Her eyes went to his mouth. His lips beckoned her forward.
His hand moved to the back of her neck.
“Lady Rachel!”
Reuben retracted his hand and moved away.
Rachel’s eyes widened, and she fell into a curtsey. “Lord Castell!” She rose and smiled up at him. “Lord Castell.” She’d met the Duke of Yall’s son on more than one occasion, but like many lords who tried to avoid the marriage market, he stayed away from society functions.
Her cheeks warmed at being caught, even though she and Reuben hadn’t done anything. She prayed Castell said nothing about it.
The prince grinned. He was thin, but tall, and when he smiled, he could be quite dashing. He looked like his mother with dark blond hair and brown eyes. “I was looking for you. I heard you were dancing tonight. I didn’t want to miss an opportunity.”
“Oh.” She glanced over at Reuben, and couldn’t help but notice how the prince said nothing to him, not even taking the effort to glance his way at all.
Lord Castell wasn’t a member of the Blue Blood Coalition, but his father was, which put him in a way, at odds with the man her feelings grew stronger for every day.
She opened her mouth to refuse one of the most powerful men in London, but then recalled what her father had said. She could refuse no dance.
She glanced over at Reuben, hoping he’d stop this, but Reuben had stopped looking at her, at Frederick’s approach.
He bowed toward her and said, “Good evening, my lady.” He hesitated and bowed to Frederick. “My lord.” Then he departed.
Rachel’s heart broke, as she watched him stroll down the long hall, and then disappear.
Frederick took her hand. “Come. The waltz is about to begin.” He took her without her response. Did anyone ever tell the man no?
Apparently, it would not be her.
But she kept her silence as they moved across the room, even while she kept her expression neutral.
Frederick narrowed his eyes, though there was laughter in their depths. “Lady Rachel, surely you’re not upset that I’ve spoken you away from that striver.”
She stiffened her back and dropped all pleasantries. “Striver? I believe he earned his title fairly.”
Frederick continued to smile, though the laughter had left his features. “My lady, are you defending him?”
She nearly missed her footing and she knew she had to watch whatever she said next. This man, this prince, could destroy her. “His sisters are my friends, Lady Rose and Lady Alicia. It would not do, if I did otherwise.”
The prince rolled his eyes. “The most unconventional ladies…”
“Yet they are married to earls, and Gerard will one day be the Duke of Avon.” The wealthiest duke in London, if not the most powerful, by influence, alone. “Lady Alexandria will be the Duchess of Avon.”
Color seemed to appear at Frederick’s throat as he looked away. “So, it would seem, and while they’d have never been what I would consider a candidate for marriage, it would seem that love has won against all odds.” He looked at her again. “And I’m sure you being a benevolent lady, are doing everything you can, to help them adjust to the strains of our way of life.”
The strains of their way of life? If he meant meaningless etiquette, than he knew nothing about true strains, ones the Smith family had already survived and conquered, like fatherlessness and poverty.
It was no wonder no lady appealed to Lord Wint, and likely a reason he was so very fond of Rose. Rose had survived something. What had she ever survived? Attacks of anxiety that came from nothing? She knew it was Reuben’s bravery and kindness that attracted her. The way he was climbing to stand on top of the world, yet remained so humble.
Unlike Frederick.
“I hear your father is inclined to help Lord Eastridge as well,” Frederick went on. “I would have to advise he think wisely, about what side of matters he wishes to be on.”
Rachel pulled in a breath. She knew a threat when she heard one. Her father was only a viscount. This man could make life hard for them.
He looked at her again, and his gaze softened. “Oh, I’m sorry. Have I upset you? That was not my intention at all.”
She stared up at him, and had to admit his eyes seemed genuine. Frederick could be quite confusing at times. “I’m all right,” she said, as they made the final turn and the song came to an end. She smiled at him, but her words were cut off by Lord Stephen Dew.
“Could I have the next dance?” the lord asked, hopefully.
Rachel sighed in relief. It was an easy way to excuse herself from Frederick. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord.” She took Stephen’s arm.
Frederick bowed, and gave her a very disturbing parting look, before he vanished into the crowd.
* * *
9
CHAPTER
NINE
.
.
.
* * *
* * *
.
Reuben released the tension in his hands as he watched Frederick leave Rachel’s side. He’d been in Frederick’s presence a dozen or so times, and only once, during his pinning ceremony and at the king’s urging, did Frederick ever acknowledge him.
Frederick was also a member of the Order of the Garter Star, having gained it when he was just on the cusp of becoming a man. He was only twenty-six, but was close to his uncle the king, and cousin. The claim was that Frederick helped the king through his spell of madness, but Reuben doubted a pampered gentleman like the prince would ever lift a finger to do anything for someone else.
How wonderful it would be if Frederick turned out to be the assassin. He was the son of a noble Frenchwoman, after all. Reuben smiled at the thought, even though he knew it to be wrong. The likelihood that Frederick would commit a crime was low. Unlike his father, the Duke of Yall, he was not a soldier, but a dandy.
Who seemed to enjoy agitating Reuben to no end.
He watched Rachel dance with Lord Stephen for a moment, saw the way the man stood far too close— especially considering he was engaged— and left the ballroom.
He shouldn’t have taunted Rachel the way he had in the gallery, yet he hadn’t been able to help himself. She was alluring, even though she was most innocently dressed woman in the room. She wore a lily-white gown, yet still managed to draw him in like a siren bathed in nothing but sunlight.
He stopped in the middle of descending the back stairway that would take him away from the crowds, and frowned. When had his thoughts of Rachel turned so dark? He had no place wanting a girl like her. No, woman like her, he corrected. For she was a woman. He only called her ‘Little Rachel’ as a way to remind himself of the past, to remember where he’d come from, so he’d never think himself good enough for her.
Lord Castell was a good candidate for her. He was younger than Reuben, and more blue blooded than most. He was the sort of man he’d always envisioned her with.
And yet, the very thought made him want to hit a wall until his knuckles bled.
What a violent thought. That alone, proved his worthlessness. She was too good for him, a man who barely made enough to provide all the trappings that a lady like her deserved, or was used to.
He’d been her footman. He knew exactly how much Rachel would cost, and even if Reuben saved every coin he received, he’d likely never have enough to afford her.
He had made some investments with Christmas’ help over the years, investments that had paid well, but no amount of money, not even his title, could change the circumstances of his birth.
He’d never force that on her, either.
He continued downstairs, and heard two people speaking in French. Servants. He hadn’t known the language growing up, since he’d never had formal education, but while at war, he’d picked it up with ease.
And the words the servants spoke were familiar.
He listened and heard a female say, “She renounced her beliefs for her husband, but wouldn’t have had to under Napoleon.
”
He narrowed his eyes. He knew exactly what the woman meant. The Catholic Church had at one time held power over not only the French, but the English, as well. English laws now forbid a gentleman from being a member of the House of Lords, if his wife was Catholic. One of Napoleon's moves to bring stability to France had been to allow religious freedom. Reuben imagined that more than one Englishman— or woman— would have enjoyed such a law coming to England.
He silenced his thoughts, and waited to hear the voice of whoever the woman had spoken to.
A second woman sighed. “That is love,” she replied to her friend in English, though her French accent was heavy. “Though from what you’ve told me about your lady’s husband, that love is not well deserved.”
“Oh, yes,” the first woman said. “Never has there been a more unfaithful husband. Why, he’s tried to lure me into his room on more than one occasion.”
Her friend gasped. “No.”
“Oui! Another servant girl fell for him and was dismissed posthaste.”
Her friend tsked. “Pity how handsome he is. No man broods better than an Englishman. Even at his age, I would have found it hard to say no if I were you.”
The first woman laughed. “Anaïs, you find it hard to tell any man no.”
Anaïs giggled. “Oui! Quite true.”
Reuben had no clue who the women spoke of, but it seemed they were purposefully avoiding names. It was the way of servants at times. Just like the papers, you never knew who your words would upset.
He pushed through the door, and both women squealed.
It was the ladies’ private chamber, which was empty, except for the two women he’d heard.
They both looked up at him from where they sat leaning over a cape. A needle and thread were in the hand of one. She was clearly a lady’s maid. Or more likely, both were servants of a lady. It was common for wealthy ladies to hire a French lady’s maid. Having one spoke of their wealth.
One woman, the one clutching the cap, smiled at him, brazenly. “Hello, sir. Might I be of service to you?” She was the one who’d spoken last. Anaïs.
Reuben turned to the only other woman in the room. “I need to deliver a message to your lady, but I can’t seem to find her. I was hoping you could help me.”
Her eyes widened and she smiled, before she passed the needle to her friend, and stood. “Of course, my lord.” She curtsied low and straightened her skirts as she stood back up. Both women were pretty, and dressed well, another sign that they’d been procured by wealthy families.
“I am Marie,” she purred as she walked toward him. “And you, sir?” She’d need his name in order to introduce him to her ladyship.
“Lord Eastridge.”
She stiffened at the name, a sign that either she’d heard whispers about him, or had heard his name mentioned by the lady who employed her. Then she put on another smile. “Perhaps it would be better if I delivered your message, my lord.”
Was she trying to keep him away from the woman?
“No, it is a message I must deliver, myself.”
Marie hesitated, but then nodded and said, “This way.”
They returned upstairs and Marie asked, “How did you know I worked for Lady Yall?” She swayed her hips, in a way that he thought she meant to make hypnotic, though his thoughts would not allow him to even take it in.
Reuben hadn’t known who Marie worked for, until that very moment. He’s simply known that whomever Marie worked for was someone who seemed to sympathize with Napoleon. In jest, he’d already suspected Lady Yall, but were his earlier suspicious accurate, or was he simply hoping something was there, that wasn’t?
Religion was a fine reason to move against a king. Could Lady Yall truly be trying to start her own crusade? Did she think herself Joan of Arc? He tried to slow his thoughts down, so he could think clearly. There was no way that Lord Yall would have put Reuben on this assignment if he’d thought his wife the culprit. Reuben knew this.
Though, Marie had hinted that Yall was unfaithful… Perhaps the duke didn’t know everything that was going on in his house.
They climbed the stairs and walked back down the hall that led into the ballroom. Reuben trained his eyes on Marie, in an effort not to look for Rachel.
Marie led him across the room, and straight to a group of the most powerful ladies of London, a class of women who rarely spoke to Reuben. Though with most of them being married, and other half spinsters or widows, they’d have little reason to. Their daughters, on the other hand, did speak to him whenever he made himself available.
Marie whispered into Lady Yall’s ear, and the woman stiffened before she turned around and met Reuben’s eyes.
He took note that there was disdain in that gaze, and he noticed not for the first time, that Lady Yall was nearly half the age of her husband. It was likely she’d been no more than fifteen when she’d married Lord Frederick. She was beautiful, with blue eyes, pale hair, and a dainty nose that sat over a full mouth. That Yall would stray from her spoke poorly of his intelligence.
He approached her and gave her his most flourishing bow, one he reserved for occasions such as this. When he rose, he found her stunned, and held out his hand. “Lady Yall.”
The woman sighed deeply, and slowly offered his hand to him to be kissed.
A gentleman was only to kiss the air above the knuckles, but when one wished to flirt…
He allowed his lips to brush her gloved hand. Barely.
She colored and tried to take back her hand.
“A dance?” he asked, not releasing the delicate fingers in his hold.
She held his gaze and then her fingers tightened.
* * *
10
CHAPTER
TEN
.
.
.
* * *
* * *
.
Rachel relaxed her fingers on her lap, and tried to calm herself with pleasant thoughts. When that didn’t work, she concentrated on the light bumping sensation of the road, as her carriage bustled through afternoon traffic.
That didn’t work either.
Anger was not the word to describe what she felt. Rage was more like it, it pounded in her mind and boiled her blood. She was possessed by a fury that burned so bright and pure, she feared it would lead to madness.
He’d danced. but not with Rachel.
With Lady Yall.
She’d watched the way Reuben had studied the woman, luring the duchess into his arms, with a look of pure want. They might as well have announced they were carrying on an affair to the entire ton!
He never looked at her that way.
And Lady Yall was nearly twice her age!
All right, maybe not that old, but surely old enough to be Rachel’s mother. Thirty-nine perhaps?
And now she was heading to his home, and only hoped he’d not be there. She was to meet with Alexandra, Rose, and Ellen Boyd. She decided readily that if Reuben was there, she would greet him and then use the rest of the time to ignore him.
But was that enough to gain his attention?
She thought of her mother then, and wondered what Florentia would have done in the face of such betrayal.
She knew the answer instantly. Her mother would have never lost the attention of a man to anyone else. If a man moved on, it was because her mother had let him go.
Why should she be more alluring?
She thought about the portrait of her mother in a yellow dress. A jeweled headdress sat beside it. Made of diamonds and jade, it was the only piece of jewelry Rachel owned, and not once had she worn it. The lovely piece had been her mother’s, and Rachel simply couldn’t think of a way to make it work for herself. She did, however, enjoy trying it on whenever she wanted to be close to the woman who’d given birth to her.
She often ran her hand over the jewels, and promised herself that one day she would wear it to a ball, or simply to tea at a friend’s house, just as her father often said Florentia
had. She’d always thought herself pretty, but just… pretty. Her dress and style were demure in comparison to how Lady Yall had looked tonight, but Yall was a married woman. Her dress could be cut as low as she wished, and no one would say a word.
Perhaps she should change her hair.
She looked over at her lady’s maid who was staring out the window, a serene look covered the young woman’s face. “Lucille, what do you think of my hair?” She’d never asked her lady’s maid that before. Lucille was new. Rachel’s other maid, Martha, had married a few weeks ago with the decision of to move to the country. Martha had left her station vacant, forcing Rachel to find another maid.
So, Rachel had done what any other wealthy lady would do, and taken a girl from the continent. Lucille was French, and pretty, and Rachel had found her to be quite efficient at her duties, along with remaining unnoticed.
When they’d first met, Lucille had tried to make a few suggestions to Rachel’s style, but Rachel had missed Martha too much, to truly listen to her. What she’d really been looking for was another Martha, and thus, Lucille did anything as Martha had done, but she and Lucille didn’t have a rapport like Rachel had had with Martha.
Lucille had dark brown hair and pale brown eyes, and turned her gaze to look at Rachel. Her gaze focused on Rachel’s hair, and then her eyes. “Your hair is the loveliest shade of red I’ve ever seen, like the color of life.”
Rachel touched her hair, and smiled for the first time that afternoon. “Well, thank you, Lucille.” She’d never thought her hair the equivalent of such a profound thing as life. “And what of its style?” She usually wore her hair pulled away, with a few stray curls left by her temples and ears, as was the fashion. In the evening, she’d add a few jewels, but nothing more than that.
Tales of a Viscount_Heirs of High Society Page 8