Involuntarily, she smiled back, her gaze caught by the brilliant blue of his eyes. “Yes, I can speak. I am having a breath of air, if you must know,” she said, trying to think of something sufficiently insipid to make him go away.
The sound of laughter soared through the open doors behind her. She glanced over her shoulder uneasily, thinking about Lady Beatrice, open windows, and wet bedding. She shivered.
“Oh,” he replied. He sounded almost as wary of her as she was of him.
She stared up at him, wondering if he would think her rude if she asked him to go away. Under other circumstances, she might have liked to be introduced to him, if for no other reason than the novelty of looking up into a man’s face instead of down, but she was too weary to control her conversation, too tired to be polite.
Although he was certainly better than the two loathsome fortune hunters who had tried to back her into a corner a half hour ago. Then, she remembered Miss Mooreland’s hopeful face and felt exhausted down to her very bones.
Unlike Miss Mooreland, Charlotte was not a vapid ninnyhammer searching for a husband. Nonetheless, she couldn’t help letting her gaze linger on his attractive face. In truth, he was more than attractive, with a firm, square chin and a wide mouth that curved upward.
In another situation, she might even have called him handsome if she weren’t so sure she simply couldn’t see him clearly in the poor light.
The badly lit terrace could also be responsible for the illusion that his shoulders were even broader than she thought. The shadows were bound to make him look taller and more, well, muscular, particularly since his black evening jacket seemed to blend into the shadows. If they stood under the brilliant crystal chandeliers inside, he would probably dwindle down into a short, fat, balding Lothario just like the rest of the ton.
“Perhaps you should go back inside,” he said.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, quelling a sharp, tired response. “I believe I prefer it out here.”
“Perhaps so, but it will not do to be found out here with a strange man.”
“While I applaud your honesty in admitting you are strange, I really don’t agree. You seem perfectly normal to me. However, I am having an absolutely wonderful evening out here alone, and I would prefer to stay,” she replied at last, striving to keep her tone light. “So perhaps you ought to go inside if you are nervous about being compromised.”
He surprised her by laughing. His deep chuckles teased out a reluctant smile from her, despite her wariness. For one brief moment, she could see why Miss Mooreland and the other ladies swooned over him. In the cool air of the terrace, his laughter enfolded her like a cloak still warm from his shoulders. It drew her toward him, away from the gleaming lights of the ballroom. When he smiled down at her, his eyes glittering, she felt almost…acceptable.
“It will not do to be found out here with me,” he insisted after his chuckling subsided. “Your reputation will be quite shattered.”
She shook her head, trying to break the dizzying spell created by the intensity of his gaze. “I should not worry about it. Being found on a patio, only a few steps away from dozens of waltzing couples, with a man— strange or not—will not have the slightest influence on my reputation. In fact, you are the one at risk. If they find you skulking out here with me, you will be lucky to escape unsullied. Regrettably, I am known as an awful bluestocking. So unless you wish to be seen as foolish in the extreme, or perhaps even bordering on the dreadfully intelligent, you had best return inside.”
“Really?” he stepped forward, still smiling. A dimple puckered his left cheek, making her heart thud. “Perhaps I would not mind giving a few people the mistaken impression that I am not completely unintelligent.”
“Oh, no. You would not like it, not at all. If you wish to give that impression, you would have to avoid the ton, for starters. It would be dreadfully inconvenient for you.”
He laughed. “Indeed. So, what were you doing out here? Surely you were not simply avoiding us all?”
“If you must know, I was watching the moths.”
“Moths?”
She gestured impatiently at the insects assaulting the paper lanterns. “Yes. Moths—those flapping creatures one sees at night. Now, if you will excuse me?”
“Not just yet.” He smiled down at her. “After all, we have not even been introduced.”
“No, we have not, have we?” she replied frostily, trying to ignore the gleam in his eyes. Uncertainty, and the way everything seemed to fade away when he was near, made her nervous.
“Oh, I am sure we could find someone to introduce us.”
“Then why don’t you do that? I promise to wait right here until you return.”
“I—” He glanced down and pulled a gold chain out of his waistcoat pocket. “Wait!”
Charlotte eyed him curiously. “What is it? Are you late for something?”
“I have just noticed—I have lost it!”
“Lost what? Your watch? I am sure someone inside must know what time it is.”
“No, that is not it.” He glanced around the terrace and then stared toward the shadowy path through the gardens. “You have not seen a piece of lapis lazuli, have you? I knew I should have had that link replaced….”
She eyed the flagstone terrace but there was nothing to interrupt the broad, smooth plane of gray stones. “I have not seen anything of the sort. I am sorry.”
Bending down, he felt around under a nearby marble bench, uttering muffled curses. He hit his shoulder and swore when he sat back on his heels. He studied the flagstones with a frown before he stood up and dusted off his hands.
A glum expression shadowed his face. “Well, it is gone. Damnation! My lucky lapis—are you sure you don’t see it anywhere?”
“No. It is not so lucky if you have lost it, is it?” she remarked before taking pity on him. “Maybe one of the other guests will find it. Was it distinctive? Would they know it belonged to you?”
“It was certainly unique enough—it was a piece of lapis twisted like a corkscrew. They ought to know the fob belongs to me. I have worn the thing for years.”
“Then I should not worry about it. Surely, someone will find it and return it to you.”
Once more he scanned the grassy path leading from the garden, brushing off her words with an impatient gesture. Feeling dismissed, Charlotte edged toward the French doors, thinking about the Archers. Suddenly, the flutter of a white dress caught the corner of her eye.
“Your Grace!” Lady Beatrice’s high, flute-like voice called. “Your Grace, where are you?”
Lady Beatrice stood framed in the French doors, her back to the terrace. Her white silk gown shimmered in the soft light from the ballroom.
Charlotte prayed Lady Beatrice would not glance over her shoulder and see them. Then, as Charlotte watched in trepidation, Lady Beatrice swirled around. Midway through the graceful movement, she seemed to almost lunge to the left. She stumbled into a tray carried by one of the footmen who had been dragooned into acting as waiters for the ball. Several glasses of Madeira tipped their contents over Lady Beatrice’s heaving bosom, running down her pale silk dress like streaks of blood.
“You fool!” she lashed out at the hapless servant. Her voice drifted, thin and faint over the terrace. “Get out! Get out this minute! And don’t think you will get a recommendation from my father, for you will not, you clumsy oaf.”
He stood there, empty tray in hand, staring down at Lady Beatrice while she berated him. Face as red as the spilt wine, the man finally got down on his knees to clean up the broken glasses with his handkerchief.
Suddenly, he stopped and his shoulders stiffened. Lady Beatrice moved, her back blocking Charlotte’s view.
She tried to see around Lady Beatrice, but the angle was wrong and the wide expanse of the terrace separated them. Charlotte held her breath and after a tense minute, Lady Beatrice moved, stepping toward the French door.
Charlotte’s gaze dropped to the servant. He knelt on one knee,
staring after his beautiful ex-employer with eyes rounded in shock. Slowly, he raised his hand and stared at it. A thin dribble of red ran down his wrist, staining the edge of his cuff and dripping to the floor.
Blood? Surely not.
Charlotte wasn’t sure what she had seen. It seemed so senselessly cruel, even if he had ruined Lady Beatrice’s gown. She had publicly humiliated the servant, and then it appeared as if she had stepped on his hand while he collected the broken shards of glass.
Revenge for ruining her lovely silk dress? Or had one of the glasses cut him when it had fallen? Charlotte was too far away to be certain. It could even have been the Madeira dripping over his wrist.
No matter, it certainly seemed as if Lady Beatrice had not changed much over the years. She had not liked to be frustrated or thwarted in school and she had always been absorbed by her own flawless appearance. Ruining such an expensive silk gown would infuriate her. No wonder she had berated and dismissed the servant.
Charlotte turned away, shivering as the damp garden mist swirled over the edge of the terrace and curled around her. Perhaps she could find the footman after the party and offer him employment. The accident had not been his fault, and Charlotte felt unaccountably sorry for him and disturbed about his fate. She knew how it felt to be alone and unsure about the future.
At least she had resources. She was an heiress, and if she paid his salary, the Archers could not refuse her request.
Lady Beatrice swayed through the door, graceful and beautiful despite her spoiled dress. Her head turned toward the man at Charlotte’s side, and her step quickened. Charlotte turned to him just as he stood from another search under the stone bench. He had missed the entire scene between Lady Beatrice and her servant.
Now, he glanced in the direction of the doorway and seemed to stiffen. Charlotte followed the direction of his gaze with dismay.
“Say something,” he said, bending over to whisper urgently in Charlotte’s ear. “Anything—just don’t leave me alone with her. Please, you must help me!”
Charlotte started as his warm breath played over her neck.
Lady Beatrice floated toward them across the flagstone terrace. “Your Grace,” she called.
“I don’t see why you think I should—” Charlotte paused as Lady Beatrice neared.
What did he want from Charlotte? Did he hope to make Lady Beatrice jealous? Charlotte could almost smell the faint, metallic odor of an iron trap following Lady Beatrice like stale perfume. Suddenly, Charlotte didn’t trust either of her companions in the soft, cold darkness of the terrace.
Lady Beatrice placed a light hand on the man’s sleeve. He gazed beseechingly into Charlotte’s eyes and she wavered in confusion. She could not protect him from Lady Beatrice, even if that was what he wanted.
Unable to resist the entreaty in his eyes, Charlotte said the first thing that came to mind. “I don’t see why you want me to explain the differences between the Garden Tiger and the, um, Buttoned Snout again. It is not difficult, you know. A child could do it. All you have to do is concentrate.”
He had asked for her help. A lecture on moths was the best she could do considering the circumstances.
“Yes,” he said, his tone humble. “But I am new to this, uh, that is, I have never appreciated moths before. Couldn’t you just go over it one more time?”
“What are you doing out here, Your Grace?” Lady Beatrice asked, her tone sharp. She glanced from him to Charlotte. “Miss Haywood,” she reluctantly acknowledged. Then she gazed at him, tilting her head back to make him feel taller and emphasize the lovely line of her throat and impressively bare bosom. She smiled and gave a light, tinkling laugh when his eyes followed that perfect curve of flesh. “You don’t wish to be compromised, do you? With poor Miss Haywood?”
Her artless question made it clear she knew exactly whom he would prefer to compromise, and it wasn’t poor Miss Haywood.
“We’re identifying moths, Lady Beatrice. I doubt seriously whether anyone will find themselves compromised. Don’t you agree, Your Excellency?”
Charlotte said, unable to resist teasing Lady Beatrice by deliberately using the wrong title for the duke. She knew it would annoy her. Charlotte just hoped she had understood the gleam in His Grace’s eyes correctly and that it would not annoy him, at least not unduly.
With luck, he would laugh and Lady Beatrice would become irritated. Then she’d flounce her way back inside where she belonged, assuming that was the sort of help he really wanted.
And assuming he wasn’t just another arrogant, hidebound British aristocrat who would be terribly insulted. She held her breath and eyed both of her companions with trepidation.
As anticipated, Lady Beatrice missed the dry note in Charlotte’s comment.
“That is ‘Your Grace,’ Miss Haywood.” She corrected her with a condescending smile. “He is the Duke of Peckham. I suppose Colonials have difficulties with the niceties of British Society.”
“Oh, I do apologize, Your Awful Graciousness. It is so difficult to keep all these minute class distinctions straight. We Americans are so inclined to believe that rubbish about all men being created equal, are we not?” Charlotte noticed the duke appeared to be strangling. His shoulders positively shook with suppressed emotion.
She watched him, unsure whether to laugh or take a few rapid steps backward.
His odd expression could either mean he felt amusement or the strong desire to choke the life out of her. In her experience, some men were so affected by her sense of humor that they found the latter course nearly irresistible, especially her previous guardian, Lord Westover.
She stepped back as a precaution.
Lady Beatrice slipped her hand through the duke’s arm. “If you would care to return, I believe they are starting another waltz, Your Grace. You did promise this one to me, did you not?”
He began to pull away, but she clung more tightly, her smile thinning. “I—” he said.
“Come,” Lady Beatrice said in a playful, arch tone. “You know you promised. Surely you would not break your word to a lady?”
The duke cast one last glance at Charlotte before he shrugged, clearly giving in to good manners. “As you wish.”
Lady Beatrice nodded at Charlotte. “Miss Haywood, don’t stay out here too long. The nights are damp. You don’t want to catch something.”
“No, indeed.” Charlotte gave a rather elaborate shiver. “I most certainly do not want to catch anything. Here, at least. Heaven forbid.”
Chapter Five
All cases of homicide are presumed by law to be malicious and amounting to murder until the contrary appears. —Constable’s Pocket Guide
“I am dreadfully sorry, Your Grace,” Lady Beatrice said as they joined the other couples on the dance floor. “I had no idea the Archers would bring that dreadful female when I invited them. I hope you will forgive me.”
Nathaniel nodded absently. “I did not realize she would attend, either.” He should have found her earlier when she was with his uncle so he could be properly introduced. She must think him a complete dolt.
At least she didn’t appear to be the least bit awed by his title. On the other hand, a little touch of awe might have made her less disrespectful. He smiled and suppressed the urge to glance over his shoulder to see if she were watching him from the shadows of the terrace.
“Excuse me, I don’t wish to be impertinent, but I thought the Archer family had no children….”
“None that lived,” Nathaniel replied absently.
After gazing into Miss Haywood’s eyes and seeing such an odd mixture of wariness and hope, he had had a hard time abandoning her to her moths. The troubled guardedness he saw in her gaze made him long to slip his arm around her waist and reassure her.
Although on second thought, perhaps not. Hope in a woman’s eyes was a dangerous thing.
“Then how did they end up with that dreadful woman?” Lady Beatrice asked.
“She’s my uncle’s ward.”
“Yes. He assumed the responsibility rather recently.”
“Your uncle has my sympathy. He cannot be enjoying it, and what can he do? She is too old to come out, is she not? And she is dreadfully rude. I can only hope your family finds some sort of husband for her. Eventually. Perhaps some older widower searching for a helpmate in his declining years.”
“Um,” Nathaniel replied, distracted by the fact that the waltz was due to end soon. Predatory mamas were already lining up along the fringes of the dance floor, blocking all egress and pushing their unfortunate, simpering offspring forward. Even the door to the terrace was barricaded by ranks of waiting women.
He knew he should have insisted on going with his uncle to White’s instead of coming to this affair. Archer’s abrupt change of plans had thrown Nathanial off his stride, and he had inadvertently shown up here at the very start of the ball. The serious tactical error created unwarranted expectations since he had also attended two other functions sponsored by Lady Beatrice’s family.
He glanced down at her. Her complacent gaze encircled him like the snare around an unlucky hare’s leg.
She thought she had caught him already. Her parents had even had the gall to ask if he wished to speak to them privately and perhaps say a few words at midnight.
If he failed to do so, the other mamas stood nearby like a troop of fighting Hussars, fully prepared to step in and sacrifice their own dearly beloved offspring if he should chance to slip through Lady Beatrice’s dainty fingers.
The waltz ended.
“Your Grace,” one of the mamas said as Nathaniel escorted Lady Beatrice off the floor. “It is such a pleasure to see you. Have you met my daughter, Miss Suzanne Mooreland? This is her first Season, and she is so popular she scarcely has time to sit.”
“Yes,” he replied. “We have already had the pleasure of a dance this evening. And, I am sure she is glad of a chance to rest.”
The fair-haired girl smiled at him. Nathaniel stared back. Brown, wounded-doe eyes, blondish-brown hair. Short. Precisely, the same as half-a-dozen other girls he had escorted on the dance floor that evening.
Love Regency Style Page 146