by Olivia Drake
However, identifying the culprit wasn’t her sole purpose. She also would relish the chance to thumb her nose at Lucas and prove him wrong to condemn her as a scandalous flirt. Devil take that starchy man!
“I’ve no wish to call attention to myself at the ball,” Rory said. “That’s why I wanted to keep quiet about it, to ward off the busybodies.”
“Now it’s my fault that Mrs. Edgerton knows you’re Lady Dashell’s companion.” Celeste woefully dipped her chin. “How stupid of me not to have realized I wasn’t supposed to tell. Can you ever forgive me?”
Rory gave her sister a quick hug. “There’s nothing to forgive, darling. The woman would have found out soon enough. And anyway, she doesn’t know that I’m about to reenter society. One can only imagine how her tongue would wag about that.”
“She is a terrible gossip. I wonder what she says behind my back.”
“She says you’re a lovely girl, I’m sure. And remember, once you are the Duchess of Whittingham, you will enjoy seeing her curtsy to you.”
The brightness suddenly fled Celeste’s face. Her eyes turned tragic as if she’d put the betrothal out of her mind and regretted the reminder of it.
As she spun around to poke through the wardrobe, plucking at the gauzes and silks, the huge diamond engagement ring on her finger flashed in the candlelight. “It’s odd to think of people bowing and scraping to me. I know nothing about being a duchess.”
The quiver of distress in her sister’s voice touched Rory’s heart. She turned Celeste around to see that she was biting her lower lip. “You’d make a fine duchess. But are you sure about this marriage, Ce-Ce? Whittingham seems far too old and stodgy for you.”
“He’s very kind … and generous, too. He gives me lots of gifts.”
“So does a father. But you need a husband whom you love with all your heart and soul. Can you truly say the duke is that man?”
Celeste blinked as a rush of tears turned her blue eyes watery. She buried her face in her hands, and a choked little sob escaped her throat. “Oh, don’t ask me that, Rory! Please don’t. I—I daren’t say!”
Rory gathered her sister close and let her weep. She was torn between concern for Celeste and anger at Kitty. Clearly, her stepmother was fulfilling her own selfish ambitions without a care for her daughter’s happiness.
Rory pressed a folded handkerchief into her sister’s hand. “Oh, Ce-Ce, you needn’t feel obliged to marry Whittingham. You should have an honest talk with your mother and tell her your concerns about this wedding.”
“I—I’ve already tried.” Celeste dabbed at her wet face, her fair lashes sparkling with tears. “But she’s so thrilled about my betrothal. She wants me to be a duchess. I couldn’t bear to disappoint her!”
“You mustn’t consign yourself to misery simply to please her. It isn’t too late to stand up for yourself. Tell the duke that you were wrong to accept him. Apologize to him and beg his pardon. He will likely rant at you, but that’s better than a lifetime of unhappiness.”
“I wouldn’t dare! I’m not as brave as you. I never was.”
Rory brushed a warm tear from her sister’s cheek. “You certainly can be. You just have to believe in yourself and stay firm. Don’t let anyone force you into a marriage that you don’t want. You’re only eighteen, and you’ve plenty of time to meet a man you can love with all your heart.”
Her sister glanced away. The candlelight shone on her damp cheeks and she lowered her lashes in a secretive look that caught Rory’s attention. Had Celeste formed a romantic attachment to someone else? Who was he?
Rory remembered the enthusiastic manner in which Lord Henry and his friend Perry Davenport had spoken of Celeste. They had both seemed enamored of her, but at the time, she hadn’t thought much of the matter.
She tilted her sister’s face back toward her. “Look at me, Ce-Ce, and tell me the truth. Are you already in love with another man?”
Her eyes grew wide and guilty. “If you must know, yes,” she uttered in a wretched tone. “He’s so easy to talk to and much closer to me in age. But he’s only a second son. He hasn’t any funds and he can’t afford a wife just now. Perhaps in a year or two, but by then it will be too late!”
Lord Henry was a second son. Was he the secret object of Celeste’s affections? The rest of the description fit him, as well. Lucas was deeply in debt, so it stood to reason that his younger brother must be penniless as well. Also, Lord Henry would be better able to support a bride in a year or two, once Lucas secured Miss Kipling’s substantial marriage portion.
“Will you tell me his name?” Rory asked. “Perhaps I can speak to him on your behalf and find out just how dire his financial situation is.”
Celeste violently shook her head. “No! If he learns how unhappy I am, he’d feel obliged to call out the duke. I don’t want him to do anything rash!”
He was a young hothead, then, who had cast himself in the role of her knight in shining armor. That image also pointed to Lord Henry. But if Celeste didn’t want to reveal his identity, then Rory had to respect her wishes.
“All right, darling. I won’t press you. Now dry your eyes and find a ball gown for me.”
Celeste seemed relieved to put aside their conversation. She turned around to search through the wardrobe, sifting through an array of organdy skirts, figured white gauze, and soft pastel silks. She drew out a gown from deep inside the cabinet, a bronze watered silk with a cream ribbon cinching the waist. “This one would look stunning with your black hair. And Mama says it’s a tad too dark for a debutante, anyway. What do you think?”
Rory held the gown up to herself in front of the pier glass. For a wistful moment, she saw herself as a young lady again, exuberant with hopes and dreams. But that girl was gone forever. “It’s perfect. Thank you, Ce-Ce.”
“You’ll need a few day dresses, too. Take the leaf-green muslin. And this pink silk with the pearl buttons.”
Rory laughed as Celeste piled up several more gowns. “Enough! I can’t possibly carry all of these to Dashell House.”
“Did you walk here?” Celeste looked appalled by the notion. “You mustn’t do so on your return. It’s nighttime and there may be footpads.”
“Grosvenor Square isn’t too awfully distant. I’ll be fine.”
Just then, a rapping on the outer door made Celeste spin around. “His Grace must have arrived. I must go downstairs at once.”
More cheerful now, she seemed to have overcome her despondent mood. Rory had the distinct impression that her sister had come to a decision. In fact, a strange excitement made her eyes shine as brilliant as sapphires.
“Have you decided to break off with Whittingham?” Rory asked.
“Not quite yet,” Celeste said evasively. “But I shall give it serious consideration, you may be sure. Now, do pick out some bonnets and reticules to go with the gowns. Take whatever you like! And thank you ever so much. You’ve been a huge help!”
Blowing a kiss, she hastened to the door. Rory followed in time to see her murmur something to Grimshaw in the corridor. Then her sister headed down the passageway with a girlish spring to her steps.
What had Celeste decided? Would she listen to her heart and wait for her young gentleman? Was Lord Henry that mystery man? Oh, if only they’d had more time to discuss the matter!
Grimshaw gazed down his long nose at Rory. “Miss Celeste has requested that I summon the carriage for you. In the meantime, it would be obliging if you had a word with that drunken sailor in the kitchen.”
“Murdock?” Rory swallowed a laugh, imagining the butler’s disgust at seeing Aunt Bernice’s manservant tippling a jug of rum. “If he’s a bother, just send him off to bed.”
“He is sprawled out snoring on the floor of the pantry. Cook is quite beside herself. I will not tolerate such debauchery in this house!”
“I’ll have my aunt wake him later.” As far as Rory was concerned, Grimshaw could suffer the problem himself. Meanwhile, seeing the butler reminded h
er of something more important. “By the way, I ran into Foster earlier in the garden. She said that you had granted her permission to leave.”
To Rory’s surprise, he shifted his gaze in a cagy manner before recovering his usual haughty aplomb. “Her mother has taken ill.”
“Will she return tonight?”
“Yes. It is only a brief visit to deliver medications.”
That was odd, for Rory hadn’t noticed the maidservant carrying anything. “What ails her mother?”
“I wouldn’t know, miss. If you will excuse me, I shall order the carriage.”
Rory watched as Grimshaw vanished through the door to the servants’ staircase. His eagerness to depart stirred her suspicions. It was almost as if he were trying to escape her questions. But why?
Why would he not want her to inquire about Foster’s purpose? Was the woman’s mother not really ill? Had the maidservant gone off on some other clandestine errand?
Rory pondered the mystery. If Grimshaw was covering for Foster, then that would indicate a close comradeship between the two. Was it possible they were in cahoots over the blackmail scheme?
Chapter 15
Gossip is the lifeblood of the upper crust.
—MISS CELLANY
Had Rory known the shock that awaited her at Lord Tinsley’s ball, she might have considered staying away. That shock had nothing to do with her being snubbed by the ton, since Lady Dashell snared most of the attention.
From the moment Lucas wheeled his mother into the entrance hall with its marble columns and domed ceiling, the marchioness became the belle of the ball. The huge room hummed with excitement as many guests came forward to express their delight at her recovery.
Lord Tinsley, a bull-necked man with coarse gray brows, paid no heed to Rory in the receiving line. He had eyes only for Lady Dashell as he kissed her gloved hand. “My dear Prudence, I’m honored that you would make your reappearance here at my home. I trust you are feeling better?”
“I’m an invalid stuck in a chair, so what do you suppose? But at least you will not feel obliged to dance with me anymore!”
Lord Tinsley chuckled. “I see that the long convalescence hasn’t dulled your wits in the least. You’ve still the same sharp tongue as ever.”
As Lucas navigated the wheeled chair through the crowd, Rory noticed that people seemed in awe of the marchioness despite her biting manner. They approached her with reverence as if being granted an audience by the Queen. Lady Dashell relished the attention, and with all the hubbub, it took quite a while to inch their way toward the grand staircase.
Lord Henry escorted Rory and Aunt Bernice, offering an arm to each lady. They walked directly behind Lucas and the marchioness. Lord Henry seemed in a high humor, and Rory wondered if Celeste had told him that she might cry off her betrothal. There was no chance to ask. Upon learning that Bernice had known his mother as a girl, Henry turned his full attention to the older woman, teasing her with playful questions and impertinent commentary.
Rory didn’t mind. It suited her to be overlooked. Arrayed in the bronze silk gown with the cream sash, she felt pretty for the first time in years. The festive atmosphere stirred a glow of excitement beneath her skin. Her senses feasted on the sight of ladies in fashionable dresses, the buzz of conversation and the tinkle of laughter, the fragrance of expensive perfumes. She hadn’t realized until this moment just how much she had missed being a part of society. She basked in the happy anticipation of dancing, conversing, flirting.
But of course, flirting was taboo. Lucas had made that abundantly clear. He didn’t approve of his mother keeping company with a scandalous flirt.
She glowered at his back as he rolled the chair just ahead of her. The formal black coat fit his wide shoulders to perfection, nipping in slightly to skim the lean contour of his waist. She was close enough to see that his coffee-brown hair curled ever so slightly against his stark white collar. The mad urge to touch those thick strands consumed her.
How unwise of her to admire him. Had she learned nothing from her past mistakes? A woman should derive contentment from her own life rather than needing a man to make her happy. That was why she had devoted herself to essay writing.
If the editorial she’d mailed to The Weekly Verdict the previous day was accepted for publication, she hoped that Lucas would read her scathing denunciation of aristocratic marriages. Wouldn’t he be appalled to learn she was the elusive Miss Cellany? Not that she cared a fig for his stuffy opinions.
Nevertheless, he had a commanding presence that held her attention. He must never know she had fantasies of him sweeping her to his bed where he would strip off her clothes and kiss her senseless. Those daydreams always ended with her feeling overheated and dissatisfied.
It served no purpose to desire him. Lucas could never be hers—nor did she wish him to be. She led a very fulfilling life already. And he had all but announced his betrothal to a lady who was everything that Rory was not: young, innocent, and most of all, fabulously wealthy.
Rory had nothing but the promise of that reward money from Kitty.
That was the real reason she was here tonight. To nose around for information about the two dissolute cronies of Lucas’s father. Lord Ralph Newcombe was hosting a card party at his house tonight, but she hoped to run into Colonel Hugo Flanders here.
Reaching the base of the grand staircase, Lucas signaled to a pair of footmen. Then he stepped to the side of the chair to address his mother. “I’ll need to carry you, Mama.”
With easy masculine grace, he scooped his mother up into his arms while the footmen transported the wheeled invalid’s chair up the staircase. The skirt of her claret satin gown lay draped over his sleeve and she grabbed at his neck for support.
“How pitiful I am,” she groused. “I am reduced to being held like a baby.”
“You cradled me like this as an infant, so now I’m more than happy to return the favor.”
The frank way he smiled at his mother made Rory go soppy inside. His face revealed such affection that her heart melted into a puddle. Why couldn’t he regard her with even a smidgen of such warmth? He hadn’t smiled at her at all since his mother had announced her intention to bring Rory to this ball.
She and Lucas had spent the day much like the previous one in a futile search of pawnshops and jewelers. Once again she had played the role of his mistress. She had batted her eyelashes coquettishly and teased him with leading comments. But today he had reverted to his habitual reserved manner. She had not been able to goad him into speaking more than a few words. It was as if their brief camaraderie had never existed.
It was better this way, Rory told herself. They could never be friends. Once they identified the blackmailer and recovered the stolen letters, she would return to Norfolk with her aunt. Lucas would marry his heiress. Their paths weren’t likely to cross ever again. So why did that prospect dispirit her?
At the top of the stairs, he settled his mother back into the chair. Their party headed toward the arched doorway of the ballroom, where a white-wigged majordomo in blue livery announced the arrival of each guest.
The marchioness craned her neck around and beckoned to Rory. “Don’t hide back there, Miss Paxton. Stand beside me. I want everyone to take a gander at you. There’s nothing I like more than a titillating scandal.”
Lucas frowned. “A companion requires no introduction, Mama.”
Rory flashed him a defiant look as she stepped forward. “This is your mother’s night. We should allow her to make that decision.”
He regarded Rory with that granite mask, his jaw firm, his lips taut. She couldn’t tell if he scorned her, or if he was just worried Miss Alice Kipling was about to learn that he’d employed a ruined woman.
But he was not indifferent to her, Rory judged. The force of his gaze revealed a keen awareness of her. It made her tingle all over and stirred her feminine vanity. Did he like what he saw? Did he appreciate the care she’d taken with her upswept curls and the new gown?
It shouldn’t matter. She was merely a servant to Lucas. And an impudent one, at that.
Lady Dashell made another imperious wave of her hand. “Bernice, you come forward, too. Henry, go and tell that fellow their names.”
“Your wish is my command, Mama.” With a devilish grin, Lord Henry stepped away to speak to the majordomo.
Lucas steered his mother into the ballroom as the manservant intoned, “Lord Dashell and Lady Dashell.”
Rory and her aunt dutifully walked on either side of the marchioness. Her heart fluttered, and Rory flushed with dread at having the attention drawn to herself. She told herself not to feel nervous, but her body seemed to have a mind of its own.
The majordomo boomed their names. “Miss Aurora Paxton and Mrs. Bernice Culpepper.”
A brief lull interrupted the hum of conversation. People craned their heads to stare. Then an animated hiss of voices arose as ladies whispered to one another behind their fans and gentlemen lifted their monocles to squint at her. One matron appeared to be lecturing a fresh-faced debutante who, along with a group of her friends, turned to gawk and giggle.
Despite her bravado, Rory felt like a pet monkey on display. These aristocrats must be warning their daughters not to behave like the infamous Miss Paxton. She had been one of those girls a long time ago. In fact, she had attended a party in this very ballroom. She remembered the decorative gilt woodwork on the white walls that made the place resemble an enchanted palace. Dark blue netting had been draped from the ceiling so that the candles in the crystal chandeliers twinkled like stars against the midnight sky.
The fairy tale had ended for her, though. She had thrown it all away for a silver-tongued seducer who’d wanted only to lift her skirts for his own pleasure.
Rory felt wretchedly alone now. A quiver of cowardice rippled through her. Yet she elevated her chin and surveyed the throngs as if she were the Queen herself. She would not quail before these judgmental snobs. She had already been tried and found guilty in the court of public opinion, and she had paid for her crime by serving eight years of exile. If that wasn’t good enough to suit these small-minded gossips, then she wanted nothing to do with them.