked. “Have you anything?”
With my knees shaking, and my stomach flipping over in the strict confines of my corset, I seized on the only thing I could. “I think it’s bollocks.”
Gasps became an outraged din. One or two ladies swayed, but Lady Rutledge’s oddly pink mouth twitched beneath a beauty mark I wasn’t sure was real. “Go on.”
I sucked in a steadying breath, aware of Fanny’s fingers tight around my upper arm. “As discussed with”—I mentally slapped a hand over my own mouth before I cast Teddy’s reputation to the gossips—“acquaintances Wednesday last, I believe that it is impossible to ignite raw aether without any presence of oxygen. It’s been thoroughly argued to death in the interim. Until I see evidence to the contrary, I’m of a mind that we should not attribute to aether any properties that we wouldn’t ordinarily attribute to any other compound.” I paused, then added, “My lady.”
Oddly shaded eyes narrowed at me. Were they violet? No, perhaps blue. I couldn’t tell. “Interesting,” she said. “Why must you see it yourself?”
“Why must I take the word of men who too often cannot be bothered to speak to a woman as if she has a mind of her own?”
Someone tittered.
Lady Rutledge leaned in, studying my every nuance through that single spectacle lens. “Do you hold with the hypothesis that aether is magic?”
“I don’t believe in magic,” I replied evenly. “Magic is simply what we mortals call a thing that science has not yet unraveled.”
“And what of alchemy?” the lady asked baldly, and I blinked at her.
“I—what?”
“Alchemy, girl! Where do you hold?”
Dangerous ground. I didn’t frown, though I had to force myself not to. “Alchemy is a hairsbreadth from magic, in my view. Useless theories dreamt by stuffy old men seeking answers at the looming end of possibly wasted lives. One never knows, really. Intelligent minds are better suited to science.”
Her eyes crinkled. “You’re not as gracious as your mother, I’m afraid, but you clearly have Mad St. Croix’s gift of speculation.”
“Science,” I corrected, and then bit my tongue as someone inhaled sharply in the crowd.
“And his miserable grasp of manners,” she added. She waved at something behind me. “Off with you, then.”
I hesitated. “My lady?”
“Go on,” she barked, raising the gold monocle to her eye once more. “I’ve already handed you an invite, must you demand special direction to enjoy my hospitality?”
“No, my lady,” I whispered, and fled before I said something else I’d live to regret.
Had I really claimed bollocks to Lady Euphemia Rutledge?
The earl found me near the windows, sucking in the cool air as it drifted across the stately veranda. My legs had stopped shaking, but I was too hot. Too crushed and off balance.
He didn’t seem to notice, offering his hand. “Miss St. Croix, would you do me the great honor of a dance?”
I wanted to say no. I wanted to invite him instead to the veranda, where we could enjoy the cool air and the privacy afforded by the cover of night. And, most important, where I could not dance.
Instead, as his eyes held mine in simple patience, I slipped my fingers into his.
For the second time that day, I felt the earl’s body heat against mine. His gloved hands against my skin. In front of all, we danced a waltz; and though it lacked the secret thrill of a kiss amidst empty display tanks, I couldn’t help but be exceedingly aware of every movement of his body against mine.
This was a man who wouldn’t allow me to make a misstep. Whose guiding hand could steer me through the shark-infested waters of the society in which I lived. Here was temperance and stability all in one go.
Until now, I had never thought that such things could be so attractive.
But was it worth it?
I felt as if the world had been dropped out from under me. My stomach flipped around and around.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked me.
“I am,” I lied. I think I smiled. I must have, because his eyes softened as he gazed down upon me. “I met your brother, my lord.”
That softness . . . changed, somehow. His shoulders stiffened, his grip tightened at my waist. “Did you? And did Piers behave himself, then?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, did he keep a civil tongue in his head?” he clarified, looking quite pained.
I wondered what on earth could be so bad that he’d worry about my sensibilities. “He was more than polite,” I assured the earl. “Truly, he was quite kind.”
He looked over my head, as if searching the crowd, and I was left with the distinct impression that the brothers weren’t nearly as clo
se as brothers should be.
“Are you all right, my lord?” I asked cautiously.
“Quite.” And then, as if aware he hadn’t even convinced himself, much less me, he looked back at me and allowed a small smile to curve his lips. Those lips that had touched mine. “Quite,” he repeated, more warmly.
I didn’t broach the subject of his brother again, but the conversation left me certain that the man held more secrets than even Society suspected.
It was one more thing that we had in common, the earl and I.
Chapter Eleven
There was no newspaper in the morning.
I sat down, feeling oddly thick. As if I hadn’t slept at all. As if I’d woken with my bedclothes stuffed into my skull. I’d done neither, although the state of my nightmares was increasing. I had slept, but fitfully, and with visions of fires and body parts raining down around me.
I’d imagined the earl as a white-winged angel again, and this time, it was his judgment I’d been forced to endure.
In short, it had been a long, bloody night.
Bleary, I clutched my teacup at the table and ignored Fanny’s overwhelming delight as she recounted the evening for Mrs. Booth.
In the cold light of day, I wasn’t ready to examine anything but my paper.
“Where is the London Times?”
Fanny leveled a look at me that suggested this wasn’t the appropriate response to her trilling excitement. “How on earth can you be so cool about this?” she demanded.
“About what?” I braced my elbows on the table. Lasted all of a breath before the weight of combined disapproval from both matrons coaxed me into removing them. “It was just one ball. And a disastrous one, at that.”
The door swung open, foreshadowing Booth’s uneven cadence as he carried in the breakfast tray. The housekeeper threw up her hands. “Just a ball,” she repeated. “Just a ball!”
“Cherry,” Fanny said, too calmly for it to be anything more than carefully maintained control in the face of my obstinacy. “You were escorted to one of Lady Rutledge’s soirees by none other than the Earl Compton. That is more than just a ball.”
“Is it?” All right, so it was. Maybe. But I was feeling spiky, and so I set my teacup down. “I flustered him, you know.”
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