Romancing the Rogue

by Kim Bowman

She laid her hand on Guffald’s arm reassuringly and then answered with an honesty she did not feel. “Yes. At present, I am unattached and thankfully so. This is the first ball of the season, is it not? What better way to spend one’s first ball than to fill a dance card with the name of every man present?”

  She smiled, hoping to alleviate his pain. He adored her, that much was plain, and her heart knotted with anguish that she couldn’t reciprocate his feelings. Guffald’s attraction to her might have been enough at one time. But not now. Not after Thomas had successfully ushered her into womanhood. Surely, that is what he feared, and why he felt such a desperate urge to plead his case.

  Defying convention, she raised her gloved finger to his brow. “It pains me that you have suffered so cruelly in my stead.”

  He flinched at the slightest pressure of her touch and peered over her shoulder. “I would do anything for you, my lady.”

  “Indeed, you are brave.” She lowered her voice. “I’ve been unable to thank you. If it hadn’t been for your help with the gig, Morty and I would be dead.”

  “No one must ever know of my involvement,” he whispered, his voice thick and unsteady.

  She nodded, fully understanding that secrecy meant salvaging her reputation, what little there could be saved. “Rest assured, you would make any woman proud, Lieutenant.”

  He gazed into her eyes and held her hand in his. “Any woman?”

  “I must go,” she said, averting her gaze, refusing to answer. She had nothing to offer him. Captain Frink and Thomas Sexton had seen to that. One brutalized her into the hands of the other, and she’d willingly fallen. She turned to leave.

  “Wait,” he said, restraining her.

  Staring down at his hand, she hoped no one took note of his impropriety or had heard him.

  “I hate to interrupt so private a discussion, but I thought to ensure my name was written on Lady Constance’s card.”

  Dance card? She’d forgotten it hung limply from her wrist. She and Guffald turned to see Lord Stanton standing close by, dipping his fingers into a lion-crested silver snuff box. He dabbed the substance to his nose and inhaled until he sneezed most comically.

  “Guffald.”

  “Stanton.” Guffald nodded. “I thought you were wasting away in Tuscany, Morocco, or some such place.”

  Constance curtsied a greeting and raised a quizzical brow. Tuscany? Morocco? Those were places she had dreamed of traveling to, but her father’s proclivity for keeping her off ships prevented her from experiencing such adventurous diversions. She gazed at Stanton with more appreciative eyes. No matter what could be said of the lord, his attire or mannerisms, he excited her and, for some reason, she felt amazingly safer in his presence than with Guffald’s.

  “Odd’s fish! Good of you to remember.”

  Guffald looked anxiously back and forth from Constance to Stanton. The majestic lord dropped his gaze and focused on Constance’s arm, which the lieutenant still held.

  He cocked his brow. “I say, have I interrupted something scandalous?”

  “Nonsense,” Guffald replied, releasing her as if he’d just touched molten steel. “I was simply helping the young lady regain her strength from the dance.”

  “What a gallant lad you are! There’s more to you than a uniform, I dare say. But the lady seems quite replenished.” Turning to Constance, Stanton winked. “Shall we?” He offered his gloved hand.

  “Shall we what, my lord?”

  “Dance,” he suggested, lifting her dance card.

  Chastising herself inwardly for sounding like a parrot, Constance nodded and cast her gaze upon the lieutenant. Guffald appeared pained by the prospect of her absence, but the opportunity compelled her to prevent him from forming any further attachment to her.

  “I’m quite refreshed, Lieutenant. Thank you for your assistance.” Turning back to the fancy gentleman who wrote his name on her card, she accepted his hand and added, “I should be delighted to dance, my lord.” She briefly inclined her head.

  Stanton raised her gloved hand to his lips. His veiled eyes glistened with a hint of mischief. A shiver raced up and down her spine, tingling her all the way to her toes. She held his gaze a moment longer than seemly as he led her to the dance floor.

  “I am quite pleased my name is the first on your list. You are a diamond of the first water. Sweeter than memory serves,” he cooed.

  She went rigid. “You have me at a loss, my lord. Have we met before?”

  “On the eve of lover’s delight,” he waxed poetic, his mouth curling into a smile.

  Constance stared, bewildered, too startled by half. What was she to make of this popinjay?

  “Ah! I’m quite disconsolate. It appears you do not remember,” he said, frowning.

  Constance struggled for poise. “I must confess, you confuse me greatly, my lord.”

  He stopped near a group of couples preparing to dance. His eyes held hers longer than necessary. She was fascinated by the dark, ebony orbs glistening with strange, unrelenting hints of delightful promise. What was it about him? His entire person was arresting. And yet—

  “I shall put it to rest, then,” he said. “Do you not remember we met when I was with the baroness, my gel?” His laughter took her by surprise.

  Of course she remembered. But he’d hinted at something else, hadn’t he? “Why, of course,” she admitted, apprehension sweeping over her. “For a moment, I thought you meant—”

  “That you had conjured my dashing arrival in your dreams?”

  A tad unnerved by his reference to her dreams, she asked, “How could I when I wasn’t even aware of your existence before tonight?”

  “Odd’s fish,” he parried. “I thought every woman dreamed of a man who would sweep her off her feet.” He looked down at her feet and led her to the center of the floor. His casual inspection made her quiver with distraction, and she was thankful for the fine cream-colored silk slippers Morty had forced her to wear rather than the older, more comfortable ones she’d chosen.

  The music began.

  Step by step they moved in time. The four piece orchestra’s lilting melody and Lord Stanton’s chivalrous conduct helped Constance relax. The gentleman was a breath of fresh air, and she was definitely in want of it, especially after her encounter with Burton. She smiled thoughtfully, for a moment able to forget the true purpose of this soiree.

  “I simply adore your smile,” he whispered as he passed her to join the dancers across from her.

  “My lord—” she objected, as they circled one another.

  “I take it you do not like compliments,” he said, passing her again.

  “I—” She exchanged partners, dipped to the side, and then returned to take his hand.

  “I was under the assumption every woman adored a man who lavished compliments.”

  “It is highly improper to—”

  He passed her again, regaling her more endearments. “I say what I believe, my gel, and the knowing can be remedied.”

  He winked, thrilling her to her slippered feet. His accompanying chuckle filled her to bubbling as they stepped through the dance line and the music escalated. Stanton, in accomplished flourish, pranced forward, whisked out a graceful arm and crossed to bow to his counter partner. Step by step, he proved an accomplished dancer — fluid, impulsive, winking with mischievous pleasure whenever they passed each other. She felt alive when near him, desolate when he passed on to another dancer. What was it about the man that intrigued her? Before she could make sense of him, the dance ended, and Stanton steered her toward refreshment.

  “Shall we? I’m rather parched,” he said, grabbing her fan, opening it in front of his face, slowly closing it, and then putting the handle to his lips.

  “As am I,” she offered gaily, grabbing the accoutrement back, wondering if he could possibly know that he’d just offered to marry her and requested a kiss. She shook off the fanciful idea as he handed her a glass of effervescent liquid.

  “You are a superb d
ancer, Lady Constance. I beg you. Satisfy my curiosity. Why have I never seen you at soirees before?”

  She nearly choked. Dabbing her mouth with the napkin he quickly provided, she tried with thankful success to keep the crimson liquid from staining her gown. “My father,” she admitted, trying to hide her bitterness, “does not attend such gatherings.”

  “More’s the pity. Were I your chaperone, I would parade you all about town. Fuss and spoil you anon. Dress you in fanciful clothes with plenteous frills, furs, and lace.” He fixed his gaze on her and tsked. “Indeed, I would. That’s what women adore, isn’t it?”

  Constance dropped her gaze to inspect her attire. Her cream-colored evening gown, a cap-sleeved, round-cut design embroidered with flowers and trimmed in flowing ivy, revealed too much of her enlarging bosom, a fact made even more apparent when she gazed down at her pointed, laced slippers. In keeping with her usual preference, she wore no jewelry but her mother’s silver locket, which dangled tantalizingly into the crevice of her breasts.

  Her appraisal complete, she glanced up and found Stanton studying her. His tongue slipped out to fully taste a droplet of punch on the side of his lip. Powdered, primped for devilment, something familiar about his ill-timed maneuver set her nerves aquiver. Against her will, she caught herself wondering what his lips would taste like. She asked on a broken whisper, “Why is standing by your laurels a pity?”

  He blinked. “Your pardon?”

  “You said, ‘More’s the pity.’ Why is standing by your laurels a pity? Many people live happily outside the ton and are better for it.”

  “You misunderstand,” he hastily confessed. “I only meant ‘more’s the pity’ because our paths have not crossed before now.” He winked and then gazed into the crowd. “It would appear that you have at least one other admirer eager for your attention.”

  “So it would seem.” She breathed a sigh, trying with all her might to prevent the weight of the next few hours from ruining the moments she had with Lord Stanton.

  “Tsk. Tsk,” he whispered, turning her face this way and that with his gloved finger. “I would think having admirers would thrill a young woman of your station, but I sense no exhilaration.”

  “You misunderstand, my lord,” she said. He stood conspiratorially near, his body radiating welcome heat. She had to prevent herself from gravitating to him. “I do not like being put on display.” She wanted nothing more than to hide from the machinations of her father, and the clock tick ticking one minute to the next, bringing her closer the moment when the violinist played his last note and the announcement of her engagement was made.

  “Why the sudden interest in the social season, then?”

  “I cannot say,” she said, turning away so he wouldn’t see her mounting distress. Her heart twinged and her next breath strangled in her chest.

  “My curiosity is beyond piqued,” he said. “You have obviously been introduced to society and yet, you do not frequent social events. Why does your father dangle his jewel before us now?”

  Heaven help her. That was the question, wasn’t it? She was determined not to answer. Thankfully, as she glanced up at Stanton, she didn’t have to worry about offending the gentleman. His attention was drawn elsewhere so, her silence went unnoticed.

  “What is this?” he asked, retrieving his quizzing glass and waving it this way and that before holding it up to his eye. “Is another gentleman a jeweler in search of our gem? No,” he said, shaking his head vehemently. The act so absurdly amusing she fought to contain her laughter. “Odd’s fish. The gentleman arrowing his way toward us is no man of stamp. One simply cannot partake in noblesse oblige without a good cravat, I fear.”

  She followed the direction his quizzing glass indicated until the crowd parted and the object of his scrutiny appeared. She gasped. “Lord Burton?”

  “Is he not wealthy? Titled?” After some scrutinizing, he asked, “Can he not afford a good tailor?”

  A cold knot formed in the pit of her stomach. “Wealth and finery do not make the gentleman. A gentleman is made of more than outward appearance.”

  It was his turn to gasp. “You, my dear, are indeed a prosperous find. Dare I say I’ve met a woman who cares not about wealth, prestige, nor the preoccupations of the ton?” He raised his quizzing glass, appraising her with a cocked brow. “Odd’s fish! I’m confounded.”

  “Not without risk,” she stammered, her heart thudding in her chest. Burton was advancing, God help her. A wave of panic unlike any she’d ever experienced took hold.

  He lowered his voice so only she could hear him. “And is the risk great?” His question held more passion than she thought appropriate. Her stomach clenched. Was it that obvious that she disliked the man? If so, she’d have to tread more carefully.

  “Indeed,” she said, steeling herself for the confrontation to come.

  “How so?”

  She didn’t answer.

  The closer Burton came, the higher and more pronounced Stanton lifted his spectacle. It was odd that the marquess’ presence put her more at ease. But what surprised her even more was the fact that Stanton’s devil-may-care air tantalized her sensibilities. His graceful movements appeared spontaneous yet calculated, feminine yet strong. The man was a conundrum. A dandy and a devilish rake, if his affectionate glances were to be believed. Each time he gazed at her, her heart missed a beat. What was so strangely appealing about the marquess? What did he work so hard to hide? Constance didn’t have enough experience with men of the ton to know the difference, but if she believed her own philosophy of what made a man a gentleman, shouldn’t his nonsensical behavior be suspect?

  She had no more time to ponder the marquess’ actions, because Burton advanced, his face a mixture of arrogance and pride. She averted his gaze. He was repellent, a man adept at hiding his hideous nature behind a noble facade.

  “Will you do me the honor of introducing me to your friend?” Stanton asked.

  “That gentleman is no friend of mine,” she said without fear of expressing her opinion. Lord Stanton might be used to other women playing coy, but that was far from her abilities where Burton was concerned.

  “The look in his eye proves otherwise, my gel.”

  His words forced her to turn and regard Burton. As her father’s hostess, she couldn’t rebuff the lord publicly.

  “Lady Constance,” Burton said, forcing his way between them, “at last I have found you. He bowed. “I’d hoped to sign your dance card.”

  She curtseyed.

  Standing at least six inches shorter than the marquess, Burton turned his gaze on Stanton and glared up at the man as if his stare would rattle the other man enough to make him leave. When Lord Stanton made no effort to do so, Burton inclined his head to Constance. “I don’t believe I’ve had the honor of an introduction.”

  Constance glanced from Burton to Stanton and, receiving a confident nod from the marquess, she smiled. “Allow me to introduce you to the Marquess of Stanton, the next Duke of Blendingham.” She inclined her head to Stanton, “Lord Montgomery Burton, Baron of Burton.”

  The two lords faced each other and bowed. Then Stanton brandished his quizzing glass and whipped it out with a flourishing sweep of the arm. “I’ve been waiting eagerly for an introduction.”

  Burton’s brow rose. “And now you’ve had one.”

  Tension between the two men enveloped Constance. She couldn’t be sure of it, but she thought Stanton’s eyes narrowed during their exchange. His stance appeared more rigid than before, and he seemed to struggle with civility. But quicker than taking a deep breath, the man popped Burton under his chin with his quizzing glass, the movement sharp, unexpected.

  “I’m afraid Blendingham has never mentioned you. Had he done so, I’m sure he would have paid particular attention to your attire. Who is your tailor?” he demanded. “Certainly not Weston.”

  “My tailor?” Burton stammered, now forced into conversation with the man.

  Raising the looking glass to his ey
e, Stanton peered at Burton’s clothes and frowned. “Odd’s fish, I’ve never seen such a disgrace!”

  “Pardon me?” Burton gulped, turning three shades of red.

  “Come now. No need to get your cravat ruffled, which may be something you need to watch out for since it has most assuredly been poorly made. I have a motto, Burton. A man without a proper cravat will never resemble an aristocrat.”

  “How dare you!” Burton fumed.

  Stanton took Constance’s arm. “Come, dear. I believe I’m inked in for this dance. Besides, this gentleman, has unconscionable manners. I wouldn’t dream of letting him ruffle your voluptuous collar.” His eyes gazed appreciatively at her décolleté. Gallantly, he took her by the hand, turned her away, and then squired her to the dance floor with pomp and swagger that brought a smile to her lips.

  “Lord Stanton, you are a scoundrel,” she teased, fearful of Burton’s retaliation. “You are not on my dance card.”

  “Am I not?” He tsked. “A man is what he is,” he offered without reservation. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “And what kind of man are you?”

  “What kind of man indeed,” he said. “‘Tis a question I often ask myself.”

  “’Twould seem you are a paradox, my lord.”

  The dancers parted then do-si-doed, moving back and forth through the line until Constance and Stanton faced each other again.

  “Life is to be enjoyed, not labored in vain. Isn’t that so, Lady Constance?”

  “If one has the privilege of forgoing labor,” she quipped.

  They twirled in a circle.

  “I, for one, intend to enjoy life, not experience it as society demands.”

  “Then you are privileged.” She smiled, suddenly heated by his wandering stare, which had a way of straying to her cleavage.

  Music undulated in the air. She withdrew her eyes from his and gazed about the crowd. Burton stood impatiently at the edge of the dance floor. The lieutenant stood in the opposite corner nearest the veranda doors. She was surrounded by men. None of them were the man she wanted — Thomas. A good man desired something her father would never openly allow. Another more disagreeable choice, one her father sanctioned, desired what she would never willingly give. Now she was dancing with a man who cast her worries away with verve and finesse. If she had more time, perhaps then—