Lady Northampton remained, in the thick of it all, as elegant and cool as a statue, untouched by all but the most gracious of charm. Cold and lovely as the Snow Queen of fairy tale.
My knees were beginning to ache. I deliberately softened them as I fanned my face with my own beribboned lace fan. “If you’ll excuse us, my ladies, I was just—”
“Come, Miss St. Croix,” laughed Lady Sarah Elizabeth. “Certainly, you’ve nothing of import to do here. I daresay your usual sort of people aren’t in attendance.”
I froze, my eyes pinned on the elegantly shaped black eyebrows raised ever so knowingly above laughing blue eyes.
What did she mean by that? My sorts of people?
What did she know?
Beside me, Fanny took a step forward, her mouth set into a grim slant. “Now you see here, young lady,” she began.
“Look! Is that Mad St. Croix’s daughter?”
The whisper, once more as out of place as a discordant note in a symphony, jarred a surge of anxiety down my spine. “It’s all right, Fanny,” I murmured, my cheeks blood-red now. With anger or heat, I couldn’t be sure.
“It’s not,” Fanny said worriedly, but she was clearly torn. Righteous indignation was no shield against the vicious undercurrent of a salon already out for my blood.
Snap. The marchioness’s fan closed with a distinctive sound that I swore echoed across the full ballroom. But it wasn’t anger in her eyes as they levied first on Fanny, then on me.
It was satisfaction.
“Oh, my,” Lady Sarah Elizabeth drawled, raising her fan, half unfurled to hide her shock. “It seems the columns are quite right about you. Is all your house so unruly?”
My fist clenched against my skirt. My vision trembled with a sudden surge of rage; unlocked as if it had only slumbered beneath the thinnest of veils. “How dare—”
“Miss St. Croix, there you are!” Lady Rutledge’s delight filled the void beyond the biting question, and I watched the marchioness’s gaze flit from smug satisfaction to sheer venom.
Blue filled one end of my sight. I curtsied as proper, Fanny echoing the gesture, and managed, “Lady Rutledge.”
The woman smiled at me, the fleshy pads of her cheeks raised high and pure mischief sparking in her gaze, now painted bluer by the shade of her gown. That impishness, so out of expectation for a woman of her stature and girth, turned to the marchioness. “Almira, always a delight. I should have known I’d find you cornering our Miss St. Croix for yourself. A treasure, is she not?”
Five sets of eyes pinned on me in mute surprise. One, pale green jade, hardened. “Euphemia,” the marchioness murmured in chilly acknowledgment.
Lady Sarah Elizabeth covered her lips as she tittered a lyrical note of dismissive humor. “Surely, you jest, my lady. Why, she is barely cognizant of what patience these tolerant souls must invoke in her presence.”
My teeth clenched. Yet before I could spit the sharp rejoinder fully formed on my tongue, Lady Rutledge laced her arm through my one free elbow and looked down at Lady Sarah Elizabeth from her much taller stature. “I am very well acquainted with your mother, Peashoot. I suggest you keep a civil tongue in your head before she decides you’re a year too soon for marriage.”
The lady paled.
“Oh, dear me!” Lady Rutledge raised her fan to her mouth, in direct mimicry of the lady before her, and laughed in abashed apology. “Did I let slip your pet name? Forgive me, my dear, it is rather darling, isn’t it?”
“Peashoot?” repeated a man’s voice from somewhere in the certainly not eavesdropping crowd beyond us.
The milk-white glow of the lady’s cheeks filled with sudden color.
“Now,” Lady Rutledge continued jovially, “please forgive my terrible manners, for I simply must claim Miss St. Croix and her chaperone. Ta!”
With little chance for thought or farewell, I found myself tugged through the throng of idle speculation, Fanny at my side both red-faced and gasping.
I did not realize until we stopped that she held back laughter, not anger. “Did you see her expression?”
Lady Rutledge smiled upon my dear friend with graciously mirrored amusement. “Mrs. Fortescue, you are an admirable champion, but I know you must be eager to visit with your friends.”
“Now, wait just a moment,” I interjected, but to no avail.
Lady Rutledge spoke over me as if I did not exist. “Would you proffer to leave your charge in my care? I shall take excellent care of her.”
Fanny pressed my hand between hers, her eyes bright, and nodded to the lady. “Thank you, my lady.”
Lady Rutledge watched my chaperone move to the cluster of more somberly gowned matrons at the far end of the ballroom before turning her smile upon me. “That was bracing. Stand up straight, girl, you look like you’ve lost a battle.”
“I did not come here for warfare,” I pointed out irritably.
Her laughter earned curious eyes. “Then you have come to the wrong soiree. All such matters are a battle, Miss St. Croix, the question is what weapons are you willing to bring to bear?”
“I’ve no weapons at my disposal,” I said, “only uncertain allies.”
“Good. You learn quickly.” She patted her unnaturally dark hair into place, one gloved finger easing a sapphire into a more tenable hold. She scanned the crowd as she did. “I have championed you tonight. That will mean something.”
I was uncomfortably aware of that. And of what felt uneasily like a debt forming between us.
“Ah!” She laid a large hand on my shoulder, preventing me from turning, and winked at me. “And here, your latest weapon in what I expect shall become an extremely effective arsenal, indeed.”
“What?” But I received no answer, only a widened smile, a sweep of blue fabric pooling to the floor as Lady Rutledge eased into a curtsy that placed her head roughly level with mine.
I was aware of a sudden vacuum of silence behind me. Though music played, and conversation continued, it was as if there were a wall between this unlikely moment and the rest of the ballroom.
I turned slowly.
Steel green eyes met mine. And twinkled. “Miss St. Croix,” Earl Compton said, the greeting of my name like something whispered, something sweet and warm in his educated tenor.
I fancied he’d have a lovely singing voice.
Lady Rutledge sighed behind me. “Manners, girl.”
“Oh.” A vapid syllable, one I desperately attempted to hide as I curtsied. When I rose again, my stomach left the place it normally occupied and surged upward instead. Into my chest, where my heart beat like a drum gone manic and wild. “M-my lord.”
He bowed smartly. “My lady,” he said to Lady Rutledge, who waved her fan like a flirtatious girl half her age. “Might I beg a dance of your charge?”
“By all means,” she trilled, ridiculous in her mature voice. I stared at her blankly. “Go on, then. And close your mouth,” she added, tapping my wrist with her fan.
Face burning, lungs constricted, I glanced guiltily at the earl I’d been avoiding since his return—at the earl who had avoided me since his departure—and could not for the life of me remember what to do next.
His hand, held steadily, palm upraised, did not waver. “I shall return you safe to your chaperone,” he said, not unkindly. “You have my word.”
“Oh, for the love of all,” Lady Rutledge sighed, and turned in a whirl of petticoats and sapphire blue. Her elbow jabbed into my wounded shoulder, an accident to any who might call the bluff; I sucked in a breath, staggered a step and found my hand firmly clasped in that of Cornelius Kerrigan Compton.
The eldest son of my rigorously avowed arch-nemesis.
Chapter Eleven
Among the studies Fanny did not approve of, I had also been tutored in all the ones she did. Fortunately—and I had never been so grateful as now for it—I knew the dances of Society.
Earl Compton led me to the floor, and it was as if the crowd parted like magic. Whispers followe
d us, many speculative. Some unkind.
He did not deign to acknowledge them, and so I kept my head high, yet I was sure I blushed from forehead to navel by the time he guided me into step.
Thank God we had no immediate opportunity to converse. We broke into groups of four couples. The ladies circled each other, hands together in the center like a pinwheel, as the men walked clockwise in the opposite direction around us. I vainly attempted to collect my thoughts, to gather the scattered remains of my intellect from wherever dark corner it hid, but as we broke apart, glided hand over hand from partner to partner, I met his gaze from across the circle and forgot even why I’d avoided him.
Of course, it came back to me as our hands clasped in the dance, and we turned as a pair into the steps.
The man was a snake. Not nearly as obvious about it as Micajah Hawke, but just as oily. Why else would he visit opium dens in the dead of night? To say nothing of his departure while I’d been “ill,” recovering from my foray with my father’s alchemical concoction.
“You had me concerned,” he said by way of greeting. His voice washed over me again; a power within its own right, I decided. What was it about the Eton polish that brought to mind pleasant days of discourse? Of company kept and intelligent conversation pursued.
“Did I?” The question came archly.
His mouth, framed beneath a neatly clipped mustache the same color as his artfully styled sandy hair, twitched. A faint flick at the corners; as near to a smile as I expected from him while gossips watched.
“Rather. I was not sure to ever see you again, were it left to your choice. I imagine you are upset,” he said carefully. His posture as he guided me from turn to turn was perfectly aligned; I had merely learned the steps, he executed them flawlessly. So well, in fact, that my occasional misstep went all but unnoticed with his own masterful reinforcement.
“Why would I be upset, my lord?” I asked sweetly. “You are a grown man—” A faint flinch about the eyes, tipped with lashes darker at the base than at the length. “—and you owe nothing to me.”
“That is not entirely correct.”
“Which?” I turned, arm outstretched, and allowed him to promenade me as the other couples moved in step. When we came together again, his hand solid at my waist, I added, “Are you not a grown man or do you consider yourself answerable to any common girl of your acquaintance?”
A touch of censure shaped his handsome features. “That is hardly fair, Miss St. Croix.”
I looked away, focusing my gaze instead on the fine fit of his formal attire. His black trousers, black tailcoat and white shirt were, as ever, beyond fashionable. No one would ever find fault with the way he wore formal attire on the dance floor. His bow tie was white, impeccably starched, his gloves also white.
I’d always considered him attractive. With a fine bloodline like his, he bore the features of aristocracy well. His nose was, like his mother’s, noble, his jaw etched with a fine grain. Any artist of stone or paint—Lord Pennington’s mother-in-law included—would have been pleased to retain the earl as a subject.
As silence enfolded us, the dance drew to a close. He bowed, I curtsied. Requirements of the event complete.
But rather than return me to the arm of my chaperone—either chaperone, for that matter—he once more took my hand as music soared.
I could all but feel the nearly palpable clamor of a collective indrawn breath.
We were being watched. And how.
This, a waltz, afforded me no chance to demur, and plenty of opportunity to glance at the crowd beyond the dance floor. Eyes raked over me, over the earl, some in surprise and many in envy or dismay.
When I lifted my gaze to the earl’s, they remained on me. My throat dried. “My lord?”
“I have precious little opportunity to make clear my intentions,” he said, his voice a low, almost too intimate pitch. My breath caught somewhere in my stays. “You are rather difficult to invite out, and somewhat headstrong when you believe you are wronged.”
“Am I?” A squeak, caught on a gasp as he whirled me expertly through the graceful waltz.
“Wronged?” No sign of mockery in him as I stared up at him. “I believe so. I owe you another apology, Miss St. Croix.”
It was quite possible that I would faint on that floor. My heart kicked inside my chest, my breath came in shallow pants. I struggled to maintain composure, even as the color of dozens of gowns swirled by me in a bleeding rainbow.
But I was stubborn. “Why?”
The hand at my waist tightened. Possession? Or support, I wondered as we stepped into another lovely turn. The music painted the ballroom in a sudden shimmering net of lyrical notes.
“A family matter demanded my attention,” he explained, a small frown touching the corner of his mouth now. “I would be humbly grateful if you did not share such confidences beyond this dance.”
I found myself nodding, even as I wondered if such family matters included his younger brother, Piers Everard Compton, or were something to do with the opium the earl partook of.
I could not ask. It would be rude, and none of my concern, besides.
“You said you had no opportunity to state your intentions,” I said, frowning in thought. “What intentions, my lord, could you have with a mad doctor’s daughter?”
The strains of the waltz flittered through my words, and this time, I would swear the smile that almost shaped his mouth gleamed like something warm and beckoning inside the ever so rigid confines of propriety.
I could fall into eyes of jade.
Fall, and like as not return scarred for the landing.
“I shall call upon you soon,” he told me.
My eyes widened. Call upon me?
Intentions?
Impossible.
“Then,” he continued as his fingers gripped mine with care, “I shall send a letter to your guardian. Mr. Ashmore is not expected to return in the near future, am I correct?”
“My lord,” I stuttered, and was forced to take a breath, straining against the unyielding band of my corset. Stars winked in the corners of my eyes; a sea of color, light and motion. “My lord,” I repeated, much more firmly, “certainly there must be at least a dozen females more suited to your needs.”
“Likely,” he replied, as quick and smooth a rejoinder as expected of the clever earl, “yet none half so engaging.”
“But I am not well liked by—” I hesitated, quickly amended it to, “That is, much of Society sees me as not worth the effort. Other ladies are of your station, my lord.”
This time, he smiled. A quick, endearing thing that flashed a touch of even white teeth. “A little polish, Miss St. Croix, and there could be no fault found.”
What? Polish? I only just kept myself from frowning, but before I could inquire as to his meaning, the music died away, and the earl’s fingers tightened briefly on mine. “Would that I could claim another dance,” he said.
A third dance was as a scandal not easily repaired, and as good a declaration of engagement besides.
Before I had any thought as to the repercussions, I jerked my hand from his. Smoothed the faux pas quickly by gathering my skirts and delivering a polite curtsy. “You are kind,” I said, if not smoothly, then at least with enough emphasis to mend the startled raise of his eyebrows. “Although I am quite positive you jest. Surely, you’ve no desire to tempt the gossip mill this night.” At least, no more than he already had by claiming the two dances.
He, ever the gentleman, inclined his upper body in a bow. Gracious, though that damnable smile lurked at his lips. “Very wise. I approve, of course. I shall return you to your chaperone,” he told me, “as promised.”
Much better that he did. I followed his lead as he tucked my hand through his arm and guided me back to where Fanny waited with Lady Rutledge, holding her own colorful court.
“I give her back to your safekeeping,” he said to my beaming chaperone. “Mrs. Fortescue, are you and Miss St. Croix available for a lu
ncheon tomorrow?”
Her eyes widened, practically saucers of delight. “We shall be ever so pleased,” she gushed, ignoring my frantic, emphatic stares.
I restrained a sigh.
He turned to me, pressed my palm fervently with his gloved fingers; my heart lurched. Pleasure?
In some part. It was . . . pleasant to have such ardent interest, even if only for a moment.
“The pleasure of the dance, Miss St. Croix, was certainly mine.”
“My lord,” I replied carefully, and watched the set of his lean shoulders vanish once more into the throng.
“Oh, my dove,” Fanny cooed. “Luncheon!” She said the word as if the word marriage had somehow been redefined by the fine minds at Oxford and categorized under the letter L.
Oh, I repeated silently, closing my eyes. Bollocks.
I could not make my escape fast enough. Scandal and gossip would follow if I left too soon, but I could only tolerate a handful of hours spent dodging the marchioness’s venom, the earl’s studied interest and my own chaperone’s unwavering delight before folding in upon myself like a house of bent cards.
We left early because I insisted upon a headache; not entirely a false line. My head throbbed steadily in counter to my own heartbeat, a constant thrum of pressure beneath my severely pinned hair. I wanted nothing more than to tear the mass of pins out and rub my scalp in peace.
I closed my eyes in the gondola. I must have appeared as pinched as I felt, for Fanny made nonsensical sounds of sympathy, patted my hand and left me in relative peace.
She like as not suspected me overwhelmed with the earl’s attentions. She was wrong.
Yet I could not flee my own thoughts as neatly.
Intentions. What nerve! What gall to assume that such attentions from Compton were to be at all received, much less with any certainty of approval. I had made my position clear, over and over again until I was blue in the face. What use did I have for marriage?
Such an institution would see me shackled to a husband and stripped of all freedoms. My fortunes, my desires, my very name to be bound forever to a man who would look no farther than his own puffed-up sense of duty.
Gilded: The St. Croix Chronicles Page 14