Under The Wishing Star

by Farr, Diane

  High time, thought Malcolm, that he repaid a few social obligations. It was a pity that a bachelor couldn’t host a ball, but an elegant dinner would be doable at Larkspur. And a little informal dancing afterward, simply as a means of entertaining the company, frequently occurred at dinner parties. Even dinner parties hosted by widowers. He couldn’t invite people for the express purpose of dancing, but if dancing sprang up, seemingly on the spur of the moment ...

  He might not be able to offer Natalie the true love she craved, but he could damn well dance with her. He could flirt with her—if he remembered how. He had already established their friendship. Now he would supplement that with a little music and romance and good, old-fashioned bodily contact. And with a little luck, he would make her see that that was enough.

  Chapter 12

  “I don’t know what you mean,” said Natalie demurely. She cast her eyes modestly downward and took a delicate sip of punch. She did, in fact, know—or at least suspect—what he meant. He was right. She had been avoiding him all evening with a circumspection so elaborate that it bordered on comical.

  Lord Malcolm’s brows lifted. “Oh, I think you do. You understand English pretty well. Why won’t you stand up with me, for instance? It’s only a country dance.”

  If anyone were to glance their way—and she knew that covert glances had followed her all evening—she hoped she looked bored. She wasn’t bored. Her heart pounded every time Malcolm approached her. And he had approached her with embarrassing persistence tonight. But it would kill her if anyone guessed her feelings. It would just kill her. She gave him a polite, distant smile. “Thank you, Lord Malcolm, but I do not care to dance.”

  “Confound it!” He looked as sulky as a thwarted toddler. “I arranged this entire affair just so I could dance with you. Don’t make me beg.”

  She was so astonished she scarcely knew where to look. “You’re joking.”

  “No,” he snapped. “And it wasn’t easy, believe me, to hire a couple of competent violinists out here in the middle of nowhere.”

  “I would have been glad to play on the pianoforte—”

  “I daresay! And then I never would have been able to dance with you at all. Fortunately, the pianoforte had stood idle for so long that it was out of tune.”

  She bit back a laugh, secretly delighted that he had gone to so much trouble. “You did it most artfully,” she observed, shaking her head in admiration. “I had no notion you planned on dancing. It all seemed to occur spontaneously.” She pointed across the room. “Look at Anne Farnsworth urging the violinist to play a cotillion! I’m sure she thinks this is all her idea.”

  “Well, it isn’t,” he said mulishly. “I had to dance with her first because she’s the squire’s wife, but I’ll be da—I’ll be jiggered if I lead that bucktoothed Beasley woman out next. Have mercy, Miss Whittaker. Dance with me.”

  She gave a little spurt of laughter and relented, setting down her punch glass. “You put it so beautifully, how can I resist?”

  “That’s more like it,” he grumbled, but she heard the amusement beneath his growl. She laid her gloved hand lightly on his arm, her bland expression masking the swirl of pleasurable excitement she felt, and docilely followed him to where the line of couples was forming. She had, naturally, been dying to dance with him. She simply hadn’t known how to accomplish it without adding to the whispers buzzing round the neighborhood. Still, as he had promised, it was only a country dance. They would be one of several couples. They would not be conspicuous in any way—or so she told herself.

  This assessment turned out to be overly optimistic.

  She dropped her hand from Malcolm’s arm the instant they joined the set, and was careful to bestow her smiles equally among the persons surrounding her. She touched him when the dance required it, but no differently than she touched the other gentlemen. She kept a modest distance between herself and her partner at all times. All this caution was a plaguey nuisance, and took some of the pleasure out of dancing with him. And it was all for nothing; still she felt exposed!

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw the knowing glances follow her, and the few ladies who were not dancing whispering to each other behind their hands. By the end of the dance she was flushed with annoyance as well as exertion. It had been a mistake to dance with Lord Malcolm. She would not do it again.

  She drifted away from him, trying to make her movement seem natural and aimless, but he pursued her. Desperate, she took the floor with Jasper Farnsworth and galloped through the Sir Roger de Coverley. Malcolm was right behind her every step of the way, with Mrs. Beasley in tow. At the end of the reel, breathless, she accepted a fresh glass of punch from one of the servants and edged toward the terrace door. Jasper waylaid him briefly, but soon Malcolm broke away and, like an arrow loosed from a string, headed straight for her. She fastened her gaze on the opposite wall and drank her punch, nervously wishing she could fade into the wallpaper.

  He joined her. She gave him a cool nod and returned her gaze to the opposite wall. It was an effort to maintain her bored expression when Malcolm’s eyes seemed to be burning a hole right through her. “What do you hope to accomplish by treating me as if we were strangers?” he asked her abruptly. “Everyone here is aware of our friendship.”

  Her bored expression slipped a little. “That is precisely the problem,” she said crisply. “There are many interested eyes upon us this evening. I am determined to give them nothing whatsoever to discuss over their breakfast cups tomorrow.”

  “They will discuss your standoffishness, and draw from it precisely the conclusions you seek to avoid.”

  No one was looking at them at the moment, so she seized the opportunity to scowl at him. “Certainly they will, if you continue to show me more attention than you should. For heaven’s sake, go and talk to the vicar. Talk to Hector. Talk to anyone but me.”

  “But I like talking to you,” said Malcolm plaintively. “And I dislike talking to Hector.”

  Natalie, in the act of taking another sip of punch, choked. Malcolm patted her helpfully on the back. She looked daggers at him. “Thank you,” she managed at last. “There’s no need to pound me. Will you kindly stop making me conspicuous?”

  There was a decided twinkle in his ice-blue eyes. “I’m not responsible for the stares, Miss Whittaker. Tonight all eyes would follow you regardless of what I did. You look beautiful.”

  She looked uncertainly at him. Was he making fun of her? Apparently not; the gleam of admiration in his eyes seemed genuine. Flustered, she returned her gaze to her punch cup. “Rubbish,” she said woodenly, and took another sip.

  “It’s not rubbish. You outshine every other lady in the room.”

  She could not suppress her smile, but hid it against the rim of her cup. “I shall try not to become too puffed up in my own esteem,” she promised him. “Now that you have clarified your statement a trifle.”

  He looked surprised, then broke into a grin as he suddenly seemed to understand her. The other ladies present had little claim to beauty. Two were ancient of days, Mabel was obviously pregnant, Mrs. Beasley was indeed bucktoothed, Anne Farnsworth had always been homely, and poor Miss Spivey had the protruding eyes and wet mouth of a fish.

  He rubbed his chin ruefully. “I do this sort of thing badly,” he confessed. “I meant to compliment you.”

  This time, she lifted her chin and looked directly at him. “Why?”

  She had hoped to knock him off balance, but his grin only widened. “Come out to the garden with me and I’ll show you.”

  Heat poured through her, flushing her cheeks. She looked away, shaken and furious. “Stop teasing me,” she ordered, willing her voice not to tremble. “For pity’s sake, sir, go away. You have other guests.”

  “None as interesting as you.”

  Natalie felt as if she were suffocating. “Stop it. You’ll ruin everything.” She hadn’t meant to say that, but it slipped out. It was a mournful cry straight from her heart. She tried to recove
r by saying, lightly, “It is bad enough, sir, that you propose to me several times a week. Until now, we have been able to keep that peculiar habit of yours private. If you dance attendance on me in public, I will be forced to withdraw from you.” And that was the last thing in the world she wanted to do. The second-last thing, she reminded herself. The very last thing she wanted to do was contract a loveless marriage.

  For some reason, that grew harder to remember with each passing day.

  An arrested look had banished Malcolm’s teasing smile. His brows knitted in a swift frown. “Thunderation, woman, what are you worried about? Your reputation is safe. Your standing in the community is safe. You won’t even let me pay you for your work with Sarah, so you are now, officially, nothing more than a friend of the family. What could be tamer than that?”

  She dropped the pretense and faced him fully, her heart in her eyes. “Don’t you see, sir, that I cannot remain your friend if everyone believes that you are courting me? If you follow me about, trying to catch my eye—if you corner me and engage me in conversation at every opportunity—”

  His frown deepened. “You are too obsessed with decorum. All this hairsplitting and hand-wringing over nothing—”

  “It is not ‘nothing’ to me!”

  “Sorry,” he said curtly. “I don’t mean to make light of your feelings. I know the community is small, and gossip runs rampant in such places. And I know you care what these people think of you; you’ve lived here all your life. But I can’t tiptoe around and worry about what others think, every time I converse with a lady I find interesting. I don’t give a tinker’s damn what people say over their breakfast cups. And frankly, Miss Whittaker, you shouldn’t, either.”

  “I can’t explain it to you,” she said stiffly. “But—”

  “You can’t explain it to me because it’s nonsensical.” His voice had lowered to a deep rumble. “Live your life, for God’s sake. Follow your heart. Make your own choices. I know you, Natalie. Your natural inclinations are decent and kind. Anyone who finds fault with you must be either malicious or stupid. Why should you court the good opinion of such people? Your friends will never think ill of you. They know better.”

  Confusion swirled through her. He had used her Christian name, but it seemed the wrong moment to chide him for it. Besides, it had secretly thrilled her to hear her name on his lips ... and to be flattered with such obvious sincerity. Decent, he had called her. Kind. She knew she would remember and cherish those words, turning them over and over in her mind. They would warm her heart on many a lonely night.

  Dazed, she tried to rally. “There are rules,” she said feebly. “Despite what you say. A single lady must be exceedingly careful.”

  “Those rules were written to protect the giggling children thrust into society every year. You are a woman, not a schoolroom chit. You are so decisive in every other area of your life, it’s incongruous to see you still deferring to dictates that no longer apply to you.”

  She tried to smile. “How rude of you,” she murmured, “to point out that I am no longer in the first blush of youth.”

  Sly humor glinted in his eyes. “It can’t be news to you.”

  That forced a chuckle out of her. “No,” she admitted. She thought for a moment, frowning slightly. “There is a point,” she said slowly, “where an unmarried woman no longer draws attention to herself by behaving freely. It is supposed to be a great relief to reach that age.” A faint smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “I have just discovered that it isn’t.”

  There was understanding in his smile. “I imagine most women would feel as you do. No one likes to be reminded that their salad days are behind them. But you are not quite decrepit, you know.”

  “Thank you,” she said politely, and his rare grin flashed.

  “I’m a master at flattery, am I not? Hang it all, Na—Miss Whittaker, I’ve never been good at this sort of thing.”

  She regarded him warily. “What sort of thing?”

  He looked uncomfortable. “Courtship and, er, things like that.”

  She took a deep breath. “I will try one more time,” she said carefully, “to make myself clear. Lord Malcolm, do not court me. I do not want courtship from you. Nor do I want, er, things like that,” she added, copying his words. “I will not make a marriage of convenience. How many times must I tell you so?”

  He looked both angry and perplexed. “I’ve done it again!” he exclaimed. “I never meant to bring it up at all.”

  His chagrin was so heartfelt it was comical. Natalie choked back a laugh, shaking her head. “Well, you did,” she said severely. “And after I expressly warned you that it would drive me away. Now, what am I to make of that?”

  Genuine alarm flitted across his features. “Make nothing of it,” he said hastily. “Forget I mentioned it. Come and dance with me again.”

  “No.” She sounded firm this time. “Truly, Lord Malcolm, it would cause a sensation. You must dance with Miss Spivey next.”

  His chin jutted stubbornly. “I want to dance with you. I planned the entire evening just so I could dance with you.” He winked. “Crafty of me, wasn’t it? Although I had to invite the entire parish to give me cover. And feed the lot of ‘em! You’d stare if you knew what I paid for those lobsters. Shall I tell you what I spent, and catalogue for you all the trouble I endured? I daresay you’d feel sorry enough to dance with me.”

  Natalie refused to be entertained by this. “No. Go away,” she said crossly. “The next set is forming. You must dance with someone, sir. For heaven’s sake, you are the host!”

  He tried to take her hand and drag her back toward the center of the room. She pulled away, scandalized, and swatted at his hand. He was laughing. Why, oh, why, could she not make him understand? Part of her wanted to laugh with him, but she was too agitated, too ashamed at unexpectedly finding herself the center of attention tonight.

  He left her, then, shaking his head and still laughing at her, and obediently led Miss Spivey onto the floor. Miss Spivey looked thrilled.

  Natalie saw her chance, and walked out onto the terrace to cool her burning face and regain a little of her composure. She dared not stay, however; she was too afraid that Malcolm would neglect his guests again to pursue her there—and that really would cause a scandal. When she heard the musicians bring the music to a flourishing close amid the laughter and applause of the company, she slipped back into the room. This time, she sat on one of the spindle-legged chairs that lined the walls, hoping to escape notice. In vain, of course. Malcolm strolled nonchalantly over and propped himself against the wall beside her.

  “I danced with Miss Spivey,” he reported. “Did I finally win your approval?”

  “Yes,” she said, in a suffocated voice. “You may add to it by going away again.”

  “I like it here.”

  Perverse man! “Then stay here,” she said stiffly, and rose to walk away, instinctively heading away from the light and noise, wishing it were possible to hide.

  “You misunderstand,” he said, following her. “I like it where you are.”

  “Lord Malcolm, please,” she moaned, her voice trembling a little despite her best efforts to control it. She rounded on him, desperate. “If you care for me at all, if you care for my friendship, do not make me a laughingstock.”

  He halted in his tracks, looking appalled. “Who will laugh at you?” he said roughly, looking as if he would tear the laughter right out of the throat of anyone who dared.

  “Everyone will laugh,” she said, still in a low tone. They were away from the rest of the company, and no one seemed to be looking at them at the moment, but she dared not risk being overheard. “Or they will pity me, if they see you pursue me—and then see that your pursuit has come to nothing. No one will believe that you asked and I refused.” Her mouth twisted wryly. “No one will believe that I declined your very flattering offer. The world views these things as you do.”

  “The world is right,” he countered. “And so am
I.”

  She set her jaw stubbornly and shook her head. “I will not argue with you. We are destined never to see eye-to-eye on this, it seems.”

  “Come into the garden with me,” he said softly. “And let me prove you wrong.”

  She looked up at him, surprised. There was something seductive in his voice, something low and rough and vibrant. His ice-blue eyes scalded her with their intensity. What on earth did he mean by it? His invitation was positively lover-like.

  Incredulity sharpened her voice. “Haven’t you heard anything I’ve said to you tonight? I cannot do such a thing.” A painful thought occurred to her. “And if you plan to compromise me, you are a villain.”

  Now he looked angry. And, she noted, guilty. “You insult us both with that remark,” he said wrathfully. “I am no fortune hunter. Just because I’d like to—” He broke off suddenly, then audibly ground his teeth. “Do you really think I would try to force your hand with such tactics?”

  Her face burned with a deep and painful blush. “No,” she stammered. “I do not. I am sorry. I spoke without thinking. Let us argue no more. We attract attention, sir, and I cannot bear it.”

  “Natalie Whittaker, you are twenty-four years old,” he said, carefully enunciating each word as if speaking to a baby. “Don’t you know you are an adult?”

  Her jaw dropped. “What?”

  “A child must be governed by rules because a child cannot think for himself. You, however, have not been a child for some time. Use your God-given brain. It is not logical for us to stay here; we cannot talk privately. Come out with me where we can be alone.”

  She stared at him as if he were a madman. “People will talk.”

  He raised his brows and gave her stare for stare. “People will talk regardless of what you do. They have always talked. Let them. Adults do not bend to the opinions of others. They do as they please.”