How To Seduce A Sinner

by Adrienne Basso

  The calm before the storm? Dorothea shivered, suddenly feeling alarmingly light-headed. Topping the evening off by having her guardian make a public spectacle truly would make this the worst night of her life.

  “Miss Ellingham had promised me that dance, Atwood. But you spirited her away,” the Marquess of Dardington proclaimed. “Whatever were you thinking, man? Or rather, not thinking?”

  The deep timbre of the Marquess of Dardington’s voice vibrated along Dorothea’s spine. She risked a small glance at the Marquess of Atwood. His face paled slightly; his jaw flexed. Her fear of an unpleasant scene increased.

  “I was unaware of the circumstances, sir,” Lord Atwood replied. There was a pause, a long silence, and then finally, “my apologies.”

  Lord Atwood rigidly inclined his head as he offered his apology. His voice held the proper amount of regret, his contrition appeared genuine. On the surface. Yet something in Lord Atwood’s tone caught Dorothea’s attention.

  She would bet every shilling of her weekly allowance that the young nobleman would have done precisely the same thing even if he had known the entire circumstances.

  Lord Dardington darkened his glare. Apparently he shared her view. The tension in the air escalated. The two men now locked eyes, much as two rams would lock horns. Dorothea supposed it was better than knocking heads, though that might come later, depending on how this conversation concluded. Wide-eyed, she licked her lips.

  Fearful of her own safety if she dared to step between them, Dorothea tried to manage a disarming smile. But she need not have bothered. Both men were once again ignoring her, too intent on each other to be aware of much else.

  She remembered suddenly the first time she had met the Marquess of Dardington. He had been cordial, pleasant, even charming. But then her temporary guardian had succinctly outlined his expectations of her conduct and the rules he expected to be obeyed without questions while she was a member of his London household.

  He had also, rather graphically, described what would happen if she broke any of those rules. It had taken until the next morning for Dorothea’s knees to stop shaking.

  But the Marquess of Atwood did not appear to be having the same difficulties. Lord Dardington was casting him a stare that would cause any sane, mortal man to quake in his boots. But the Marquess of Atwood barely blinked.

  Dorothea could not help but think of Arthur Pengrove. She was certain he would have fainted dead away if he were on the receiving end of such a stare from her guardian.

  “I suppose I must accept your apology and thus excuse your deplorable manners,” Lord Dardington grudgingly conceded. “Just see that it never happens again.”

  “Thank you for being so enlightened, sir.” Atwood turned toward Dorothea and smiled. “Surely you can understand how I lost my head when I set eyes on the lovely Miss Ellingham earlier. I found her irresistible.”

  “Lost your head? Aye, along with any semblance of common sense,” Dardington grumbled.

  Lord Atwood grinned ruefully. “I am a gentleman, sir, not a saint.”

  Lord Dardington cracked a smile, but then his handsome face contorted into another grimace. “Be warned, Atwood. While she is under my roof, Miss Ellingham is under my protection. I take my responsibilities toward her with the same care and devotion I afford to my daughters, who thank God are still too young to be out in society.”

  “I understand.” Lord Atwood’s lips quirked into another thin smile.

  “Good. Make certain you don’t forget it.” Lord Dardington shifted his footing and regarded the younger man steadily, his brooding concentration an unnerving scrutiny.

  Lord Atwood’s smile faded. Perhaps he was not as unaffected by Lord Dardington’s manner as he tried to appear? Strangely, the notion that he took Lord Dardington seriously caused Dorothea’s opinion of Lord Atwood to rise. Obviously he was intelligent to recognize a formidable opponent when presented to him. Yet he was clever enough, and levelheaded enough, to know when he was outmaneuvered.

  “I will most definitely remember our conversation, sir.” Lord Atwood turned and bowed over her gloved hand. “I bid you good evening, Miss Ellingham. Thank you for the delightful dance and the enjoyable company. It was the undisputed highlight of my night.”

  To her everlasting annoyance, Dorothea felt herself blushing. He was standing very close, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his solid body. She sternly told herself to calm down.

  “I hardly know what to say,” she replied.

  His brow quirked. “A first for you, I imagine.”

  She smiled. She hadn’t meant to; she wanted to be cool and dignified, even a tad dismissive. But he was simply too handsome, too charming. And Dorothea had always had a weakness for handsome, charming men.

  “I am hopeful that when next we meet, you will handle yourself in a more proper manner, my lord,” she said, regretting that he had released her hand. She liked his touch, had enjoyed feeling small and delicate.

  “I assure you, when next we meet, you will not be disappointed.” He leaned forward and whispered. “I vow that I shall even remember your name. Dorothea.”

  Then, with a conspiratorial smile, Lord Atwood took his leave.

  “Woolgathering, Dorothea?”

  “What? Oh?” Dorothea pulled her eyes away from the broad retreating shoulders of Lord Atwood and slanted a guilty look at her guardian. “I’m sorry.”

  “For ignoring me? Or for dancing with Atwood?”

  “Both, I suppose.”

  The marquess offered his arm and she slipped her hand into the bend at his elbow. Heads held high, they crossed the ballroom and headed toward the room where the supper buffet was being served. The marquess ignored the curious gazes and the stage whispers of conversation several ladies indulged in behind their open, raised fans. Dorothea pretended to do the same.

  “Atwood has always struck me as a somewhat impulsive man,” Lord Dardington said. He glared at a young dandy dressed in the most appalling shade of puce, who was blocking the entrance to the supper room. The poor fellow gulped, reddened, then hastened out of the way. “I assume Atwood gave you no choice when it came to the dance? That is why you stood me up?”

  Dorothea nodded. “He was very insistent.”

  Lord Dardington’s face darkened. “Improper?”

  “No, not exactly.” Dorothea had fended off her share of unwanted advances through the years. This incident had been nothing like the others.

  “I suppose you feel flattered that he singled you out for such attention,” the marquess said.

  Dorothea slowly shook her head as she ran through the events in her mind. “Actually, I don’t believe he intended to select me. I was merely the closest female within his vicinity.”

  “Hmm, he might have been keen on avoiding someone else,” the marquess allowed in such a tone that Dorothea surmised Lord Dardington had once done the very same thing himself. “Nevertheless, I must commend you on how well you conducted yourself, Dorothea. I imagine it wasn’t easy for you to remain so calm and collected while Atwood and I squared off against each other.”

  “I believed sheer terror and a healthy dose of dread held me immobile, my lord,” she answered wryly.

  The marquess smiled. “I apologize if I upset you.”

  “I am just grateful that you each kept your fists by your sides and somehow managed not to say anything overtly insulting.”

  Lord Dardington nodded wisely. “Atwood probably would have taken a swing at me if I went too far.”

  “Fisticuffs at a formal ball?” Dorothea shuddered.

  “No need to look so upset. If we did come to physical violence it would not have lasted very long. ’Tis far too crowded in here to land more than one or two solid punches.”

  “How comforting.”

  The sarcastic comment slipped beyond her lips before she could censure herself, but the marquess seemed unaffected by the tone of her remark. They entered the supper room where an army of their host’
s servants were scurrying about.

  Dorothea paused a moment to take it all in, trying to commit each detail to memory so she could write to her younger sister, Emma, with descriptive accuracy.

  The room was ablaze with candles that shimmered reflectively off the satin gowns and sparkling jewels worn by the ladies. The tables were studded with large vases of hothouse flowers; the buffet table groaned under the sheer quantity of so much lavishly prepared foods. Even after spending over two months in Town, Dorothea was still in awe of the spectacle and expenses involved in these parties. It was nothing like the quiet, simple affairs she had attended in Yorkshire.

  For a split second she longed for the familiar, safe life that she was accustomed to, but then she ruthlessly threw the thought aside. What was wrong with her tonight? Apparently the proposal from Arthur Pengrove and the unexpected incident with the Marquess of Atwood were making a greater impact on her nerves than she realized.

  When her older sister had invited her to come to Town, Dorothea had jumped at the chance, knowing this was the best opportunity she would ever have to make a good match, to establish a comfortable, happy life for herself. Being sponsored by the Marquess and Countess of Dardington had been an unexpected and very welcome boon.

  Their social stature had afforded her the opportunity to mingle with the very cream of society, the most influential, aristocratic, and wealthy individuals. Yet somehow this extraordinary blessing was also a curse. The pressure Dorothea felt to find a husband grew with each passing week.

  As she glanced at the well-dressed, well-heeled crowd, a weight settled in Dorothea’s gut. What was she doing here? Was she reaching too far, hoping too much? Was it foolish to want to better herself through marriage?

  Yet marriage was the only way she could separate herself from a life spent in Yorkshire, in the quiet, rather dull community where she had lived with her aunt and uncle for nearly ten years. To escape that fate, Dorothea was prepared to risk a great deal.

  “We shall find my wife and then locate a quiet corner to enjoy our meal,” Lord Dardington decided as he surveyed the supper room. Dorothea nodded rather meekly in agreement.

  Her gaze too moved over the room, searching for Lady Meredith, yet idly watching for Lord Atwood also. Conversation and laughter flowed freely as the throng of guests began converging at the numerous banquet tables. Somehow Lord Dardington located his wife, Lady Meredith, among the crush. After securing a secluded table for the three of them, he hailed a footman to bring them a selection of delicacies from the buffet.

  “Are you enjoying the ball, Dorothea?” Lady Meredith asked as they waited for the food to be brought. She was a pretty, levelheaded woman, whose face and form gave no hint that she was the mother of three girls, the eldest nearly ten years old.

  Dorothea had been shy at their first meeting, but soon warmed to Lady Meredith’s unpretentious spirit and kind demeanor. She admired the older woman’s sophisticated attitude and optimistic outlook. She was also slightly in awe of how Lady Meredith managed her very stormy, volatile husband.

  “The ball seems to be a great success,” Dorothea replied, making a great show of interest in the china plate the footman placed before her and deliberately refraining from making any comments about her feelings on the events of the evening.

  She swallowed her first bite of a delicate veal pastry, and had just filled her fork with another when she felt the marquess’s gaze measuring her.

  “Do you want to tell Meredith what happened or shall I?” Lord Dardington asked. “’Tis your decision.”

  “It was merely a dance,” Dorothea answered slowly, lowering her fork to her plate. “And a misunderstanding on Lord Atwood’s part that the set had been promised to you.”

  “You cannot mean the supper dance?” Lady Meredith asked. “But you are here together. Did you not take to the floor as you planned, Trevor?”

  Lady Meredith frowned and Dorothea understood her confusion. It was expected that those who partnered for the supper dance then partook of the meal together when the dance ended. Yet here she was with Lord Dardington; Lord Atwood was no where to be found.

  “Atwood tried to steal her from me,” Lord Dardington said. “He was successful with the dance, but I prevailed when it came to the meal.”

  Lady Meredith carefully examined Dorothea’s face. “At whose request did you intervene? Dorothea’s?” she asked her husband.

  The marquess bristled at the question. “I am responsible for Dorothea’s welfare. I would never forgive myself if I let any harm befall her while she was under my care.”

  Lady Meredith shot him a sharp glance. “Were you distressed, Dorothea? Did you need Lord Dardington to intervene?”

  Dorothea slowly chewed on her veal, making certain to take a small bite so she wouldn’t choke. Lady Meredith possessed an uncanny ability to see a situation more clearly than one might wish. It was a habit Dorothea found worrisome when it was directed at her.

  “Lord Atwood took me by surprise, but there was no harm done by him.” Dorothea knew what else she needed to say and she couldn’t quite meet Lady Meredith’s eyes as she strove to be tactful. “Though strictly speaking it might not have been necessary, I did appreciate Lord Dardington’s assistance.”

  “As I said,” the marquess crowed to his wife.

  “It was actually the second time I danced with Lord Atwood,” Dorothea interjected. “He partnered me at the Willingford ball several weeks ago.” Though clearly he did not remember me, she thought wryly.

  “Two dances? I was not aware.” The marquess frowned as he poured them each some wine from the bottle the footman had left on the table. “’Tis no secret that his father wishes him to wed, but Atwood seems ill inclined to follow the duke’s dictates. Plus his reputation hardly recommends him as a man I would consider a suitable husband, despite his wealth and title.”

  “Gentlemen with far worse reputations and reckless youthful behavior have managed to make solid matches and proven themselves to be good husbands,” Lady Meredith said affectionately. “You included, my love.”

  The remark seemed to have a mellowing effect on Lord Dardington. “To be fair, I suppose Atwood isn’t all that bad. Yet I still contend it won’t be easy for any woman he takes as a wife. His father is a horror. Makes my own dear, autocratic sire seem like a tamed house cat in comparison.”

  “Heaven save us all from self-important aristocrats.” Lady Meredith hoisted her wineglass and took a long sip. “Honestly, dukes can be the most dreadful snobs. Except for my father-in-law. He is a delightful man.”

  Lord Dardington regarded his wife with an easy grin. “I am certain you are the only woman on this earth who refers to my father as delightful.”

  She returned the smile. “It’s true.”

  “Ah, how quickly you have forgotten the great struggle it took to make him your champion.”

  Lady Meredith waved her hand dismissively. “That was ages ago. Besides, it was a challenge to bring him around. I like a challenge.”

  “I like a challenge, too,” Dorothea said, internally scoffing at the notion that the handsome marquess was genuinely interested in her. She was a country lass, with an unimpressive dowry and very little family connections. “But I fear the Marquess of Atwood is a trifle too high in the instep to have any true interest in me. And I cannot even contemplate trying to impress his father, the Duke of Hansborough.”

  “Still, this was your second dance,” Lady Meredith mused.

  Dorothea shrugged. “Perhaps he was showing an interest in me merely to vex his father.”

  “Stranger things have been known to happen. We shall assess his sincerity when he comes to call,” Lady Meredith decided.

  Dorothea’s eyes widened. “I do believe we are getting ahead of ourselves. Lord Atwood did not indicate that he would be calling upon me.”

  “That does not mean he won’t present himself on my doorstep,” the marquess grumbled. “Hat in one hand, flowers in the other. If he invites you on
a carriage ride, I insist that you bring Meredith along as a chaperone.”

  “Dashing young men his age drive those sporty phaetons, Trevor,” Lady Meredith said mildly. “There is only room for two. Where exactly am I to sit? On Lord Atwood’s lap?”

  “If you did, I would be forced to challenge him to a duel. ’Twould be a pity to end the life of one so young.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Lady Meredith reached across the table and placed her hand over her husband’s. He immediately turned his palm up and gripped Lady Meredith’s hand tightly. “There will be no duels, Trevor,” she said in a soft, yet insistent tone.

  “I protect my own,” the marquess said with exasperation, “and that includes Dorothea.”

  “Thank you,” Dorothea hastily replied. Though it was rather appalling to think of the marquess fighting a duel for her, it also heartened her to know there was someone who would stand by and make sure she was safe, guarded from any man who would abuse her.

  Her uncle Fletcher had not shown anything near the same level of concern for any of his three nieces, though he vowed to reform just before Dorothea came to London.

  “Of course you must protect her,” Lady Meredith said. “Using your intelligence and influence, not your sword or pistol.” Lady Meredith pulled her hand away and brushed a stray wisp of hair off her cheek. “Now, there shall be no more talk of violence. The very idea utterly ruins my appetite.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, the marquess nodded. He speared a delicate scallop with the tines of his fork and held it toward his wife. With an impish grin, she accepted the peace offering, her lips closing suggestively over the tasty morsel.

  Good. That was very nicely settled. Though she was far too often the cause of it, family discord always made Dorothea nervous. She was pleased that Lady Meredith and the marquess had so amicably settled their difference.