by Anita Mills
She gave him a pained look in the dimness of the carriage interior. “I thought I had made myself plain on that subject. And not even the promise that I shall be accepted by a group of selfish nobs could tempt me otherwise.”
“You know, Miss Cole, for someone who’s never been amongst the ton at all, you have deuced queer notions about how wellborn ladies behave.” He saw then that she was nervously twisting the folds of her gown in her lap, and his irritation faded to sympathy. Reaching across to still her hands, he smiled wryly. “Come—am I truly that difficult to take?”
“Yes, but I cannot expect you to understand it, I suppose,” she sighed. “You at least are gaining something for your sacrifice.”
“Have it your way.” He nodded, releasing her hands. “I am some ogre come to carry off your gold.”
When she did not answer, they lapsed into silence again until the coach drew up to the portals of Davenham House. He could sense her body tensing and he heard her exhale sharply as the coach halted. He jumped down and reached up to assist her to the ground, where he turned her around expertly and twitched her skirt into place.
“You seem to have much experience with women’s gowns,” she commented dryly while stepping back. “No doubt it comes from a long association with opera dancers.”
“An extremely improper comment from a lady, Miss Cole. It is indelicate for you to acknowledge the existence of such creatures—I trust you will remember that when we are inside.”
Another carriage rolled to a halt behind them, prompting Tony to offer his arm quickly. “For your papa’s sake, Miss Cole, remember that this is a love match,” he hissed. “Now, buck up, and call me Tony.”
11
Curiosity replaced Leah’s fears the moment J Stodgill admitted them to Davenham House itself. The place was grand—grander than her own home, in fact—and the atmosphere was decidedly aristocratic, from the tall portraits of Havinghurst and Barsett ancestors to the austere, museumlike character of the cavernous entry hall. Even the chandelier, suspended on a heavy brass- plated chain, hung a full two stories above them.
Directed to the ballroom at the rear of the house, Tony tucked her fingers in the crook of his arm and prepared for their grand entrance. Despite their leaving Jeptha Cole’s house early, they’d been stalled in streets clogged with carriages, making them late for their own betrothal party, and a number of guests already stood waiting to see Tony’s Cit. Conversations stopped in mid-sentence while the curious watched him present her to that grande dame of the ton, the dowager duchess herself, and then they queued up to meet the merchant’s daughter.
The frail dowager, rouged like an aging madam, pulled him down to plant a kiss on her wrinkled cheek before she acknowledged Leah. Leah, on the other hand, took in her hostess’s plumed turban and had to resist the urge to giggle. Her headdress bobbing with every dip of her head, the old lady craned her neck to greet her great-nephew.
“Dear boy! I vow I feared that you would miss your own betrothal party, and Bucky and I should look ridiculous without you! And this is Miss Cole?” The black eyes traveled sharply over Leah as though she could count every penny expended on her gown, and then she smiled. “Charmed to make your acquaintance, my dear—truly I am. I’d not thought to see Tony leg-shackled before his dotage, you know—made me fear the end of the Barsetts.” Extending two fingers to be shaken, she dipped her turban again in approval. But the duchess’s next words made Leah stiffen as the old woman spoke lower to Tony. “She will do, I think. No, no, do not take offense, my dear,” she told Leah. “One never knows until one sees one.”
“One what?” Leah’s voice was deceptively sweet as she faced the old woman. “A Cit?” She could feel the viscount’s arm tense beneath her fingers, but his determined smile never betrayed him.
“Well, she ain’t one of those milk-and-water misses, is she?” the duchess commented. “But she cannot care a chip what anyone says.” Turning once again to Leah, she bobbed her turban knowingly. “That’s not to say you won’t have much to bear with my scapegrace nevvy. He was right, you know—you are an Original. Bucky!”
A rather colorless female of indeterminate age hastened to the duchess’s side, her pale blue eyes beaming at Tony. “Is this—”
“Miss Cole,” the duchess cut in, “I present my companion, Mrs. Buckhaven—flighty, but she ain’t got a dissembling bone in her.”
“Mrs. Buckhaven.” Leah inclined her head politely.
“Oh, my lord, she is lovely,” the woman said breathily. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Cole.”
Somehow Leah managed to smile beneath the open appraisals of the men and the cold stares of the women as the duchess’s guests filed past her. Tony, on the other hand, chatted pleasantly with people whose names were synonymous with the haut ton itself.
The musicians struck up the first dance at almost the same time as the line ended, and Tony leaned to whisper for her ears alone, “You do waltz, do you not?”
“Will you cry off if I do not?”
“No.”
“Then I suppose I waltz.”
He led her through the expectant crowd and whirled her into his arms, and she immediately discovered the difference between an effeminate dance master and Anthony Barsett. At first, she hesitated, stiffening at the warm feel of his hands on her waist, but as he guided her gracefully across the polished floor in perfect time to the beautiful music, she began to relax. His arm tightened, pulling her closer until their bodies nearly touched. The fragrance of his Hungary water floated down to her, and despite its faintness, it was extremely pleasant. She was struck by two things as his arm tightened again and her gown brushed against his clothing—his strength and his obvious masculinity. At first, she found it difficult to concentrate on her steps within his embrace—it was no wonder that Byron had termed it the seductive waltz. Finally the loveliness of the music soothed her and she almost forgot her dislike of the man who held her.
“Lean into me—’tis a love match, remember.” He spoke softly, his breath on her ear sending a shiver down her spine.
“I don’t—” Before she could protest, he held her even closer, until she could rest her head against his broad, muscular shoulder. “My lord, this is most improper,” she protested low. “I insist you give me room to breathe.”
“Tony,” he reminded her. “And you are breathing—I can feel it when you do.”
She thought she ought to pull away, but then she did not truly wish to make a scene. Looking up at him, she realized her father had been right—Viscount Lyndon did look much like a Greek god. Studying him covertly though thick lashes, she had to admit she was not entirely invulnerable to his handsomeness. He was quite tall, probably six inches taller than she, and he wore that softly waving blond hair of his brushed forward in the classical style. His chin was well-defined, unlike some of the more inbred of the nobility she’d seen, his nose was as patrician as an ancient Roman’s and his eyes were the deep, brilliant blue of a lake on a bright summer’s day. The total effect was devastating to a female’s peace of mind.
“Well, do I pass your inspection, my dear?” he murmured with a slightly wry twist to his altogether too sensuous mouth.
She jumped guiltily and nearly missed a step. “I do not know what you mean, my lord,” she muttered. “I was but trying to appear interested, according to your instructions.”
“Well, are you?” He gazed lazily down, meeting your eyes.
“Of course not.”
“Then do keep up the pretense, for I quite enjoy it.”
“There is no end to your conceit, is there?”
He turned her expertly to the last notes of the waltz, and almost immediately she was claimed by a distant cousin of his. “I say, Lyndon,” the pleasant-faced man greeted Tony. “You cannot stay in her pocket all night—’twould be monstrous unfair to the rest of us.”
“Davenham,” Tony acknowledged. “Leah, you recall Arthur, from the receiving lin
e, do you not? He inherited from Aunt Hester’s husband.” His eyes twinkling as he handed her over, Tony bowed in her direction. “Sets are forming, my dear, and I collect he wishes to lead you out. Servant, Coz.”
Irritated by her betrothed’s almost cavalier dismissal of her, Leah flashed the expectant duke her most enchanting smile and took his arm. Tony, on the other hand, stepped back to watch them, his face sober for a moment, and then a satisfied smile warmed his eyes. For all her words and airs, Leah Cole was more like other females than she would care to admit. And he had not a doubt in the world that he could win her. Slowly he walked from the dance floor.
“I say, Tony—Miss Cole is an Incomparable!” Gil Renfield caught his sleeve to halt him. “It ain’t fair, but you have stolen the march on all of us, you know.” Leaning closer, he added under his breath, “But I own I was surprised to read you was marrying her—until I discovered her papa is Jeptha Cole.”
“Dashed shock,” Hugh Rivington murmured behind them, “but I daresay it don’t matter she’s a Cit when one counts the settlements. Give it to the duchess, though—thought of everything, didn’t she? Can’t understand why she invited Rotherfield, though, unless she wanted the tabbies to talk more about him than your Miss Cole.”
“Rotherfield—here?” Tony gave a surprised start and observed dryly, “ ’Tis not his sort of amusement.”
“Came in while you was dancing with Miss Cole. Thought you knew of it—I mean, he stood right here and watched you, didn’t he, Gil?”
“Uh-huh. Said she looked good enough to grace his table, if you could credit it.”
“Well, he’s—” Tony stopped in mid-sentence, his attention suddenly riveted on the dark-haired woman who stood in the doorway. “You will have to pardon me.”
“Now, I know the duchess did not invite her,” Gil said with certainty.
But Anthony Barsett had already left him standing as ι he moved quickly to intercept Elaine Chandler. He caught her before she’d actually entered the ballroom, but he was still too late—already her presence had been remarked, and there was a ripple of malicious interest moving through the crowd.
Looking over the duke’s shoulder, Leah saw her also and noted the smug glances. “That woman—the one over there—who is she?” she asked curiously, certain that something was amiss. Her partner looked where she directed, and in his shock, missed his step. “The woman in the green gown? Why . . . uh, I believe that is Mrs. Chandler.” He coughed apologetically and turned her away. “Can’t think that Aunt Hester meant to invite her. In fact . . .” His voice trailed off as he caught himself and shook his head. “ ’Tis no concern of yours, Miss Cole—Tony will tend to the matter, I am sure.”
Her interest now thoroughly aroused, Leah craned her neck uncomfortably for another glimpse of the beautiful Mrs. Chandler, and could not resist asking, “I collect she is one of Lyndon’s Other Interests then?” This time the duke went into a full paroxysm of coughing, and she knew she’d hit the mark.
“Miss Cole,” Davenham managed in strangled accents, “it is not a fitting subject to discuss with a lady.”
“As if I did not know of such things,” she scoffed, trying to appear unconcerned. “Besides, it is not as though this were a . . .” Biting back the worlds “love match,” she finished lamely, “Well, I daresay she is not, then, after all.” She had no intention of letting anyone other than Lord Lyndon himself know how very affronted she was.
Mercifully, the music finally ended, and she turned to leave the floor. Noting the malicious satisfaction of the women around her, she determined to find Barsett, despite the clamor of gentlemen who vied for the next dance with her. Involuntarily, her eyes went to the door—just as her betrothed took Mrs. Chandler’s arm and left the crowded ballroom. Resolving to hide her chagrin, Leah moved to stand alone in front of a row of tall potted ferns.
“Surely Hester did not invite that creature!” she heard someone on the other side exclaim in astonishment.
“I shouldn’t think so—but then she cannot approve of Lyndon’s betrothed either, can she? My dear, the chit positively smells of the shop!”
Tittery laughter came through the ferns as the first woman answered, “But what can she do about it, after all? I have heard his pockets were entirely let, and she cannot have wanted him hanging on her purse.”
“Well, I had it of Charlotte Edgeworth that Hester tolerates the situation because his circumstances were quite desperate, although they are giving out that it is a love match.”
“Nonetheless, ’tis lowering to think we shall be expected to receive the girl.”
“Well, I for one do not intend to do it. Oh, I shall not give her the cut direct—Tony can be such a hothead, and he will protect her, if for no reason than that she is to be his wife. I shall simply avoid her.”
“My dears, did you see that ridiculous gown?” Yet another voice joined the gossips, and it carried with wounding clarity. “She obviously aspires above her station.”
“Men are such fools—my own dear Bertrand stood like a gaping fool when he saw her. But of course it does not signify, for even he admits that she’s naught but an encroaching little Cit.”
“That dress must have cost a hundred guineas.”
Leah’s cheeks flamed dangerously, more from anger than hurt, anger that Tony had left her unprotected from their malice. Seething, she turned to confront them herself.
“You must not let the barbs of jealous females overset you, my dear. Before he lost his fortune, most of those same tabbies had hopes that Lyndon could be brought up to scratch for their silly daughters.”
She spun around at the sound of a very masculine voice and was startled to see the strikingly handsome man behind her. Her eyes widened, taking in his tall, well-proportioned frame, his raven-black hair, black eyes, and sardonic smile. He was attired almost entirely in black, save for his snowy white shirt and cravat, and even those were extremely plain above his black silk waistcoat. Large diamond shirt studs that winked in the light were his only apparent affectation. “Lord Rotherfield.” She brightened, glad for the diversion. “So kind of you to come.”
He bowed slightly, surprised by the warmth in her voice. “I am seldom kind, Miss Cole.” His black eyes met hers and held steadily. And then one eyebrow rose skeptically. “Dear me, can it be that you are unafraid of this notorious earl?”
There was a bitter inflection on the last words that roused her curiosity. “You have the advantage of me, sir, for I scarce know you,” she admitted candidly. “But I am pleased to further the acquaintance.”
“Do not be so certain of that, Miss Cole. The stories told of me are seldom pleasant.”
Startled by his frankness, she shook her head. “Well, I daresay gossip never gives the right of anything, my lord. You do not appear . . .”
“Evil,” he supplied when she hesitated.
“Well, I was not going to say that, precisely. Indeed, you appear less frightening to me than half of the people in this room.”
“Then I may have the pleasure of this dance?”
Her eyes strayed to the empty doorway, a gesture he did not miss, for he said, “Yes, I believe Lyndon is occupied just now, but if you fear that he will be displeased—”
“Oh no! No, of course not!” The reminder of her betrothed’s outrageous behavior was enough to make her reckless. “It is not very much to the point what Lord Lyndon chooses to think, anyway, my lord.”
“Then?”
“I should enjoy it.”
Noting the gasps from those members of the haut ton they passed, Leah felt a certain sense of satisfaction as Rotherfield led heir onto the floor and put his hand on her waist. She might shock them, but at least she would not be an object of false sympathy. To her pleasure, the earl proved to be an excellent dancer, nearly as light on his feet and as graceful as Anthony Barsett. Moreover, his conduct was correct in the extreme, and unlike her unwanted betrothed, he did not keep pulling her cl
oser.
“You dance quite well, Miss Cole,” he observed quietly.
“Thank you. Does it surprise you that a Cit can dance?”
“Certainly not, my dear. Had I wished to say such to you, I would have.”
“My apologies, my lord. Not knowing Rotherfield, I did not know that.”
“At least you speak your mind, do you not? I was afraid you would prove to be one of those simpering misses who are all looks and no brains, but I find myself mistaken.” A faint smile played at his lips, softening the harsh handsomeness of his face. “One word of advice, Miss Cole—you must forget you are a Cit before anyone else will. And above all, to rise to the gossip’s bait is fatal. Ignore them as I have done, and they will seek their sport elsewhere. I know.”
At the end of the music, he led her back through the crush of people to the refreshment table, where he stood conversing with her for several minutes. But even as she spoke with Rotherfield, she cast about the room for her missing betrothed.
“As for my second word of advice,” the earl murmured low, “you must not appear to be in Lyndon’s pocket. He will come to expect it.”
At that moment Lyndon chose to reappear in the doorway with the lovely Elaine Chandler hanging on his arm. His face was flushed, and to Leah it was obvious that they had been enjoying an intimate tête-à-tête somewhere. Her sense of ill-usage complete, Leah turned impulsively to the earl.
“I should like to go home.”
At first Rotherfield was not certain he’d heard her aright, and he shook his head. “You cannot wish to give up the field to the gossips, my dear.”
“No, I wish to leave Lyndon here,” she snapped tersely. “I should prefer they laugh at him rather than me.” Looking up at her companion’s intrigued expression, she asked suddenly, “Do you have a carriage here, my lord?”
“I did not come in a rented hackney, Miss Cole.”
“Then would you be so kind as to take me home?”
“You wish to leave with me?” His black eyebrow shot up in surprise. “Are you quite certain you have considered the consequences?” he asked gently. “Association with me is dangerous—and Lyndon will be angered.”