“As if you ever needed that sort of instruction. Most of the time, I had to force conversation out of you, remember? It was like prying apart an oyster.”
“I’ve opened up a bit since then, thankfully.”
“Yes, but today, I saw a side of you I don’t believe I’ve ever seen before. You were pacing back and forth across my drawing room, waving your hands in the air like an Italian and condemning all fortune hunters to perdition!”
“It’s that man,” she said, returning her attention to the dance floor, her gaze homing in on Trubridge almost at once. “He flicks me on the raw.”
“To say the least. I thought you were going to cut him a moment ago.”
She bit her lip. “I feared I would only encourage Rosalie to champion his cause if I did that. Ooh, look at him,” she added, nudging Nancy with her elbow. “See how he looks at her? It’s as if he’s contemplating some delectable confection in a bakery-shop window.”
“Well, Rosalie is rather like a confection, isn’t she? Very pretty and very sweet. Trubridge isn’t the only man to appreciate those qualities.”
“I doubt either her beauty or her sweetness intrigue him as much as her dowry.”
“Perhaps, but what else can he do but marry money? After that story in Talk of the Town this morning, I doubt he could even extend his credit and get a loan.”
Belinda shifted her weight, feeling a nudge of guilt. “Well, yes,” she mumbled, “I suppose that’s true.”
“Unless he marries soon or his father relents, he’ll be reduced to borrowing from the more unsavory moneylenders and living off friends.”
“All right, yes, so the man is without means,” Belinda conceded with some irritation. “By that argument, any fortune hunter is justified in his course to marry solely for money!”
“That’s not what I’m saying, but you and I both know money is a crucial consideration for most peers when choosing a bride, and for whatever reason, you are judging Trubridge rather more harshly than you have other men in his situation. I don’t think you are viewing him or his actions objectively.”
That was the same accusation Trubridge had thrown at her earlier today, and all of a sudden, she felt on the defensive. “You think I’m being unfair? To Trubridge?” She turned toward her friend in disbelief. “Nancy, of all the men whose cause you might take up, he’s the least worthy of your defense!”
“There, now you’ve just proved my point. Why is he more unworthy than any other gentleman you’ve nudged toward one of our friends?”
“Because of his character, of course! He has none.”
Nancy sighed. “Belinda, I’ve never seen a better judge of character than you. In most cases, you can glance over someone, have a few minutes conversation, and walk away with an accurate assessment of that person. It’s almost uncanny.”
“Thank you, but doesn’t that justify my concern?”
“You didn’t let me finish. You also judge people very quickly, and though your assessments are usually accurate, you can sometimes be mistaken. Remember Baron Ambridge? You had him pegged for a rascal, but Louisa Barstowe married him anyway, and she is quite happy with him. I could cite one or two other examples, if you like. And do we even need to talk about Featherstone?”
“All right, all right,” Belinda said hastily, not wishing to discuss her own lapses in judgment, particularly that one. “So you think I’m wrong about Trubridge?”
“I think you might be wrong, and perhaps you should reserve judgment and come to know him a little better before you decide.”
She didn’t want to know him. She didn’t want Rosalie to know him. She wanted him to go back to Paris. She started to return her attention to the dance floor, but her gaze fell upon Sir William Bevelstoke standing nearby. Like her, he was watching the dancing, and she could tell the situation was as plain to him as it was to her. The rigidity of his profile, the proud lift of his chin, and the tight press of his lips told her the acuteness of his suffering at this moment. Sir William was a good and honorable young man who genuinely cared for Rosalie and would make her a fine husband, yet the girl seemed unable to see it. Instead, she was attracted to a man who had not demonstrated any of the fine qualities Sir William possessed. Life, she thought in aggravation, was damned unfair.
“Defend him all you like, Nancy,” she said, “but I doubt coming to know him any better would change my opinion of him. Will you excuse me for a moment?”
She moved past her friend to the brown-haired young man nearby. “Sir William?”
He turned. “Lady Featherstone,” he said with a bow. “Are you enjoying yourself this evening?”
She made a face. “As much as you are, I would imagine.”
He stiffened at once and looked away. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do.” She watched as his gaze strayed to the dance floor, and she added, “Rosalie isn’t in love with him. Not yet, not by a long way. She only just met him.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “It doesn’t matter.”
He wasn’t fooling either of them with that declaration, but she didn’t point it out. This was the hellish side of matchmaking, when things didn’t turn out the way they ought, and hearts were broken. In this case, however, Belinda could not simply blame the whims of fate. She feared she came in for a fair share of the blame as well. For her rash actions in going to the press had not only ignited Trubridge’s temper this afternoon but had also honed his attention on her young friend. He now seemed determined to pursue Rosalie, if for no other reason than to spite her. They were, after all, at war.
She turned and put a hand on Sir William’s arm. “Fight for her. Don’t stand by in typical British, stiff-upper-lip fashion. Fight for her. And I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”
She walked away before he could ask what she could possibly do, for she wouldn’t have known how to answer. She only knew that she had to think of something fast, before Rosalie lost her heart, and possibly more, to Trubridge.
Chapter 6
Belinda hung back as the waltz came to an end, waiting just long enough for him to return Rosalie to the care of her mother before she came to his side. At once, before he could engage the girl in further conversation, she latched onto his arm.
“You haven’t yet danced with me, Trubridge,” she said, forcing out a laugh. “There is another waltz beginning, and I love the waltz. Shall we?”
She gave him no chance to think of an excuse to refuse. Her arm through his, she turned, pulling him with her and practically dragging him toward the dance floor. To her relief, he allowed himself to be dragged.
“Lady Featherstone, you honor me,” he said as he faced her and gave a bow.
“Honoring you is not what I feel like doing at this moment, believe me,” she answered, smiling at him through clenched teeth as she sank down in a responding curtsy. “I am contemplating homicide or torture,” she went on as she caught up her train and straightened with its loop around her wrist. “But I can’t decide which appeals to me more.”
“You can make up your mind while we dance. Speaking of which,” he added as she lifted one of his gloved hands in hers and slapped the other to her waist, “do you lead when you waltz, too, or merely during the preliminaries?”
“That depends,” she countered sweetly. “Can I waltz you straight to hell?”
“I’d adore it, since it’s a place I’ve wished you to once or twice during the past two days. But if that happens,” he added with an apologetic look, “you’ll have to spend eternity with me.”
She shuddered visibly. “Perish the thought.”
The waltz began, and though it occurred to Belinda how gratifying it would be to tread on his feet in her high-heeled slippers, she resisted the temptation. Instead, she racked her brain for ideas, but she was forced to admit there was really only one option. She would have to retract her re
fusal and help him find a wife. If she did, some other girl’s heart, fortune, and virtue might be at risk, but she’d have to worry about that later. Right now, Rosalie was her most important consideration. “All right,” she said. “You win.”
“I win?” he echoed. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“I mean the war is over. I . . .” She paused, hating that she had to give in. “I surrender.”
“Do you, now?” His gaze roamed over her face. “And in this surrender, what shall you yield to me?”
Lord, she thought, this man could make anything sound naughty. At that thought, an inexplicable heat curled in her belly, but she dampened it at once and spoke again. “If you leave Rosalie alone, and if you swear you won’t risk placing her or any other innocent girl in a compromising situation, I will use my influence to help you find someone else.”
“I see.” He tilted his head as if considering it, but if she’d hoped steering him away from her friend would be as easy as that, she was mistaken. “I don’t see why I need your help at all, now that I’ve met Miss Harlow.”
“It’s because of me, isn’t it?” She stared at him, dismayed. “You’re taking revenge on me because I went to that newspaper.”
His fingers tightened at her waist, pulling her an inch closer as they danced. “I have my flaws, Lady Featherstone, but exacting vengeance upon women is not one of them.”
“Then why her?”
“Why not her?” he countered. “She’s quite pretty, amiable—a delightful girl all around.”
“And rich.”
“Well, yes,” he said, sounding nauseatingly agreeable. “We’ve already established I can’t afford to marry a poor girl.”
“If you want to know why Rosalie would not be the right wife for you, I can give you several reasons. The difference in your ages, for one. She is only eighteen. You’re far too old for her. She’s an innocent, just out of finishing school, while you are world-weary and cynical. You should soon grow tired of her, and if you were not allowing your enmity for me to cloud your judgment, you would already have come to that conclusion yourself.”
“Would I? Being such a jaded—and apparently ancient—fellow, I might find Miss Harlow’s youth and innocence to be charming, refreshing qualities. Why, she might even make me feel young and spry again.”
Belinda made a scoffing sound at that bit of nonsense. “You know as well as I do that she’s too young for you. And her youth, her background, and her temperament make her ill prepared to be a duchess.”
“Ah, but she won’t be a duchess yet. Plenty of time for her to learn how it’s done while she’s merely a marchioness.”
“Is there plenty of time? Your father could die tomorrow.”
“A delightful prospect, I grant you, but—alas—one unlikely to happen. I wouldn’t be that lucky.”
“Will you please stop making jokes?”
“What makes you think I was joking?” His voice was still lighthearted and jovial, yet even as he spoke, she watched something flicker in those warm, tawny eyes, something dangerous that reminded her of the lion about to spring, and she realized he wasn’t joking at all.
Belinda wondered what could have caused the enmity that existed between him and Landsdowne even as she reminded herself that it was none of her affair. “The fact that you regard your father’s death as a fortunate circumstance is something I do not wish to explore. Let’s return to the point at issue, which is that Rosalie is not for you.”
The dangerous glimmer vanished from his eyes, like a candle snuffed out, but she knew she had not imagined it. “Tell me, are you always this sure of yourself and your assessments?”
“Well, I do this sort of thing for my living, you know.”
“Granted, and if you had pegged me accurately, I might place more value upon your opinion. But as it is . . .” He shrugged. “You’ll have to do better than this if you want me to eliminate Rosalie from consideration. Aside from her youth and her inexperience with future-duchess duty, do you have any other reasons why I should not pursue her?”
“You haven’t spent enough time considering other women?” She winced at her own words even before he began laughing.
“Is there no way to satisfy you, Lady Featherstone? A day ago, you accused me of having too much experience with women. Now you say I haven’t enough?”
Belinda gave in to temptation and stepped on his foot.
He grimaced, but he didn’t miss a step. “Careful,” he warned. “Causing me pain won’t help convince me.”
“Then stop toying with me.”
“I like Rosalie, and I see no reason why my affection for her should not continue to grow. And she seems fond of me. You said yourself that fondness and affection is a solid foundation for matrimony—”
“Yes, yes, I know what I said,” she interrupted, not in any mood to have her own words used against her. “But this fondness you speak of is superficial at best. The two of you aren’t well acquainted enough for anything deeper. Not yet. If you were to withdraw now, no one’s feelings would be hurt. And as I said, I will help you find someone else.”
“I’m still not sure why that should persuade me.”
Belinda began to feel truly desperate. “For heaven’s sake, what else do you want?”
His lashes lowered, and the slow gaze he ran down her body was as tangible as a caress. “What else do you have to offer?”
Her heart slammed against her ribs, and stupidly, she stumbled.
“Steady on.” His hands tightened, keeping her upright until she could regain her balance. “For someone who moves in high society, you don’t dance very well. You keep treading on my feet.”
“Your feet aren’t the only parts of your anatomy I’d like to tread on,” she muttered.
That made him smile, the wretched man. “All the reasons you offer could apply just as well to every other wealthy American debutante in town. By your reckoning, I ought to steer clear of any woman who is young, sweet, rich, and who might have the slightest chance of falling in love with me.”
That, she thought, would be ideal, but she refrained from saying so. “Rosalie is my main concern.”
His smile faded to a serious expression and he eyed her thoughtfully. “What’s really behind this?” he asked. “You hardly know me, yet you are convinced my marriage to your friend would be disastrous. What makes you so sure? If you explained your reasoning, if you told me the truth, I might be persuaded to consider someone else.”
“The truth?” As she repeated those words, something inside Belinda snapped. “You really want the truth?” She jerked out of his hold, grabbed him by the arm, and started off the dance floor with him in tow.
“Leading again?” he asked, as she propelled him toward the French doors that opened onto the terrace. “I suppose next you’ll be wearing trousers and petitioning Parliament for the right to vote.”
Belinda didn’t respond to that. She couldn’t. She was in no frame of mind for his nonsense. She was having enough difficulty keeping her temper in check long enough to get him outside where they could have a flaming row without being observed by all of society. She dragged him through the open doors and out into the cool night air. Fortunately, no one else was outside at present, and she only had to pull him a few yards away from the open doors before she could let fly.
“If you want the truth, I shall be happy to give it to you.” She yanked her arm out of his and faced him. “I don’t want you to marry Rosalie because you’ll hurt her, damn you! You’re handsome, you’re glib, you’re witty, you can even—sometimes—be charming, and you’re a man of vast experience who knows a great deal about women. Rosalie’s out of her depth with a man like you. She’ll fall madly in love with you, only to discover after you’ve married her that you never loved her.”
He didn’t reply. He didn’t even try, and his silence only flared her te
mper higher.
“She’ll realize you never cared for her at all and wanted her only for her money. She’ll learn you never had any intention of honoring the marriage vows you took, and that the promise you made to love and cherish her was a lie. And the part about forsaking all others? When you return to whichever mistress you happen to have at the moment, she’ll realize that was a lie, too.”
She could hear her voice shaking, but she pressed on. “At first, she’ll hope her love will change you, and when that doesn’t work, she’ll be heartbroken and disillusioned, with no choice but to stand by, powerless, expected to be a good and proper wife while you spend her money on your pleasures and she tries to convince herself that your behavior is just something all British lords do and she has to accept it because she’s stuck with you for good. Now are my reasons clear?”
She stopped, out of breath, and they stared at each other as the lilting strains of the waltz gave way to the lively cue of a polka. It seemed an eternity before he spoke.
“I never realized Featherstone was such a bastard.”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“I didn’t know him all that well, granted, but I always thought him an amusing, delightful fellow. I knew about his women, of course, but I didn’t know you, or why the two of you were estranged, and I didn’t really dwell on Featherstone’s qualities as a husband. If someone had asked me to consider him in that light, I daresay I’d have offered a different opinion of the man.”
Belinda lifted her chin a notch. “Leave my late husband out of this. He has nothing to do with it.”
“He has everything to do with it when I’m being tarred with the same brush. You don’t know me well enough to judge what sort of man I am or what sort of husband I would be, but you’ve formed a very definite opinion on the subject. You think I’m like him.”
“Are you saying you would be any different?”
“Damned right I’d be different. As I told you, I’m prepared to make any woman I’m considering fully aware of my situation and the financial aspects of our union beforehand. And I would never expect fidelity from my wife without offering it in return. And when a man has a beautiful woman who adores him waiting at home, he’s not only a prize bastard for going elsewhere, he’s also a fool.”
American Heiress [1]When The Marquess Met His Match Page 8