The Double Wager

by Mary Balogh

  Henry's flagging interest perked. "Eversleigh?" she asked. "You mean the duke?"

  "He never goes to balls," said Althea. "Mama says he is coming to ours only because I am his cousin. I really wish lie would not feel obliged, Henrietta."

  "Pooh," said that interested lady. "I should not be afraid lo dance with him." And her mind was feverishly trying to calculate dates. Would she have time enough to pull it off?

  Chapter 3

  The Duke of Eversleigh spent the afternoon before his cousin's ball with Suzanne Broughton. There was the usual large gathering of visitors in her drawing room during the afternoon-predominantly male, hangers-on who were attracted by her mature self-assurance, her wealth, and her air of independence. She was a woman who was closer to thirty than she cared to admit.

  Eversleigh stayed aloof, not participating to any great extent in the general conversation. His usual air of boredom and cynicism discouraged anyone from trying too hard to engage his attention. His heir and cousin, Oliver Cranshawe, was a particular victim of the duke's chilling manner.

  "Why, Marius," he greeted his cousin heartily on first entering the room, "still dangling after the lovely widow? I certainly cannot fault your taste. The competition seems rather stiff, though, eh?" He favored Eversleigh with the full blaze of his very white, very dazzling smile, the same, smile with which he had bewitched many women.

  Unfortunately, Eversleigh seemed impervious to his charm. He raised his quizzing glass with one languid hand and proceeded to subject his heir to a thorough and unhurried examination. The glass passed over the artful disarray of blond, wavy hair the handsome, smiling face, the skintight coat of blue superfine, and the froth of white lace at neck and wrists. It took careful note of the fobs and chains and the numerous rings that adorned Cranshawe's person, and of the jeweled snuffbox clasped in his hand.

  "Ah, Oliver," he said chillingly at last, lowering the Jass. "Trying to cast all of the other gallants into the hade, dear boy?"

  The smile tightened on Cranshawe's face, but before he had a chance to say more or to move away, Eversleigh rose unhurriedly to his feet and sauntered over to stand by the chair of Mrs. Broughton, who was in animated conversation with two very young worshipers.

  "Suzanne," Eversleigh said, interrupting as soon as there was a pause in the talk, "shall we begin that drive in the park? If we do not leave soon, the exercise will be quite pointless. There will be no one else there to criticize, and no one to admire us."

  The two young men smiled uncertainly, not at all sure whether this speech, delivered with an expression of utter boredom, was meant jokingly or not. Suzanne saved them from further embarrassment by leaping to her feet and lapping her hands to focus all attention her way.

  "I do thank you all for calling," she said, smiling with the warm charm that made many men her slaves, "but I have promised to ride out with Marius."

  The room cleared like magic. Suzanne went upstairs to change into a carriage dress and outdoor garments. Eversleigh prowled the empty drawing room and stopped to stare frowningly into the unlit fireplace. After a few moments he turned abruptly and left the room. He climbed the second staircase and strode along the corridor to Suzanne's dressing room.

  He opened the door without knocking and held it until Suzanne, glancing inquiringly at him, had dismissed her mind, who was in the process of buttoning up the back of her dress.

  "Marius," she said with mild reproach after the door had closed, "I have just changed my dress on your instructions and have not had an outing yet today. Are you now to tell me that we are not to drive out, after all? How tiresome you are sometimes."

  "Don't be coy, Suzanne," he said, advancing into the room and moving to her back to reverse the process with the buttons that the maid had begun. "Today I need you."

  "Do you indeed, your Grace?" she cried, whisking herself around to face him. "And why is need such a one-way process? What about the times when I want you? It seems to me that you come to me only when you feel the need. That is not as often as it could be, Marius."

  Eversleigh's gaze was inscrutable. He looked at her for a long time through his half-closed lids. "Do you mean to put leading strings on me, Suzanne?" he asked softly. "I assure you no one has ever succeeded."

  Suzanne perceived her error immediately. She laughed seductively and wrapped her arms about her lover's neck. "Marius," she said, "I am merely cross because I am wearing a new dress and was looking forward to bringing every gentleman in the park to his knees, and to turning every other woman green-eyed. And then, in you carne, and without even a word of appreciation, you started to remove it." She gazed meltingly into his eyes.

  Eversleigh held her at arm's length and let his eyes move slowly and suggestively down the length of her body.

  "It is an uncommonly handsome dress," he conceded at last. "But, you see, my dear, I happen to know that what is beneath it is infinitely more handsome."

  "Oh, Marius," she breathed softly and with some relief, "you are a shameless flatterer."

  Half an hour later, they lay quietly in each other's arms in a large four-poster bed in that warm, drowsy mood that succeeds a session of lovemaking that has been thoroughly satisfactory to both partners.

  "Marius," Suzanne murmured, kissing his chin and burrowing closer to his warm, naked body, "I am so glad we forgot about the carriage ride. This has proved much more satisfactory. And the dress can wait for another day."

  "My sentiments entirely," he replied, looking down his nose at her. "We certainly have had more exercise than we would have had riding in a carriage." She chuckled throatily. "I do hope that I have not deprived you of all outdoor air for the day, though."

  "Oh, no," she replied. "I have a ball to attend tonight."

  "Ah. The Lambert one?" he asked.

  "Yes, how did you know? You never seem to know what social events are taking place, Marius," she said.

  "My aunt, you know," he said evasively. "Cousin's come-out. I have to put in an appearance as head of the family."

  She laughed merrily. "Marius! When have you ever worried about family duty? I don't believe it. You are more than likely going just to tease all the mamas and raise their hopes to fever pitch. You are very cruel."

  He did not reply or move at all.

  "Never fear, my love," she continued, laughter in her voice. "If you need rescuing, I shall be there. And I think you could get away with dancing with me more than the accepted two dances. I am beyond the age of drawing gossip too easily."

  "You are too kind, my dear," he said dryly. I do fully expect to survive the ordeal. I shall certainly dance with you once, however. Shall we say the first waltz?"

  "I shall write it on my card," she said, hiding her mortification under a flippant air.

  'Now, much as I should like to renew our, er, exercising, I really think it is time we both began to beautify ourselves for the evening's merriment," Eversleigh said, disentangling himself from his mistress's soft body and hauling himself to a sitting position on the edge of the bed.

  "I shall see you there, then, Marius," Suzanne said, curling into the warmth left by his body beneath the bedclothes. His silent attention to the task of clothing himself completed her disappointment. He was not, then, going to offer to escort her to the ball.

  **********************************************************************************

  Henry was ready. She stared glumly at her reflection in a full-length mirror in the dressing room she had been allotted in the home of the Earl of Lambert. She looked like any other empty-headed girl of the ton, she decided, with nothing to fill the empty space between her ears except dreams of catching a rich and titled husband. She wore a high-waisted gown of white lace over a pale-peach satin underdress. Peach ribbons were tied in an intricate bow beneath her breasts and fell to the hemline, where they drew attention to the orange satin slippers peeping from beneath the gown. The dress had short, puffed sleeves and dipped into a modestly low, scalloped neckline. She wore a single
strand of pearls that Peter had presented her with that afternoon. White elbow-length gloves and an ivory fan completed the outfit. Henry was quite disgusted as the maid, who had been sent to her by the countess stood behind her and smiled into the mirror.

  "Ooh, you do look a picture, miss," she said in admiration.

  Henry smiled grimly back and headed for the door. "Time to go down to the drawing room. The receiving line will be forming soon, I suppose," she said.

  As she reached the door, it opened from the other side and Lady Tallant came in. "Henrietta, my dear," she gushed, the plumes in her hair nodding in approval, "you look remarkably pretty. Do let us hasten downstairs. We must not keep the earl and countess waiting."

  Henry hardly admitted to herself as she followed her sister-in-law meekly down the stairs that she felt a little nervous. Not that she cared a fig for dancing, of course, or for the opinions of all the people who would be coming to look her over. But 'she did wonder if the Duke of Eversleigh really would put in an appearance and what type of man this was that she was supposed to lure into a proposal. She did not feel any doubts about her own success if only the man would not neglect to come.

  She was feeling quite anxious an hour and a half later. She had been standing in the receiving line with the Earl and Countess of Lambert, the Honorable Althea, Sir Peter and Lady Marian, shaking hands with and curtsying to so many people that she was convinced that her right hand must be swollen to twice its normal size and that the smile on her face must be frozen there forever. She was thoroughly sick of answering impertinent questions from all the old tabbies and of being ogled by the young bucks and sized up critically by the young ladies. But when she and Althea were told that they could leave the line and begin the dancing, the Duke of Eversleigh had still not arrived.

  An hour later, it seemed that Henry was destined to be a moderate success. Although she had not attracted the attention of any important member of the ton, she had been partnered for all dances except one, and that one was a waltz. Knowing that this was her first ball, the gentlemen tactfully left her on the sidelines, realizing that she would not yet have been granted permission to waltz by any of the patronesses of Almack's. It would have been death to any girl's social reputation to waltz until such approval had been given. The older ladies and chaperones who lined the walls of the ballroom (those, that is, who had not retired to the card room) looked on her, if not with open friendliness, at least with tolerance. Two of them, it is true, had commented on the deplorable color of her skin.

  "Foreign blood, you may be sure," one of them said.

  "Or else she has been exposed to the sun," the other suggested.

  "Surely not," said the first. "Her brother, Sir Peter Tallant, is a most gentlemanly man."

  "I hear she has only recently arrived in town," the second continued. "I do believe she has some freckles, too.

  The other drew herself erect and regarded Henry with piercing disapproval. She looked offended that she had been invited to the come-out of a sunburned, freckled girl.

  Henry was accepting a glass of lemonade from a very linen pleasant-faced young man, when Althea, who had been standing close by, grabbed her suddenly by the arm and caused her to spill some of the liquid down the front of her gown.

  "Oh, I am frightfully sorry, Henrietta!" she apologized, dabbing ineffectively at the lace with her gloved hands. "He's here, Henrietta. What am I to do?" She turned her back to the doorway of the ballroom, trying to appear inconspicuous.

  Henry stared with open curiosity at the man who stood in the doorway. She was hardly encouraged by what she saw. The man was tall and gracefully slim, though there was a disturbing suggestion of strength about his shoulders and chest. He had a disconcertingly strong and handsome face. His coat and knee breeches were unrelieved black, his linen a crisp and sparkling white. He looked completely unself-conscious, though his arrival had caused a very noticeable stir among the gathered company. He was surveying the guests unhurriedly through a quizzing glass. The word impossible had never been part of Henry's vocabulary, but she had a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach that winning her wager was going to be the biggest challenge of her life.

  As she (and the majority of the assembled guests) watched, the Countess of Lambert swept up to the duke and took his arm in a gesture of deliberate familiarity. He lowered his glass and looked at her from beneath sleepy eyelids.

  Henry's stomach became decidedly queasy as the two figures came closer. She could almost understand why Althea was so afraid of this man. The countess was quite unconcerned with the presence of Henry and her young swain. She was intent only on presenting her cousin to her daughter and seeing them partnered for the next dance, a quadrille. For her, this was the coup of the Season. The success of her daughter was now assured.

  Eversleigh danced with two more partners, each a young and flustered debutante. The boredom and cynicism of his expression did not change as his partners blushed and fluttered and giggled through the experience of dancing with the most eligible and most elusive bachelor in London.

  Oliver Cranshawe, who had emerged from the card room in time to witness this extraordinary behavior of his cousin, moved gradually closer to Suzanne Broughton, who was not dancing, but who was surrounded by her usual court of admirers.

  "So, my dear Suzanne," he commented when her attention moved his way, "you are being upstaged tonight?"

  "Upstaged?" she queried, viewing him with hauteur. "Whatever do you mean, Oliver?"

  "I see that Marius is eyeing all the little girls," he said, smiling charmingly, as if he had just complimented her on her gown.

  She laughed airily. "Poor Marius!" she tittered. "He has been afflicted with a case of family duty, Oliver. Althea is his cousin, you know."

  "Really?" he drawled. "It is surely the first case of its kind that I have ever known. He could not be dangling after a wife, could he?"

  "Don't be ridiculous, Oliver," Suzanne said more sharply than she had intended. "Can you imagine Marius with a young girl? He would die of boredom in a fortnight."

  "That sure of yourself, are you, Suzanne?" Cranshawe asked, a glint of something unpleasant in his eyes. "I think we had better keep a close eye on his Grace, my dear. We do have a common interest in the matter after all, do we not?"

  She did not pretend to misunderstand him, though she did not reply. She turned her attention back to the group of gentlemen who were still waiting in the vicinity.

  Eversleigh returned his second partner to her chaperone and stood alone close to the doorway. He looked as if lie would dearly love to escape, Henry thought as she too stood momentarily alone at the other side of the ballroom. In fact, she was very much afraid that he would escape soon and that she would have lost perhaps her only chance to meet him within the time period of her wager. She did not know how to attract his attention. She had considered asking the countess or Althea to introduce them, but that seemed too brazen even for her. But something had to be done fast.

  As she pondered the problem, a young gentleman with whom she had already danced once asked her to partner him in the next dance, too. She gave him a brilliant smile.

  "It is so kind of you to ask," she said, "but I am afraid I have already promised the next one. Perhaps later? And excuse me, please. I must go to the ladies' room."

  While the young man blushed at such plain speaking, Henry determinedly circled the dance floor past groups of chatting people until she was within a few feet of the duke. She took a deep breath, turned her head back over her shoulder as if someone behind her had called her name, and increased her pace. She stopped only when her body came into sharp contact with a very firm chest and when his foot was beneath her slipper, his chin cracking on her skull, and his hands clasping her upper arms.

  "Oh!" she cried, blushing and flustered as she stepped back and raised large, hazel eyes to his lazy blue ones. "How clumsy of me. I am so sorry, sir. Did I hurt you?"

  The Duke of Eversleigh found himself looking down at a m
op of auburn hair that looked slightly unruly, with its ivory-colored ribbon somewhat askew, and beneath it a flushed, sunburned face with sparkling eyes and-yes, definitely-a cluster of freckles across the nose. His hand wandered to the handle of his quizzing glass, but he did not raise it.

  "My fault entirely, ma'am," he said unsmilingly. "I should not have been standing in the doorway."

  "No, really, she insisted brightly, "Papa always did say I was a clumsy ox."

  "Indeed!" he said. "I could hardly be expected to corroborate that opinion, now, could I?"

  "It is just good for you that I was not wearing boots," she said, smiling impishly into his impassive face.

  "Indeed, they would not complement your gown, ma am," he conceded.

  Henry giggled openly. "You do not appear to be enjoying the ball immensely, sir," she said.

  He bowed stiffly. "Marius Devron, Duke of Eversleigh, at your service, ma'am," he said. "We appear to be attracting attention. Would you do me the honor of dancing with me?" He grasped her lightly by the elbow and moved her forward to the dance floor.

  "Oh, I am pleased to meet you, your Grace," Henry said brightly. "I'm Henry."

  He paused for just a moment. "Henry?" he asked faintly, his hand straying again to his quizzing glass.

  "Henrietta Wilhelmina Tallant, actually," she said candidly. "Is it not a dreadful mouthful? And only my mortal enemies call me Henrietta. It always makes me think of a fat, big-bosomed lady with pale hair and puffy face, reclining on a sofa with a lapdog and a dish of bonbons. "

  The blue eyes beneath the half-closed lids took on a distinct gleam. "I believe I had better call you Miss Tallant," Eversleigh said.

  Henry had noticed the gleam.- "Oh, dear," she said contritely, "my wretched tongue! I should not have mentioned bosoms, should I? Indeed, Giles warned me about it just a few weeks ago, when I embarrassed poor George and Douglas so. But I forgot already."