by Liz Carlyle
She had tried to convince herself that person was Johnny. But nowadays, when she was alone with what was left of her dreams, Frederica could admit that even in Johnny she had been willing to settle. His chief attraction had been his familiarity. He was the boy next door. A simple country squire. And all of those things had seemed safe, secure, and ordinary. It had all been a façade, of course. But only after Bentley Rutledge had blown her grand plans off their hinges had she grasped that fact.
Certainly she could not love such a scoundrel as he! After all, he met none of her criteria. He was not secure. He was not safe. He certainly was not ordinary. And if he had cared for her one whit, he would never have run off without so much as a fare-thee-well! And on that thought, for some reason, Frederica burst into tears again. Good God, ever since that night with him, she’d been a mindless, spineless watering pot. And she wished—oh, how she wished—she could strangle him for it.
“There, there, now,” murmured Evie, rocking her gently back and forth, as if she were four years old and homeless again. “It will all work out, Freddie. It will. Just trust me, love.”
By design, Bentley arrived at Strath House quite late on Friday evening. Already, a ring of carriages lined the circular driveway, and a few of the more staid guests were beginning to trickle down the front stairs. True to his word, Kemble had rigged Bentley out in a fine style. Jean-Claude, the haughty salesclerk, had pronounced him tres soigné and tried to pat him on the arse. But Bentley just smiled, gave him the slip, and dashed off to Richmond wearing an evening coat and matching breeches in a color Kem called deep twilight, which Bentley reckoned was just an overblown word for bluish-black. The waistcoat was made of pale gold silk, like the color of good champagne, and on the whole, he thought he looked quite presentable, though the new shirt itched a bit, and his stockings left him with no place to hide a knife. Ah, well. That was a temptation best left at home, anyway.
At the end of the carriage drive, he tossed his cloak and top hat into his curricle, and when Rannoch’s footman turned his back, Bentley ambled off into the darkness. He’d no wish to be announced. Not until he knew which way the wind blew. Behind the house near the river, all lay in darkness, the soft slosh-slosh of the Thames barely audible above the laughter and music. As expected, the rear doors of the ballroom had been thrown wide.
Still, the weather was chilly, even for spring, and few guests had ventured from the ballroom onto the veranda. It was a simple matter to vault over the low stone wall and make his way through the gardens. The ballroom was full, but it was not a crush. Through the doors which gave onto the adjoining drawing room, he could see Lady Rannoch standing with her husband as they greeted guests.
Gus and Theo Weyden lingered in one corner. The musicians had struck up a lively country dance, and Theo was leading Zoë Armstrong onto the floor. Gus stood near his mother, who was obviously gossiping with her bosom-beau, Lady Bland, a lush, dark-haired widow whose age was as uncertain as her morals. Normally, she was just Bentley’s type, but tonight, she stirred no interest.
Instead, he began to make his way around the fringe of the crowd, his eyes raking the room for any sign of Freddie. This, despite the fact that he did not even know what he meant to say to her if he found her. What he wanted to do was snatch her up by the scruff of the neck, give her a little shake, then kiss her senseless, but he was fairly sure that was not at all the thing.
Indeed, when he let himself think about it, the entire situation bewildered him. The need to talk to Freddie, to touch her again—not in any sexual way but in a way he could not explain—was beginning to disturb his sleep. To counter it, he’d taken to prowling the pubs and hells of London until dawn. Sometimes, he didn’t sleep at all. It was not unusual. He’d lived that way for much of his life, carousing for nights on end, then crashing into bed for a two-day recuperation. But this time, it was not the past which drove him.
Once his initial rage at being spurned had died down, he had told himself that he was simply concerned for Frederica. That he had a certain responsibility to her. And that was true. But he had the oddest notion that if he could just stare into her eyes, if he could just feel the warmth of her skin and the throb of her pulse beneath his fingertips, then he would somehow understand why she was doing this.
By the time the last strains of the music died away, he had casually made his way around the whole of the ballroom without sighting his quarry. The dancers were flooding from the floor now, and just a few feet away, Theo was returning with Zoë. Then Gus and Theo left, headed for the card room, no doubt. Throughout the cavernous chamber, the buzz of conversation swelled to fill the void left by the music, but the musicians quickly struck up again. Winnie Weyden returned to her conversation with Lady Bland, leaving Zoë to stand on her tiptoes, casting an expectant gaze about the crowd.
Bentley seized the moment and approached. “Miss Armstrong?”
Zoë whirled about, her eyes flaring wide as saucers.
Bentley offered his arm. “Might I have the honor?”
For a moment, she was speechless, a rare circumstance indeed. “Oh, hullo, Rutledge!” she finally managed. “Frightfully sorry, but this one’s promised to—”
Bentley laid a finger to her lips and winked. “Ah, perhaps!” he whispered. “But the poor devil isn’t here, is he?”
Zoë seemed to consider his offer, then, like a sudden burst of sun, her mischievous smile returned. “Do you know, Rutledge,” she said, “I have always thought you wise beyond your years.” And without a word to Mrs. Weyden, who was still chatting, Zoë took his arm.
Then a harrowing thought struck. “You have permission to waltz, I hope?”
Zoë’s eyes flashed with laughter. “More or less!”
“Zoë—!” he said warningly.
“Oh, don’t worry! Tonight I’m on my best behavior.”
Bentley set one hand at her waist, careful to keep a decent distance as he swept her onto the floor. Zoë was a delicate, elfin creature with raven hair and soulful brown eyes. But those eyes were deceptive, for there was nothing soulful about her. Though the chit was adopted, everyone knew she was Rannoch’s. It was said her mother had been an expensive French courtesan, and Bentley didn’t doubt it. Zoë was a minx in the making—a vixen, a scamp, and pure, unpredictable trouble. He almost felt sorry for Rannoch.
“How beautifully you waltz, Rutledge,” said Zoë with a sly grin. “And such elegant attire. Another decade or two, and they might have to let you into the Athenaeum.”
He could not miss her good-natured sarcasm. The Athenaeum was a club which admitted only the staid and the scholarly. Bentley frowned down at her. “Dash it, Zoë. I do have a few graces.”
As the other couples swirled about them, Zoë tipped back her head and laughed. “Aunt Winnie says you are a wicked rake with rough edges,” she said. “But tonight you look quite civilized, really. Still, I prefer you in your boots and that long duster. They make you look just a little dangerous. And ladies, you know, think dangerous even better than dashing.”
Lightly, he lifted one brow. “I was not aware of that, Zoë,” he murmured. “Perhaps I ought to invest in an eye patch and a scimitar? I fancy I could even learn to clutch the blade between my teeth. After all, a man has an image to maintain.”
Zoë began to giggle in a most unladylike fashion. “You can always make me laugh, Rutledge,” she said as he steered her past another couple. “But I’ll confess I’m shocked to see you here.”
“I’ll just bet you are,” he said dryly. “I don’t ordinarily accept your family’s formal invitations. But tonight I couldn’t resist.”
“Ah!” Zoë drew her brows into a pensive knot. “I daresay those invitations went out some weeks past.”
“So they did,” he agreed. “Why? Am I suddenly de trop?”
Zoë lost a little of her color. “Oh, indeed not!” she murmured. “N-not on my part.”
Bentley had not missed her ambiguity. But Zoë was still chattering nervously. �
��Besides, it is my come-out ball, is it not? And I am glad that you are here. Until now, the evening had been wretchedly ordinary, but I somehow suspect you shall find a way to enliven it.”
“Miss Armstrong, your intimation shocks me,” he said with mock gravity. “I mean to be the very soul of propriety.”
“Do you?” Zoë batted her eyelashes coquettishly. “I wonder why I cannot entirely believe that.”
“I have no notion,” he said quietly. “Is there some reason I ought not?”
Zoë chewed at her lip, never missing a step. “Propriety,” she finally said, “can be a vastly overrated virtue, if you ask me. Sometimes a person must take matters into their own hands and throw society’s strictures to the wind.”
Bentley swept her gracefully into the next turn. “Why is it, Zoë, that I begin to suspect that you, too, are wise beyond your years?”
The mischievous smile curved her mouth again, and for a moment, they danced in silence. “Have you seen Freddie tonight, Rutledge?” she asked, as if changing the subject.
Bentley felt a bitter smile tug at his mouth. “I have not,” he said quietly. “Though I should very much like to.”
“Oh, I thought you might,” confessed Zoë airily. “But she almost didn’t come down. She’s been a bit faintish lately, which is very odd, don’t you think? Still, she’s looking quite splendid in her mama’s pearls and her favorite ruby gown. Madame Germaine even had to let the bodice out.”
“Really?” Bentley felt his face flush.
But Zoë was still prattling. “Isn’t that frightfully unfair when I am thin as a rail and stuck in this dratted white lace, and Freddie is rounding out so nicely? Anyway, she finally went upstairs to hide from that awful Johnny Ellows. He’s gone now, but he’d been making a dreadful nuisance of himself.”
“Had he indeed?” Bentley managed.
Zoë nodded innocently. “Freddie’s bedchamber is on the third floor, but she sneaked up the gallery stairs, so she’ll eventually return that way, don’t you think?” she remarked, staring up into the vaulted ballroom. “You’ll notice the doorway to the stairs set in that stone arch below the minstrel’s bay. Every level is interconnected, you see. Isn’t classical architecture interesting?”
“Why, I begin to find it perfectly fascinating,” murmured Bentley.
Just then, the music ended, and Bentley escorted Zoë back across the ballroom. Lady Bland had melted into the tide of dancers, and Mrs. Weyden’s icy gaze had zeroed in on Bentley. Even worse, in the distance, Bentley could see Rannoch pushing his way through the crowd, his rage almost palpable. But why? Because Bentley had danced with his daughter? That made no sense. Had Freddie confessed? No, were that the case, they would have come knocking on his door long before now.
But never one to be intimidated, Bentley bowed and lifted Zoë’s hand quite deliberately to his lips. “Miss Armstrong,” he murmured, holding her eyes intently. “I shall look greatly forward to seeing you again. Your lecture on classical architecture was nothing short of inspiring.”
On his way out, several gentlemen, including Lord Robert Rowland, greeted Bentley convivially. Others stared, no doubt because he was so rarely seen in polite society. And a few had the audacity to whisper behind their hands. But Bentley had never given a tinker’s damn for the opinions of others, not even Rannoch’s. Besides, he’d stripped more than a few of those fine fellows of a small fortune and would likely strip the rest of them before all was said and done.
It was a matter of simple subterfuge to leave the house and then reenter the ballroom near the gallery stairs. He slipped unnoticed through the door Zoë had pointed out, bounded up two flights of steps, and came out on the balcony which encircled the dance floor.
Tonight the gallery was unlit, indicating that it was not open to guests. What seemed like a thousand candles burned in the chandeliers which now hung below him, casting eerie, flickering shadows along the balustrade. Leaning over, Bentley looked down into the minstrel’s bay and watched the violinists draw their bows in perfect synchronization. In the ballroom below, the dancers swirled in a rainbow of hues, working through the steps of a country dance. Cloaked in the gloom above, Bentley could see and not be seen.
He found that oddly pleasing. Life along the shadowy edges of society had always suited him best. He stepped back from the balustrade and went along the gallery until he found the passageway to the main staircase. Then he paced back a few feet, slid behind a marble column, and began his vigil. He suspected Zoë Armstrong had been sending him some sort of message amidst all her banter. He only hoped he’d understood it.
Apparently, he had. In a matter of minutes, a flash of ruby silk floated across the landing and turned down the darkened corridor. Bentley moved as if to step from behind the column, but at the last instant, he froze. He recognized Frederica’s tense whisper and strained to make out the words.
A masculine voice responded. “But how can you do this to me, Freddie?” he complained. “I’ve arranged everything! Even Papa has come round.”
Bentley could hear their soft footfalls coming down the last flight of stairs. “Take your hand off my arm,” Frederica hissed. “Life is not so simple, Johnny, as you make it out.”
Abruptly, the footsteps stopped, mere inches from Bentley’s hiding place. “Oh, you’re bitter now, but I swear I’ll make you forget that,” whispered Johnny hotly. “I swear it. Just let me—”
Bentley heard a soft, strangled gasp. “Why, how dare you!” Frederica cried.
His every muscle suddenly jolting, Bentley lunged. Seizing Johnny Ellows’s coat collar in one fist, he jerked the lad off his feet and gave him a shake which rattled his teeth. Slinging his victim aside, Bentley looked at Frederica. Even in the gloom, he could see her eyes flared wide with alarm.
“Hello, Freddie,” he said quietly. “Careful in the dark, love. Remember, you never know who you might run into.”
But Ellows had staggered to his feet. “See here, Rutledge,” he growled, planting one hand on Frederica’s shoulder. “This is none of your concern.”
Gently, Bentley lifted his hand away. “I’m afraid, Johnny boy, that I’ve just made it my concern.” His voice was lethally soft. “Touch her again without her express request, and the next thing you’ll be touching is the trigger on a dueling pistol. And if those clever Cambridge dons of yours gave you any grasp of ballistics, physics, or the laws of probability, then you’ll be pissing down your leg and praying to your maker when you do it. Because I don’t miss. Now, take that bit of wisdom back to Essex, and stuff it up your priggish papa’s arse.”
Ellows’s face had gone white. Anxiously, he looked from Bentley to Frederica and back again. Then, muttering a curse under his breath, the young man scuttled away.
Bentley waited for Frederica’s expression of gratitude, but none came. Instead, she tried to slip away. Bentley caught her elbow. “Whoa, Freddie.” Their bodies were just inches apart. “Going somewhere?”
Her expression froze. “None of your business, Rutledge,” she coolly answered. “And I appreciate your help, but I can manage Johnny.”
Her indifference was like a slap in the face. On a stab of anger, Bentley yanked her hard against him. “Can you, now, sweetheart?” he growled into her ear. “I’m awfully glad to hear it.”
He felt a moment of panic course through her. She tried to wrench away. Ruthlessly, he tightened his grip. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this.
“Let go of my arm!” she snapped. “Why can’t people leave me alone? Why are you even here?”
His anger ratcheted sharply upward. “Maybe I’ve come to kiss the bride, Freddie.”
“Are you and Johnny both run mad?” she hissed. “Get out, before you’re seen.”
“How the warmth of your welcome touches me, Freddie.” His voice was a cold whisper. “Are you this hospitable to all your invited guests?”
Frederica tried to look disdainful as her eyes swept over Bentley Rutledge. But more
than six feet of accursedly handsome and thoroughly outraged male glowered back. And this male would not be so easily dispatched as the last. “You w-were invited?” she stammered. “There must be some mistake.”
Rutledge cocked one of his arrogant eyebrows. “Now, why is it, Freddie, I begin to wonder if someone forgot to scrape the “rough edges” off Rannoch’s guest list?” His hand tightened on her elbow. “What a bloody shame. Does that mean I won’t be invited to the wedding?”
Frederica’s heart leapt into her throat. “No—I m-mean yes.” In the face of his fury, all rational thought was fleeing.
“By the way, Freddie, what was that date?” he gritted. “I’d like to get you penciled into my social calendar—assuming I can wedge the happy nuptials in between my rampant bacchanalia and my debauching of virgins.”
“Bentley, please!” Too late, Frederica realized she sounded desperate. “I cannot be seen talking to you. Don’t you realize that?”
His hard, sour smile taunted her. “Now, that’s a strange one, Freddie. I mean, we’re such old friends. And you were more than cordial last time we ran into one another.”
“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “Why are you doing this?”
His eyes glittered maliciously. “Well, now, I’m not perfectly sure, Freddie. Maybe I don’t have anything better to do than waste an evening with people who are overdressed, overfed, and overly self-important. Or maybe I’m just trying to understand how a woman can make such passionate love with me one day, then marry someone else the next. Yes, by Jove. I think that was it.”
Frederica turned her face from his. “Please just go, Bentley. What we did was a dreadful mistake.”
“By God, it was no mistake!” he growled. “We did it quite deliberately.”
“Please.” Her voice trembled. “I’m begging you. Don’t make trouble.”
“Then answer me, damn it!” He seized her chin and jerked her eyes back to his. “Tell me, how could a woman do that—do it twice, actually—then turn around and announce her betrothal to someone I never heard of? Perhaps you could explain? And if you can, why, I’ll leave on your next breath.”