by Beverley, Jo
The honey-brown hair was now impeccably barbered, and his dark evening clothes were in the latest style, but she recognized those blue-gray eyes in that tanned face, even though they were now fixed on her coldly.
“The Gilded Aphrodite, I believe,” he said.
She flicked open her fan in defense. “Please, sir, if I must be a goddess, let it at least be a golden one.”
“Appropriate, Miss Potter, given the size of your dowry.”
“Which you know because you consulted a list of the largest dowries available and then lurked near my home. A despicable hunt, wouldn’t you say?”
“Gold endures whilst other attributes crumble.” She was about to let loose another cutting comment when he looked her over. “Quite a transformation, ma’am.”
The wretch! She looked him over in exactly the same way. “Are you in any position to complain of it, sir? You were dressed simply in Winsom’s.”
“I had a reason. Had you?”
“Yes!” She took a steadying breath. “Given that you’re after my fortune, sir, I’d have expected at least an attempt at courtesy.”
“I assure you, Miss Potter, I have no designs on your thirty thousand pounds.”
“When you know the exact sum?” Beneath her sneer, she was hurt. She didn’t want to marry him, but hadn’t expected to be dismissed like a leaf stuck to his shoe. “I can’t imagine why you’re being so unpleasant, sir, but I’ll take my leave.” She paused at the door and turned back. “In courtesy, I suppose I must thank you for preventing an embarrassment.”
“You see men risking death over you as merely embarrassing?”
Lucy’s cheeks were flaming and she hated it. The heat was fury, but he might see it as shame. “Dueling is ridiculous. Such madness should have died with the periwig.”
“Or ladies should resist dressing in a way designed to drive men mad.”
“By that argument gentlemen should wear smocks and gaiters. As I suppose you do, when tramping your boggy acres!”
His lips twitched, and a dangerous brightness flickered in his eyes.
She fled.
Jeremy was hovering outside, open-mouthed. She grabbed his sleeve and steered him back toward the ballroom. “Why didn’t you tell me someone else was involved?”
“I didn’t. . . . He wasn’t. . . . Who was he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sounded as if you knew him.”
“Nonsense, and you’re not to speak of this, Jeremy. Mind my words.”
“Don’t know why my mother and sister think you’re such a sweet little thing,” he muttered.
Oh, Lord.
She’d smashed Silly Lucinda to smithereens. She could only hope Jeremy would put her lapse down to temporary insanity.
* * *
David watched Miss Lucinda Potter leave, banners flying, taking his hopes and plans with her.
He’d intervened because those idiots were about to make a scandal of the lady he already considered his. When someone had burst in he’d registered only glittering gold. When he’d finally seen that it was the lady from the bookshop, he’d been shocked into anger.
She accused him of deception? Why had she been in that bookshop dressed like an impoverished dowd? Why was she now trying to convince the world she was a feather-witted chit? She was bold, clever, and apparently devious to the bone.
Nicholas Delaney walked in. David noted crossly that he was allowed to wear evening clothes that were comfortably years out of date.
“I heard there was a contretemps,” Nicholas said.
“Is the story burning through the place already?”
“Only some wisps of smoke, already being smothered. Miss Potter?”
“Two young idiots coming to pistols over her.”
“I doubt Outram and Stevenhope are any younger than you.”
“They acted it.”
“Did your intervention help or harm your cause?”
“Killed it. It won’t do.”
“Why not?”
“She’s sharp as a thorn and blunt as a cudgel.”
“Brings to mind a spiked mace. How are your hopes dead?”
“Would you marry a spiked mace?”
Nicholas’s lips twitched. “Eleanor wouldn’t like the description, but quite possibly. There’s nothing amiss with a forceful wife.”
“Is there not? You know my requirements. Miss Potter wouldn’t miss an ant on the floor, never mind a husband oddly missing on moonless nights. And once she knew, she’d wield that cudgel.”
“Rather extreme for an ant. I keep telling Eleanor that she should create a Society of Lady Viragos. Miss Potter sounds like a prime candidate.”
“It’s no laughing matter. She’s an ardent opponent of smuggling.”
“You discussed that?” David could see all kinds of speculation on his friend’s face. When he didn’t respond, Nicholas said, “Back to the ballroom with you. You need to scotch any rumors and pursue other honey pots. Lady Maud Emberley is present and doubtless available to dance.”
David had already seen poor Lady Maud, seated beside her grim mother, looking as if her mind was completely vacant. He felt a strong desire to punch Nicholas Delaney in the nose.
* * *
When Lucy approached the ballroom, Outram pounced.
“I am most terribly sorry, Miss Potter. Got carried away by my ardent devotion.”
Remember Silly Lucinda.
“You distressed me most terribly, Sir Mallory. I have rejected your offer and must beg you to respect my decision.”
“You must marry someone, Miss Potter. Why not me?”
“You know we would not suit.” When Outram looked ready to persist, she held up a hand and murmured, “Please,” in a manner worthy of the most distressed heroine. “There are many young ladies here who are more worthy than I. Ladies who’d walk on air if you asked them to dance.”
“But it’s you I love!” he declared, grabbing her hand.
“It cannot be!” she exclaimed, snatching it free and escaping, aware of people nearby sniggering.
“Outram’s not too bad a fellow,” Jeremy said.
She unclenched her hands before she ruined her fan. “I don’t love him. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“He wouldn’t mind. Needs to marry money. Pockets to let.”
She was saved by Lord Stevenhope stepping into her path, if “saved” was the right word.
He took his poetic stance.
My Aphrodite, here I stand to make my plea.
If you desire I will do so on my knee.
If I transgressed, ’twas only from my heart,
Compelled to blood by my desperate lover’s part.
Lucy heard someone choke on a laugh.
When Stevenhope reached for her hand she stepped out of reach. “Please, my lord, your behavior distressed me greatly. I fear I was to blame.”
Instead of protesting, he nodded. “There is perhaps a flightiness in you, Miss Potter. I’ll say no more for now except, be mine!”
Lucy would have loved to vent every angry thought in her mind on him, but instead she turned her head away, letting it droop a little on her neck—an action she’d noted in other young ladies and which seemed to signal admired spinelessness. Hesitant breathiness worked, too.
“I must ask you to desist, my lord. . . . Perhaps in time . . .” She went all the way and put a hand to her head. “But you must not press me now. . . .”
It worked. He spoke in a hushed tone. “I understand you, my goddess. Your frailty becomes you. I will compose a sonnet in its honor.”
He bowed, retreating as he did so, as if she were royalty. Lucy struggled with giggles, bringing up her fan as concealment, but the amusement of others killed any urge to laugh. Her suitors’ behavior would be on everyone’s lips, but some of the sniggering would spread to her.
Worse, their apologies would have everyone wondering about the offense. That could lead to gossip about the duel, and like the Winsom man, the t
on would decide it was all her fault.
For being pretty.
For having a rich father.
For sporting a low bodice.
For breathing!
A convent in Italy was beginning to appeal. The wilderness of Canada might be even better. She couldn’t endure the speculating eyes and hurried in search of the ladies’ room. There must be one somewhere and she could hide.
Clara caught up with her. “You can’t run away, Lucinda. Will they be out at dawn?”
“Is Jeremy blabbing it all over?”
“He only told me. But I think Outram said something. You look upset.”
“Of course I’m upset! How can everything become tangled so quickly?”
“Perhaps a fairy’s taken a hand, like Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
“I certainly feel like poor Helena, bewildered recipient of unwelcome devotion.”
“Jeremy said you marched in on the duelers like a battleship.”
Lucy wanted to protest the scrambled metaphors, but she was more concerned with what Clara made of her scrambled personality.
“I get overly bold when angry.”
Clara giggled, not apparently making much of anything. “I wish I’d seen it! But all the devotion can’t be unwelcome when you seek a husband.”
“I’m waiting for true love,” Lucy declared grimly.
“Of course, but how will you find it if you don’t allow men to pay court?”
It was a surprisingly good point. “I only wish they’d court me in smaller numbers.”
“You could grant vouchers to the select few as the patronesses of Almack’s do.”
That made Lucy laugh. “What a tempting notion. How many should I allow at a time? Three?”
“Too few. Five at least.”
“No more than that, however.”
“The more the merrier as far as I’m concerned. The disappointed gentlemen turn to me.”
Lucy heard no edge to the comment. “Then I shall welcome them en masse. But remember, they’re all fortune hunters.”
“No, they’re not. All of them would like to marry a rich dowry, for what man wouldn’t, but only some are desperate for funds. Stevenhope’s well-to-do, as are Northcliff and Sir Harry.”
“Never say there are lists showing gentlemen’s fortunes.”
Clara frowned in puzzlement. “Lists? One just knows such things.”
No, one didn’t.
“Come,” Clara said, linking arms. “You must return to the dancing or people will wonder.” As she steered Lucy back toward the music she asked, “Who was the man who tore a strip off your warring suitors? Jeremy said you spoke as if you knew him.”
Damn Jeremy. “We met once. For mere moments. He seemed to be a country gentleman. I don’t know how he comes to be here.”
“Most of the men here are country gentlemen in season.”
Another thing Lucy had forgotten.
She’d expected the ton to be a different world, but she’d not realized how different. People in the City lived most of the year in one home. Some of the wealthiest had villas on the river for the hottest months, or visited a sea resort for a while. They might take a tour of scenic wonders such as the Peak District, or even the distant Lake District, but not for long. City men needed to pay attention to their businesses, and commerce took no holidays.
The beau monde, however, flitted from country estates to Town elegance and in-between times to seaside resorts, Shire hunting boxes, and Scottish moors. Such a wandering life.
“Perhaps your champion won a lottery,” Clara said as they approached the ballroom. “Do you remember that corn trader who won one and purchased an estate? His antics were the talk of the Town.”
Lucy didn’t know anything of the man, but clearly he’d been another outsider and thus a figure of fun. Had he run back to his own world as she would like to do? She’d never liked the idea of everyone “knowing their place,” but perhaps there was a point to the saying. It wasn’t pleasant to be out of place.
“In we go,” Clara said. “Any talk will pass, especially as the Earl of Wyvern is here.”
“As long as he doesn’t pester me.”
“He probably will, being in need of a fortune. But the main point is that his notorious presence will wipe your adventures from everyone’s mind.”
“Then hail the arriving earl!” Lucy said, stepping back into the nest of vipers.
Chapter 9
If there was talk, it hadn’t deterred her suitors. Five converged. She was happy to be able to remind them that the first dance was promised to Sir Harry, and even happier to see him coming to claim it, allowing her to escape.
“You look a little distressed, Miss Potter,” he said as they walked onto the dancing floor. “Anything I can do to help?”
“You heard about the duel,” she said with a sigh. “It’s all smoothed away.”
“Good. Nonsense like that should be a thing of the past.”
“My thoughts entirely, sir.”
Here was another admirable man, and he was handsome enough in a stolid way. Potential husbands weren’t in short supply in the ton, but she didn’t want to marry anyone. Was it so unreasonable to want to enjoy the social delights and dance until dawn without unpleasant repercussions?
What was needed was a signal. If a lady wore a flower behind her right ear, she was open to proposals. A flower behind the left ear would warn suitors away. That whimsy melted her irritation and she smiled as they took their places.
But then she saw the Winsom man joining the line dance, partnering a handsome brunette wearing magnificent rubies. He should have looked out of place at her side, but he didn’t.
“Who’s the lady with the rubies?” she asked Sir Harry.
He glanced down the line. “Lady Arden. Arden’s the heir to Belcraven.”
That clearly meant a great deal, but to Lucy it simply reinforced his deceptiveness. He’d said he was a simple country gentleman, but as such he should be far from the orbit of dukedoms. He smiled at something Lady Arden said as if they were on easy terms. Lucy wanted to ask Sir Harry who he was, but resisted. She didn’t know what to make of him in this new incarnation, but he was definitely to be avoided like the plague.
The musicians keyed that the dance was about to start. Sir Harry bowed as she curtsied, and she could escape thoughts in the dance, among opulence beyond reason, extravagance without restraint, and expanses of fabulous jewelry.
Sir Harry proved to be a good dancer, and the ladies and gentlemen she intertwined with all seemed amiable. Lucy relaxed into enjoyment—until she realized a problem. In a longways dance she would dance with all the men at some point.
She would have to take a turn with him.
She prepared herself, and when the time came, acted exactly as she had with other men, briefly meeting his eyes, smiling, stepping, joining hands.
Suppressing a shiver when his hand briefly touched her waist.
How could such a connection be fierce as fire?
She couldn’t help but stare at him.
Did he look as startled?
Thank heavens the dance sent her safely on her way. Safe until they would meet again as the dance progressed through its cycle, sending each couple up and down the line.
Avoid him like the plague. She certainly felt feverish. It wasn’t a physical disease, however. It was a return of the effect she’d felt before—the affliction that had engulfed her parents.
If it had been like this, she could begin to understand why they had acted as they had. This was no force to be calmly reasoned away. It truly was a fever that would build with every encounter, and now she couldn’t take comfort in never seeing him again.
But she could avoid and resist.
With every scrap of strength she possessed she would resist such a disastrous form of love.
* * *
David watched Miss Potter dance on, furious that he was still susceptible to her, even when he knew her true colors.
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At a glance she was simply pretty, though she was doing her best to drive men mad with that low-cut gown that threatened to slide off her at any moment. He wouldn’t have guessed that she’d have such a lush figure.
Her fatal attraction, however, came from something else, from the attributes that made her impossible—her intelligence, spirit, and quick wit.
Yes, she was a virago, but a magnificent one.
He had no doubt that if he’d not been there to stop those fools, she’d have ripped into them and sent them off with their tails between their legs.
Most men would see that as a fault, but he admired strong women. Susan was redoubtable, and his aunt Miriam, though a conventional lady, was rock solid when it came to anything that mattered. His mother was so far removed from feminine frailty as to fall off the edge, but he had to confess a part of him had always admired the way she’d faced up to a scandalized world and enjoyed life to the full.
As he progressed through the dance, he couldn’t resist stealing glances at Miss Potter. Light on her feet, blond curls bouncing, sparkling gold from her slippers to her Grecian tiara. She was right. Those two had been dolts to call her gilded. She was a twenty-four carat goddess.
But not for him. He couldn’t risk marrying a woman who could dazzle him so easily, and practice deception with such skill. A useful skill, perhaps, if she was in league with him, but disastrous if, as was more likely, she was horrified by his role as Captain Drake.
* * *
By the time the dance ended Lucy could understand the word “possessed.” She could no longer resist.
Casually waving her fan, she asked Sir Harry, “The man dancing with Lady Arden. That isn’t Lord Arden, is it?”
“Not at all. That’s the new Earl of Wyvern.”
Lucy needed a moment to understand his words. “Truly?”
“You think it unbelievable?”
“Only that some expected a clodhopper.”
And he’d called her deceptive! In Winsom’s he’d claimed to be a simple country gentleman—those exact words—and he’d looked the part. Yet here he was, an earl, dressed in fine style, at ease with a marchioness.
“Quite a surprise,” Sir Harry was agreeing, “but not for me. I was introduced to him the other day at a shooting gallery. A decent shot, but not a patch on Middlethorpe, Austrey, and a few of the others he was with.”