For the first time, he saw the flash of anger in her blue eyes. “Of course. Did you really think I would meekly wear the clothing you had procured for me, as if I were some light-o’-love you rented for the month?”
Lady Gertrude gasped and covered her mouth. Gradually, her shocked expression changed, and her eyes began to twinkle.
Then the truth was borne in on him.
He had lost.
It was a small battle, unimportant among his schemes, but he lost so seldom he could scarcely comprehend it.
He had lost. Lost to this quiet, diffident, stubborn duchess.
Very well. He would remember, and in the future, he would fine-tune his tactics and never underestimate her again. “I would never make the mistake of thinking you a light-o’-love, Your Grace. I would more likely think you a chess master.”
She inclined her head, accepting his tribute as a matter of course.
He accepted his black evening cape from the waiting butler and swung it around his shoulders. He took in hand his tall, carved wooden cane, and with a flourish, planted it on the floor, looking every inch a proper British gentleman while knowing he was every inch a thoroughly American barbarian. In a tone as soft as velvet and as harsh as winter, he said, “Be warned, my duchess. The next move is mine.”
Chapter 9
“What a crush!” Pink with excitement, Lady Gertrude peered about the crowd with her lorgnette. “Lord and Lady Picard always have everyone to their ball, absolutely everyone! Some people complain they have pretensions, with the way their footman announces everyone as if this were a royal reception. They have a ballroom that covers almost their entire ground floor, but pretensions are acceptable in people who have five large estates.” With a shake of the finger at Remington, she added, “But I’m giving you a crass view of the English, Mr. Knight. Social acceptance does not depend on having wealth.”
“Of course not, ma’am,” he said to the petite lady on his left arm, while he thought, But it helps.
A cacophony of voices and music spilled through the arch that led to the ballroom as the duchess, Lady Gertrude, and Mr. Knight inched forward in the line to be introduced. Around them, the other guests pressed close, jockeying for position, everyone wanting to be first into the ballroom. They stared at the trio and whispered behind raised fans and gloved hands.
“Look, Madeline,” Lady Gertrude said, “everyone’s gaping at you!”
“I know.” The future duchess stared straight ahead, her shoulders stiff, her back straight.
Never had Remington seen a woman less comfortable with her own distinction. Never had he enjoyed the success of his own plan quite so much. The ton adored only one thing more than a romance, and that was a scandal. He had—and would—give them both. “Maybe it’s because of your hair,” he murmured.
Madeline shot him a glare.
“Everyone’s absolutely avid to discover all about you and dear Mr. Knight.” Lady Gertrude peered around him at her niece. “Dear girl, you’ll be the belle of the ball!”
“That’s putting a good face on it,” Madeline said. She seemed very aware that people strained to hear their conversation.
With a suave assurance he thought would put her at her ease, he said, “I’m sure my fiancée is the belle of any ball she ever attends.”
She barely glanced at him. Barely seemed to hear him. If he didn’t know better, he would say she had stage fright.
He wasn’t used to having a woman, any woman, ignore him, and now, tonight, she had done more than that. She had defied him, and now she tried to pretend he wasn’t here, at her side, as her fiancé.
In a deep voice, he called her name. “Madeline.” Still she ignored him. Taking her hand, he lifted it to his lips and, at the last minute, he turned it and kissed her wrist.
That got her attention. She looked at him, her eyes as wide and startled as those of a doe who had never seen a human before.
All around them, the tittle-tattle of gossip grew louder.
“Mr. Knight!” Lady Gertrude used her most disapproving tone. She didn’t care whether she was overheard. “You will not do such a thing again. That is quite improper.”
“Until we are wed,” he answered. He didn’t care, either.
“Ever,” Lady Gertrude said with crushing certainty. Then she amended, “In public.”
Madeline said nothing but ducked her head and blushed, and he would have sworn he saw the glitter of tears on her lashes.
For a moment, just a moment, he felt guilty. Damn her. Most women of his experience used weeping like a weapon, to get their own way. His duchess seemed embarrassed by her tears and wanted no one to see. Not him. Not anyone else in the crowd.
He had investigated this woman thoroughly before he’d made his bid to win her hand, and everyone had told him she was at ease in society, bold and open, very aware of her importance but not snobbish with it. Why had the years abroad changed her so much? Or was this a game to win sympathy for her plight?
“La! There’s Lord Betterworth, and that’s not his wife.” Lady Gertrude fluttered her fingers in greeting. “Mr. Knight, can you behave yourself long enough for me to go talk to Mrs. Ashton? She always knows the newest on-dit, and she can bring me up to date on everything.”
“I’ll be the perfect English gentleman.” Bloodless and boring.
“You don’t mind, do you, dear niece?”
Clearly, Madeline didn’t want her to go. But Lady Gertrude’s eyes were shining, and he watched as his duchess lost the battle between desire and kindheartedness. “Do go, ma’am. Since I’ve been out of the country, I’m quite ignorant too, and will need to be caught up on every matter.”
“I’ll be back in time to be announced. Hold my place, Mr. Knight!”
“Don’t be late.” He utilized his command voice.
Lady Gertrude started to toss off a giddy reply. Then she saw he was serious and, recalled to her duty, said, “Of course I’ll be here. I haven’t forgotten that I’m the chaperon.” She almost skipped, so anxious was she to be away.
Quietly, Madeline said, “There’s no need for you to be mean to her. She intends no harm.”
Her reproof surprised him. “I’m not being mean to her. I hired her. I’m paying her well to make sure your reputation doesn’t suffer from our premarital association. I was reminding her of her duties. Furthermore, I believe you’re more comfortable with me when she’s close.” He heard Madeline’s quick intake of breath. “Aren’t you?”
Turning her head away, she didn’t answer.
He found himself distracted by the wisps of dark hair that caressed the pale skin at the back of her neck. Perhaps he could learn to live with this new cut…well, he had no choice, did he? At least until her hair grew back.
“Remington!” Clark battled his way to his side. “A pleasure to see you so soon.”
“Good to see you, too.” Remington turned to Madeline. “May I introduce her ladyship, the marchioness of Sherbourne, the future duchess of Magnus and my future wife? Your Grace, this is Mr. Clark Oxnard, president of Whittington Bank, and a man I’m proud to call my friend.”
Madeline stared at Clark in what looked like frozen dismay.
But Clark bowed and chuckled. “My lady, if I may say so, I had heard you look like your cousin, Miss Eleanor de Lacy, and you do. You do, indeed. I was acquainted with that young lady years ago before she left Blinkingshire, and if I didn’t know better, I would say you are her twin.”
Madeline bobbed a curtsy that looked as if she’d lost her balance. “Not twins. No, we’re not.”
“Of course not,” Clark said comfortably. “This fiancé of yours has asked me to be his best man at your wedding. I can’t tell you how honored I am.” He placed his hand on Remington’s arm. “One of the best chaps a man ever knew. You’re a lucky young woman. Of course, he’s one lucky man, too.”
“That I am,” Remington said.
“I’ll be at the church, prepared for every eventuality.” Clark nodded
meaningfully at Remington.
At that reassurance, Remington experienced an upwelling of camaraderie unlike any he’d ever experienced. “Clark—thank you. You restore my faith in mankind.”
“Not at all.” Clark grinned. “I daren’t lose the bank’s most profitable client.”
Remington chuckled.
Madeline stared at the two men as if they were speaking a foreign language. She said nothing. No small talk. No courtesies. If Madeline was going to act like this to all of Remington’s associates, he would have a long discussion with her about the proper courtesies.
Clark seemed not to see anything wrong. “I’d best get back. Mrs. Oxnard is a tiny thing, and the crowd will shove her all over if I’m not with her. If we never see each other again tonight, I’ll see you at the wedding ceremony. A pleasure, Your Grace.”
“A pleasure, sir,” she echoed, and stared after him as if the back of him fascinated her.
Remington spoke softly into her ear. “Is it so dreadful to be seen on my arm?”
“What?” She glanced up at him and blinked at him in seeming amazement. At his question. At seeing him so close.
“You barely glanced at Clark, and you haven’t looked me in the eye since we arrived.” She was looking at him now. She was seeing him, for her lips opened slightly, and her lashes fluttered as she tried to maintain eye contact.
“You’re embarrassed to be seen with me.”
“I most certainly am not!”
“I’m properly dressed and, except for the occasional kiss on your wrist, fairly well behaved, so perhaps you’re worried that your reputation as an aristocrat will fail beneath the strain of your association with me.”
“The consequence of the duchess of Magnus is so great, even arriving at a ball on your arm, Mr. Knight, cannot damage it.” She smiled as she made the claim, as if she were amused by her own temerity. Under the influence of that merriment, her skin glowed, her eyes lit up, and her delightful dimples quivered in her cheeks.
With a start, he thought, She’s charming. He had expected to be challenged by this woman, not captivated. She surprised him, and surprise made him vaguely uneasy. Yet she was only a woman, and a woman whose father cared so little for her that he was willing to gamble her life away. Remington needed to remember that. He had the matter well in hand.
Touching his white gloved finger under her chin, he lifted her face to his. “You smile too seldom. I wonder why.”
Her amusement failed her. She wiped her hand down her skirt, as if, beneath her glove, her palm was sweaty. “I don’t enjoy balls.”
“You’re nervous.”
“It’s not every day I’m notorious.”
He knew better than that. He had heard the truth of the scandal that had driven her from England. “I would have thought you were used to it. You caused quite a lot of gossip when you ended your last engagement.”
Madeline blanched. She’d made a scene when she’d broken her betrothal to the earl of Campion, and now she knew that he was aware of her past. She recovered her composure and snapped, “When my past becomes your business, sir, I will let you know.”
“You’re going to be my wife.” He smiled down at her, playing to the crowd and at the same time letting her see his false affection. “Your past is now my business.”
“Marriage, they tell me, is a mutual exchange. I’ll tell you my secrets when you tell me yours.” She smiled at him with the same false affection he showed her, and with a gesture at the milling throng, invited, “Do go ahead. This is the appropriate place.”
“So the dormouse does roar, after all.” They moved to the front of the line. “You needn’t worry you’ll see Campion here. He’s out of town.”
She sounded excessively fervent as she said, “Good. I don’t want to see him.”
“Even if you did, it wouldn’t matter.” They stood at the top of a stairway that descended into the immense ballroom. Below them, black marble pillars rose to the blue-and-gilt ceiling. Windows rose, tall and narrow. The room was so packed that people could scarcely walk. Certainly no one danced to the music of the small orchestra that played in the corner, trying furtively to cover the babble with music.
The stage had been set. The play was afoot. Everything was going as planned.
Chapter 10
As Eleanor stared into Mr. Knight’s cold, clear eyes, she saw the fallacy of Madeline’s scheme. Madeline had determined to come to London and talk Mr. Knight out of this misbegotten betrothal. Madness, for Mr. Knight would do as he wished—and he wished to marry the duchess. Poor Madeline, having to wed him on so flimsy a pretext as a wager!
And poor Eleanor, who would have to watch, then slip away.
“I will get what I want,” he warned her.
Eleanor squeezed her hands together. He wanted her…would he easily transfer his affections to Madeline? Flattery, perhaps, but she thought not. All their plans were askew, and only heaven knew what would happen now.
Lady Gertrude squeezed her way back through the crowd. “I’m here, I’m here!” Glancing between the two of them, she said, “I sense an atmosphere. Should I leave again?”
“Not at all. We’re about to be announced.” Mr. Knight gave the herald their names.
In a lower tone, Lady Gertrude told Eleanor, “The tales I have heard.” She winked and nodded, and in a theatrical whisper, said, “Later, when we’re alone.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Eleanor’s throat was dry, her palms were wet, her head felt light and shorn. “Later.”
Dimly, she heard the herald say, “Yes, Mr. Knight. I know who you are.” Turning, he faced the noisy, crowded ballroom and shouted, “Her ladyship, the marchioness of Sherbourne and future duchess of Magnus!”
Heads in the ballroom turned.
“Lady Gertrude, the countess of Glasser!”
Conversations began to die.
“And Mr. Remington Knight!”
As they descended the stairway, the silence grew greater and more profound. Even the orchestra fell silent. Never in Eleanor’s quiet life had so many people paid her heed. Worse, she recognized a good many in the crowd. Did they recognize her in return? When would she be revealed as a fraud?
Unaffected, Lady Gertrude chatted, “We are making quite an entrance, and just as I expected, it is a terrible crush. Isn’t this exciting?”
Not exciting. Dreadful. Eleanor’s hand clutched Mr. Knight’s elbow. Step by step, the length of the stairway stretched. All those eyes…staring, staring. Her feet grew too large to fit on the steps. She would surely trip and fall. Yes, she would fall, and even if she didn’t get thrown out as an imposter, she would make Madeline a laughingstock.
At last they reached the shining, black-and-white marble floor. Those staring eyes looked away. The buzzing conversations resumed. Eleanor breathed again.
Lord and Lady Picard stood receiving their guests, the lady a consummate hostess, the lord a consummate fool.
Eleanor had met them during Madeline’s first Season four years ago, but Lady Picard had scarcely looked at Madeline’s companion, while Lord Picard had done more than glance. He had leered as he did with every young lady—although not at her face. Eleanor felt sure they wouldn’t recognize who she was. But would they recognize who she wasn’t?
She braced herself, but Lady Picard considered her without the slightest sign of recognition. “My lady, how good of you to make our ball the first party you attend on your return to England. And Mr. Knight. Dear sir, I had hoped you would come to make my evening”—she fluttered her lashes—“complete.”
He bowed. “I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”
“No, of course not. Your first ball with your new fiancée.” Lady Picard almost gloated over Eleanor, but she apparently noticed nothing different about the duchess. Eleanor had cleared the first hurdle. “Your betrothal was such a surprise to come home to, wasn’t it, Your Grace?”
The question set Eleanor’s teeth on edge. “His Grace, the duke of Magnus, always
holds his daughter’s best interests at heart.”
It wasn’t so much an answer as a rebuke, and Lady Picard acknowledged it with a tight smile. “Lady Glasser, how good to see you. You’re the guest of your niece?”
“And her chaperon,” Lady Gertrude said firmly. “I’m near her day and night. I don’t leave her alone for a minute.”
Lady Picard adored Mr. Knight with her gaze. “Such a good idea. Mr. Knight is an excessively dangerous man.”
“How can you say such a thing? I’m a lamb,” Mr. Knight protested.
Both Lady Gertrude and Lady Picard giggled.
Eleanor couldn’t even smile. A lamb. Absurd. He was a wolf who didn’t even bother to disguise his teeth and his claws—and his ruthless nature. And if anyone here knew she lived in his house, all of Lady Gertrude’s protestations would be for naught and Eleanor would be ruined. Every direction she turned, she found trouble, and all that trouble related to Mr. Knight.
Worse still, when she looked at him, she no longer perceived an upstart American. No matter that he threatened her, spied on her, coerced her. Tonight he looked absolutely smashing. He wore formal black knee breeches and a fashionably cut black coat in the way every man should—but most men lacked the form. His snowy white cravat had been tied in an intricate knot. His silk vest was a subdued pattern of gold fleur-de-lis on a blue background, and his shoes were plain and dark. Mr. Knight didn’t need tall heels—he towered over the other men already. He was, in her eyes, the perfect specimen of man and, glancing around, Eleanor realized she wasn’t the only woman who thought so. A great many lascivious and flirtatious glances were being lavished on Mr. Knight.
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