Penningham at least had the decency to appear as though he were making a stoic attempt not to broaden his smile. He failed miserably. “Forgive me, but for one whose life has always been so charmed, I cannot help but feel a faint twinge of satisfaction in knowing that you’re just as susceptible to a stroke of bad luck as the rest of us.”
Connor groaned. It was true that Penningham almost always lost when he gambled, but he didn’t have to look so damn pleased about Connor’s sudden misfortune. “You’re diabolical,” he said. “And here I was, thinking that the two of us were friends.”
“Oh, but we are, Redfirn—the very best of friends.” His eyes sparkled with something that suggested he might be about to prove it. Connor stared back at him with growing anticipation. “In fact, it just so happens that I have the perfect lady in mind for your little scheme.”
“There’s no need to make it sound so sordid.”
Penningham arched an eyebrow. “Isn’t it?”
Connor heaved a sigh. Of course it was, but all he said was, “Just tell me who the chit is, so I can get the matter settled as swiftly as possible.” Connor had never socialized much during his stays in the country. Whenever he removed himself to Redfirn Manor, it was to seek an escape from all the functions he felt obligated to suffer each Season, not to endure the whole thing again on a smaller scale. Besides, he really had no idea who would be present over the holidays for the simple reason that he hadn’t cared enough to bother to find out. Penningham would know, however—he always did for some absurd reason.
Whatever his luck at the gaming tables, Penningham made up for it by keeping a mental tab on each and every aristocratic family at all times of the year. Naturally, this included all of the marriageable young ladies in them—their finer qualities as well as their flaws would be listed. In truth, Penningham was a veritable fountain of information for any gentleman who wished to seek a wife.
Penningham arched his fingers beneath his chin and suddenly looked quite serious. “She is The Lady Amy Dalton.” He paused, allowing Connor a moment to consider the name and, more to the point, if he’d ever heard of the woman before. Connor was certain he had not, and shook his head to indicate as much. “She’s the daughter of the Earl of Loughton—visiting her mother’s side of the family for a few weeks or so. Not a diamond of the first water by any means—in fact, her last three seasons will attest to that, but then again, I don’t believe your charge is in any position to be all that picky. From what I’ve seen of the fellow, he’s a little . . . ahem . . . unpolished.”
Connor groaned. He really didn’t need reminding that Grenly was greatly lacking when it came to looks, charm, and grace. He was too tall, too skinny, and without the necessary confidence to make those first two attributes inconsequential. He did have one thing in his favor however—his father was wealthy beyond compare. Apparently, it wasn’t just taking advantage of drunk earls that he was good at. From what Connor knew of the man, he was fierce when it came to investments, and it had paid off in staggering amounts of money—money that would one day go to Grenly.
“I doubt I’ll have much success at convincing Mr. Grenly to set his cap for an unattractive lady.”
“Did I say that she is unattractive, Redfirn?” Penningham asked with marked irritation. “There’s more than one way to catch the interest of a potential mate, you know. You don’t have to be so damn shallow all the time.”
“Oh stuff it, Penningham. Everyone knows that the first thing to draw two people together is their looks.”
“That may be true,” his friend agreed, looking suddenly wise beyond his years. “But it’s hardly enough to keep them enamored with each other for fifty years to come. Looks fade, and you’d be a fool not to remember that.”
Connor sighed. Again. Of course, his friend was right though he knew he’d hardly be one to convert to his way of thinking. He had a very clear picture in his head of what his future bride would look like if he ever found himself inclined to marry. She would be tall, slim, blond, and have a pair of blue eyes to take his breath away. Naturally, she would also be good-natured and easy to get along with—a woman who would keep to herself for the most part, busy with whatever projects or charities she might enjoy, while he would be free to pursue his own interests. A proper, uncomplicated match. Perfect.
“As it happens,” Penningham was now saying, “Lady Amy has other qualities that I believe ought to be considered. For one thing, she and her family have remained completely untouched by any scandal—a feat in itself, considering the world we live in. Furthermore, she’s very fond of books and has a sharp mind for—”
“She’s a bluestocking,” Connor stated, cutting off his friend.
“She’s highly educated, Redfirn. Your man Grenly won’t be bored with her, I can guarantee that.”
“Can you now?” Connor asked languidly as he folded his arms across his chest. “Then answer me this, Penningham. If she’s such a fine catch, how come she hasn’t been snatched up already, hmmm?”
Penningham rolled his eyes before leaning across the table between them and saying in a hushed voice, “Not all young ladies possess the skill of making themselves noticed. Indeed, there are those who prefer not to draw attention at all. I believe Lady Amy falls directly into this category. Trust me in this—Grenly could do a lot worse.”
Well, it wasn’t as if Connor had anyone else in mind anyway, and besides, the faster he resolved the situation, the faster he’d be able to move on and enjoy the holidays in peace.
Chapter Three
“AMY, I MUST say that you look quite splendid in that gown,” Leonora commented, hoping that her compliment would offer the impossibly shy woman enough confidence to at least act the part of an aristocrat instead of looking like she’d much rather be cowering in a corner. It had been quite a task to “accidentally” make her acquaintance, not to mention befriend her to the point where the woman wouldn’t question the motive behind Leonora’s sudden interest in her. After all, she wasn’t dealing with an idiot. As it turned out, Amy was more intelligent than most, and Leonora had feared that she would see right through her from the very beginning. But Amy’s desire for friendship had apparently made her ignore any suspicions that she might have had in that regard.
The trace of a smile touched Amy’s lips. “Thank you for saying so.” She clutched her reticule against her chest as they moved forward in the receiving line to greet their hosts. “I wasn’t certain about the pale blue since I’ve always thought one needed blond hair and pale skin in order to make that work, but I have to admit that I’m quite pleased with the result. Thank you, Leonora, for taking the time to help me select it.”
A warm feeling of pleasure settled in Leonora’s chest. It felt good—wonderful in fact—to have done something meaningful that would hopefully help Amy blossom into the lovely lady that Leonora herself had discovered to be residing beneath Amy’s placid demeanor, plain garments, dull coiffures, and serious expressions.
During their ten days’ acquaintance with one another, Leonora had managed to mold her new friend into a young lady who now stood a far better chance of turning heads. It was true that she was a bit tall, but she had a very fashionable figure that was sure to make more than one woman present envious. In fact, Leonora had on more than one occasion wished that she might be as slim as Amy, but Mother Nature had decided otherwise and offered her rounded curves instead—not that she was plump by any means. Oh no. Not at all. Leonora was simply endowed with an ample bosom and some rather shapely thighs.
Thanking Lord and Lady Oakland for inviting them this evening, Leonora and Amy continued on through to the ballroom. “Raise your chin and straighten your back,” Leonora murmured as she placed her gloved hand against Amy’s arm, slowing her pace to a near standstill. “And take your time as you make your entrance. We want to be seen, and we want them to know that we don’t find them the least bit intimidating.”
Amy’s eyes widened, but before she had a chance to offer a response, they
were automatically ushered forward. “Perhaps a refreshment would —”
“Not yet,” Leonora said, noting the tone of alarm in Amy’s voice. Taking her by the arm, she guided her forward. “The refreshment table is a wonderful tool for us to use as an excuse—a means of escape from unpleasant company, so to speak. If we already have a glass of punch or lemonade in our hands, we’ll hardly be able to claim a sudden need for something to drink.”
“I hadn’t considered that,” Amy muttered. “How fortunate I am to have your guidance.”
“Think nothing of it,” Leonora told her with the same degree of happiness one might feel at taking in a stray kitten. “Oh look—there’s Lady Miranda and Lady Charlotte, two very good friends of mine whose acquaintance I’m sure you’ll enjoy. Let’s go and say hello to them.” She didn’t mention that her real reason for steering Amy in that direction was because it would force them to cross paths with Lord Bartram, who was currently having what appeared to be a rather serious discussion with Lord Urnton. Both gentlemen were very eligible, not to mention rather dashing, and even though it might be unlikely for Amy to strike a match with either one of them, she would certainly be noticed by others if Bartram or Urnton invited her to dance.
“SHE’S HERE,” PENNINGHAM muttered close to Connor’s ear as he came to stand next to him. Grenly, who was standing on the other side of Connor, seemed much too absorbed by a piece of lint on his jacket to have noticed that Penningham had even made an appearance.
They’d positioned themselves off to one side, close to the terrace doors, where the frosty night air added a bit of freshness to the otherwise stifling heat inside the ballroom. For just about the millionth time, Connor cursed Wolfston to the best of his abilities. He hated attending these sorts of events. As if formal clothing wasn’t uncomfortable enough, one had to be forced to wear it in a room holding well over two hundred people and offering barely any circulation at all. Even the tropics would be more comfortable by comparison.
“Right over there,” Penningham was now saying, tilting his head a bit toward the entrance. “The tall woman in the light blue silk.”
Connor spotted her instantly. How could he not? The woman was practically a giant—or so it seemed when compared to the much shorter brunette standing next to her, not to mention most of the other people in the room. Casting a sidelong glance in Grenly’s direction, he made a mental shrug. Perhaps the two would be perfect for one another after all—two beanstalks in a field of sunflowers. “Thank you, Penningham,” he drawled in a low tone that was almost swallowed up by the loud chatter of voices presently competing with the orchestra. “You’ve been immensely helpful. I’ll let you know how it all turns out.”
“Please do.” Turning to Grenly, Penningham then said, “Best of luck with it.” Having no idea of what Penningham might be talking, Grenly merely nodded a little daftly.
Connor took a deep breath as he watched Penningham disappear into the crowd. He then turned to Grenly. “When did you last dance with a lady?”
“I . . . urm . . . that is—” Not the eloquent response one might expect from a well-turned-out gentleman.
“Well then,” Connor remarked, forging ahead in spite of the chasm he sensed might be waiting for him to fall into. “There’s no better time than the present. We are at a ball, after all, and one can hardly attend one without dancing. It simply isn’t done.”
“It’s not?” Grenly asked, looking visibly shocked. “But I always thought that—”
“Forget what anyone might have told you. We are gentlemen, Grenly, and as such it is our duty to dance with at least one lady this evening. Now then—how about that lady over there? The one in the light blue gown?”
“I don’t know . . .” Grenly shuffled his feet a bit as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. It was all Connor could do not to lose his patience with the man. And then the young viscount said the most damning of things. “She’s a bit tall, don’t you think?”
Well, if the kettle had ever called the pot black. Was the man not aware of his own height? Surely, he must know that a shorter woman would never work for him. After all, there were the laws of physics to consider, and some things simply weren’t possible. “Not at all,” Connor managed. “I suggest you ask her to pair with you for the next set. If you enjoy her company, you can always ask her to join you in a waltz later.” Seeing the immediate panic on Grenly’s face, Connor let out a deep sigh. He had a debt to pay, he reminded himself, and he would do so with style and, he added, without hitting anyone. “Just do as we discussed, and you’ll be fine.”
But Grenly didn’t budge. Not for a full minute at least, and Connor was almost ready to push the young viscount out into the crowd himself, when Grenly apparently took courage and stepped forward on his own—much to Connor’s relief. The way he moved though . . . Connor stifled a groan. It was like watching a reed being whipped by the wind, and even that would probably appear more coordinated than Grenly did at present. Still, Connor forced himself to watch as the viscount made his way toward his quarry, turning his head from side to side as he went and muttering what could only be an apology to each and every person he passed. Well, at least he was polite.
It wasn’t until Grenly was standing right beside Lady Amy and had caught the lady’s attention that Connor managed to breathe a sigh of relief. Everything would be fine. The two of them would dance, then Connor would proceed to instruct Grenly on how to . . . What the devil? It was difficult for him to discern precisely what it was that was going on, for he could only see Grenly’s and Lady Amy’s heads above the throng of people surrounding them, but they were both looking down as if talking to . . . Oh bloody hell! It was the brunette. Connor should have bloody known that Lady Amy’s companion would toss a cog in the wheel and complicate matters—women always did. Well, there was nothing for it. Grenly and Lady Amy were going to dance, and that was that.
Balling his hands into tight fists, Connor straightened his back and took a very deep breath before diving into the noisy crowd.
“THANK YOU SO much for your kind offer, but we really are in quite a hurry as you can see,” Leonora said, her head tilted as far back as it could possibly go in order to stare up at the man before her. She’d known who he was the instant he’d stepped in front of them, or at least she knew of him, and from everything she’d heard, it was her impression that the man was a bit of an idiot, not to mention clumsy and . . . she caught herself immediately. Really, she didn’t know him at all, and she was not the sort to be mean or unkind to others. If anything, she felt a bit sorry for how embarrassed he was now looking, but it really wouldn’t do to let Amy dance with him. Heavens above, she was trying to turn the equivalent of Grenly’s female counterpart into a swan—associating with him would put an end to all her plans for Amy before she even began. She gave Amy’s arm a firm tug.
“Aren’t we being terribly rude?” Amy whispered, her posture a little askew as she tried to bend toward Leonora’s ear.
“Not at all,” Leonora replied in an equally low tone. Offering Grenly an apologetic smile, she raised her voice, and said, “Unfortunately, we have a prior engagement that we really must keep.”
“We do?” Amy asked.
“Certainly.” Leonora added a firm nod that she hoped would look convincing given the fact that Amy had clearly decided not to follow her lead. “Have you forgotten that when we happened upon Bartram and Urnton in the park the other day, both gentlemen claimed to be quite eager to dance with you this evening? And once we add their names to your dance card, I’m afraid it will be quite full.”
Amy gaped at her. Clearly, she was not entirely pleased about the fib Leonora had just told. Didn’t she understand that she had her best interests at heart, and that if she was to make a successful marriage, they would have to avoid men like Grenly? The lie wasn’t mean-spirited. On the contrary, Leonora meant to spare his feelings, but with Amy staring accusingly at her and Grenly looking as if he’d unexpectedly found himself knee deep in mud,
her conscience was beginning to make her feel more than a little rotten . . . not to mention shallow.
Drawing her shoulders back, she strengthened her resolve and, giving Amy a harder tug than before, she offered Grenly what she hoped would look like a polite nod of dismissal before turning away from him and . . . umpf. Somebody bumped into her, nudging her sideways until she feared she might lose her balance. She quickly recovered, however, and, turning toward the clumsy fool, immediately caught her breath.
Before her stood a man like none she’d ever seen before—either that or her time spent in mourning had made her forget it was possible for one singular human being to look like this. She doubted it, though. In fact, she was quite confident that there had never before existed a man quite as handsome as this one. His hair was jet-black, his jaw chiseled as if Michelangelo had sculpted it himself, and his eyes . . . she couldn’t quite discern their color at this distance though they did appear rather dark. That wasn’t what had her momentarily struggling for air, though. His eyes were sharp and assessing, yet vibrant at the same time, as if he was judging each of her attributes, categorizing and rating them until he came up with a final score—a number that would determine whether or not he found her worthy of his company. It was most unsettling.
And then he spoke. “I do beg your pardon, Miss . . .” He raised an eyebrow, then paused while he waited for her to fill in the blank.
Leonora swallowed hard, for his gaze was so penetrating it almost seemed as though he were presently observing the inner workings of her mind—that he knew exactly what she was thinking.
Heaven forbid.
“Lady Leonora,” she eventually managed as she gave herself a mental kick in the backside for acting like a girl just out of the schoolroom. She might not have vast amounts of experience with men, but she was certainly popular enough, confident enough, and well-read enough not to find herself struggling with her own tongue. Apparently, the man before her was having a rather alarming effect on her wits.
Five Golden Rings: A Christmas Collection Page 2