She had been in London with Lord and Lady Broxted since the beginning of May; a flurry of shopping trips and visits to my lady’s dressmaker had filled her days and at last she was ready to attend her first ball. She only wished she could summon up more enthusiasm for it, but her depression was always there, just below the surface. A sadness she had tried to hard to overcome, but even now, after almost twelve months, her dreams were still haunted by a tall, handsome man with laughing, wicked eyes. Determination kept her smiling, made her hide her bleakness from her aunt and uncle. Lady Broxted was patting her hands.
‘I cannot tell you how much I am looking forward to launching you into society, my love. It has been a constant sadness to Broxted and me that we did not have children and so it is doubly delightful that I have you with me now.’
Lady Broxted began hunting for her handkerchief. Lord Broxted drew out his own and handed it to her, saying as he did so, ‘We are indeed delighted to take you up, Carlotta. It is the least I can do for your poor mother. When my father disinherited her upon her marriage I was shocked, but powerless to help. Then, of course, we lost touch for so many years, but now, I believe it is in my power to reinstate you into your proper place in the world.’
In the face of such kindness Carlotta’s anger died away as quickly as it had come. Impulsively she hugged her aunt.
‘There, there, Aunt, pray do not cry—if it is your wish, then of course I shall tell no one about my parents. Let us go upstairs and you can advise me which one of my new gowns I should wear this evening.’
In an effort to give her aunt’s thoughts a more cheerful turn, Carlotta accompanied her aunt up to her bedchamber where the maid quickly brought out several of Carlotta’s new gowns for inspection. Lady Broxted discarded the pink muslin with apple-green acanthus leaves embroidered around the hem, declaring that almost every other young lady would be wearing pink. Her hand hovered over the lemon satin before settling on the white sprigged muslin.
‘This is perfect for your first appearance,’ she said. ‘You have too much of the Italian in you to appear as a typical English rose, but we must turn that to our advantage—the white muslin will accentuate your olive skin. Thank goodness you have such a flawless complexion, my love, for that means we can leave your lovely shoulders bare. My own woman shall have the dressing of your hair; when it is brushed it glows like polished mahogany and you shall have tiny white rosebuds amongst your curls. It is early for roses, I know, but the cost will be worth it and I shall have a small posy made up for your corsage, too. What do you say?’
Carlotta could not deny a small frisson of excitement at the picture her aunt had drawn. When she had been a child growing up in Rome she had never dreamed that one day she would be staying in one of the largest houses in Berkeley Square, preparing to attend a fashionable ball. The gown her aunt was holding up to her was of the finest muslin, embroidered all over with tiny exquisite white rosebuds. The tiny puff sleeves were gathered and fastened with satin ribbons and a wider satin band ran around the high waist. Little Carlotta running barefoot in her father’s studio had never imagined owning white satin slippers with leather soles so fine that they would be worn through after one outing, but such a pair was now lying in a drawer, wrapped in several layers of tissue paper. Carlotta smiled at her aunt.
‘I will look like a fairy princess,’ she murmured.
Lady Broxted handed the gown to her maid and caught Carlotta to her in a warm, scented embrace.
‘You will indeed, my love,’ she murmured, her voice breaking. ‘You will make us all so very proud of you.’
Luke glanced up at the imposing entrance of Prestbury House. Flambeaux burned on each side of the double doors and liveried servants were on hand to assist the ladies from their carriages and escort them up the shallow steps to the grand entrance hall with its soaring marbled pillars. Letitia Prestbury was a formidable hostess and invitations to her fashionable parties were jealously guarded. Luke had no gilt-edged card nestling in his pocket, but he was confident he would not be turned away. Giving his coat sleeves an infinitesimal tug, he joined the long line of guests processing up the grand staircase. From the reception rooms above came the sound of many voices intermingled with the scraping notes of several violins. No lone fiddler or squeaky quartet for Lady Prestbury—her guests would dance to the best musicians money could buy.
As he reached the top of the stairs he found his hostess waiting for him, smiling.
‘Well, Cousin, we are honoured to have you attend our little party.’
He bowed over her hand. ‘I promised you I would come.’
‘But you are so often enticed away by more exciting pleasures, are you not?’ She laughed at him. ‘I did not send you an invitation because I thought my society gatherings far too staid for the Wicked Baron!’
He grinned at her. ‘Perhaps I have reformed. It is not impossible, Letty.’
She twinkled up at him. ‘True, Luke, but it is highly unlikely! I know just what it is that has brought you here.’
‘You do?’
‘Aye, ’tis curiosity, to see the latest heiress.’
He looked down so that she would not read the truth in his eyes. ‘Oh?’ he said lightly, brushing an invisible speck from his coat. ‘And who might that be, my lady?’
‘You know very well,’ she said, tapping his arm with her closed fan. ‘Broxted’s niece, Miss Rivington. We were all agog when we heard he was bringing her to town, and he has settled ten thousand pounds on the chit! If that wasn’t enough to make her a target for every young man in town, the girl is a positive beauty. But be warned, Luke, she is not for you: I have it from the countess herself that Broxted has great plans for his niece. He will be looking higher than a mere baron.’
‘And so he should, but that is no reason why I should not make her acquaintance.’
‘Very well, go on in with you.’ Lady Prestbury waved him away. ‘But you are wasting your time, Cousin.’
With another graceful bow Luke moved on. So it was already decided that the beautiful Miss Rivington was not for him; well, perhaps society’s latest débutante might think differently. He walked into the ballroom and paused near the doorway, looking around him. Lounging against one wall were several callow youths standing with their mouths open as they watched the couples go down the dance and Luke saw that their eyes were following one dainty figure in particular.
Miss Rivington, he presumed.
His heart missed a beat: he had to admit she was entrancing. Her hair was curled artlessly about her head, adorned with white rosebuds that looked like stars against the night sky of her dark hair. Her white muslin dress flowed around her as she danced, showing her slender figure to great advantage. She was laughing, her huge dark eyes positively twinkling with merriment. No matter the pain it had cost him to ride away from Malberry last September, he knew now he had been right to do so. This was where she belonged, taking her rightful place in society where everyone could admire her beauty. And she looked so happy, smiling and chattering with the other young people as the music ended. He stifled a sigh. He had told himself that she would soon forget him and so it seemed. She looked so natural here, as though she had never known any other life. He was glad for her, truly. He must give her no cause to think he wished it otherwise.
Carlotta’s confidence was growing with every dance. Her new sprigged muslin gown was light as air and the admiration of her dance partners was exhilarating. The ballroom was ablaze with light from the gleaming chandeliers. It bounced off the cream-and-blue walls and caused the gold-leaf decoration on the ceiling to glow like the setting sun. With the exception of the occasional blue or scarlet jacket of an officer, the men were dressed in dark coats, but the ladies presented a dazzling picture in an array of colourful gowns, from the bronze and emerald satins of the matrons to the paler shades deemed suitable for débutantes. Carlotta smoothed her hands down over the white muslin and realised what a good choice it had been. Not that she had any opportunity to tell h
er aunt so, for she had been on the dance floor almost constantly since her arrival.
After a few initial nerves she found that the dance steps came quite naturally and she was even able to take time to glance at the huge gilt-framed mirrors that adorned the walls of the ballroom. She saw herself reflected there, dancing with a series of attentive partners. Carlotta could hardly believe that she was the slender, dark-haired girl reflected in the mirrors, but so it was, and she was content to give herself up to the enjoyment of the moment.
She was so much at her ease that when Lady Broxted brought forward a lanky young man whom she introduced as Viscount Fairbridge, Carlotta gave him a friendly smile. She thought his expression rather vacuous, but she encouraged him to talk to her and soon they were on the best of terms. Truly, she thought, as he led her from the dance floor, it was impossible to be gloomy on such a happy occasion.
During a break in the music she was conversing with a group of lively young people when she heard her aunt’s voice behind her.
‘Ah, there you are, my love. Do allow me to present Lord Darvell to you.’
And the world stopped for Carlotta. The laughing, chattering crowds were forgotten. She had known this moment would come, had rehearsed it a thousand times, but still she was not prepared for the stomach-wrenching spasm that threatened to render her senseless when she heard that name. Of course, she had only known him as Major Ainslowe, but she had not been living in her aunt’s household for many weeks before she learned his full title. Gathering all her strength, she turned and dragged her eyes up from the white satin waistcoat and dazzling neckcloth to the face above. The faint hope that it might all be a mistake withered. The gentleman standing before her was achingly familiar. She did not need to cast more than a fleeting glance at his lean, handsome face—it was etched on her soul. As he bowed over her hand, she looked at the waving brown hair that curled over his collar. She recalled the silky feel of it beneath her fingers, tried desperately not to remember the touch of his lips, not on her glove, but on her own mouth, caressing, demanding—she thrust such thoughts away. They had no place in her life now. He had no place in her life now.
She forced herself to look at him. Could he have forgotten her? No, his glance told her he knew her, but there was no sign of uncertainty in his hazel eyes as he smiled. He was so sure of his welcome. How could he be so complacent—did he not know what he had done to her? But of course he did; she was aware of his reputation now. It was rumoured that France was littered with women whose hearts he had broken. A bitter wave of anger and unhappiness swept over her, but her training had been very good; she buried those feelings and presented him with a bland, polite mask. Lady Broxted was not aware of their previous meetings, and Carlotta would not have it known now. She withdrew her hand from his grasp, saying coolly, ‘My lord.’
‘Miss Rivington.’ His self-assurance made her seethe. He was laughing at her! ‘Your aunt tells me you are not engaged for the next dance. I would be honoured if you would allow me to partner you.’
Luke observed the upright little figure before him. By heaven, she was even more beautiful than he remembered: those large dark eyes—just one flashing look sent his heart soaring again—and the soft red lips that had tasted so sweet against his own. Even as his blood stirred Carlotta lowered her gaze and the dark lashes veiled her thoughts from him. She inclined her head, accepting his invitation with every appearance of maidenly modesty and with a polite bow he turned away. This was the game they must play, of course. No one must know that they had met before.
As he walked away from Carlotta, Luke allowed himself to indulge in the pleasant memory of his very first visit to Malberry twelve months earlier. He had not expected to delay his journey to Darvell Manor by more than a few nights, and he had certainly not expected to find such an angel looking down at him from top of the scaffolding that filled the entrance portico.
He had been running up the steps to the main entrance when a soft, musical voice had stopped him in his tracks.
‘Excuse me, but you cannot come in here.’ The voice had come from above.
‘Oh? And why may I not come in?’ Luke spoke to the air.
‘It is private. This house belongs to a gentleman.’
Luke spread his hands. ‘And am I not a gentleman?’ A slight movement on the platform close to the ceiling caught his eye and he observed a slight, boyish figure staring down at him.
‘Are you the owner?’
‘No,’ said Luke, ‘but I am come on his behalf.’
‘Oh. Mr Kemble is not here.’
‘So I can see. Where is he?’
‘They have all gone to the inn. It is mid-day and they are always hungry by mid-day.’
‘But not you?’
‘No, I must finish the fresco while the plaster is still wet.’
Luke shielded his eyes, trying to get a better view of the shadowy figure so high above him. ‘Are you not a little young?’
‘I am eighteen.’ The voice grew a shade deeper.
‘Come down and let me look at you,’ said Luke, intrigued.
‘No, sir. I cannot leave my painting.’
‘Then I shall come up to you.’ Luke put his foot on the ladder and heard a squeak from above. ‘Well? Will you come down now?’
‘I will, but only for a moment.’
Luke stood back and watched as the figure scrambled onto the top ladder and began to climb down. He grinned. The upper body was shrouded in a loose shirt, but the tight-fitting breeches left nothing to his admittedly rather wild imagination—the figure descending from the scaffolding was most definitely not a boy!
Moments later she stood before him, her eyes, large and dark, regarding him with a mixture of defiance and apprehension. She was very petite with a mass of gleaming near-black hair, constrained at the back of her long, slender neck by a poppy-red ribbon. A paint-spattered shirt billowed from her shoulders, but could not disguise the gentle swell of her breasts, and the tight-fitting breeches were worn with a nonchalance that would have done credit to any actress at Drury Lane. He bit back an appreciative smile.
‘Well, does my brother know he has hired a lady to decorate his house?’
‘You are Mr Ainslowe’s brother?’
‘I am. And who are you, what is your name?’
‘I am Carlotta Durini.’ She clasped her hands together. ‘Perhaps I should explain.’
‘Please do.’
‘My—my father is the artist commissioned to paint Malberry Court, but he has broken his leg and—and I am finishing the last frescoes for him, so that the house will be ready on time. Please, sir, you must not think that there is any plot to deceive, but there was no one else to do it, and, if it is not finished in time, Papa will not be paid the full amount, and then Mama cannot have her maid—and it is only this one ceiling—’
Laughing, he reached out and caught her hands.
‘Peace, peace, Miss Durini! Do not upset yourself.’
Her hands were very small and soft within his grasp. Smiling, he let his thumbs gently stroke her wrists, just above the palm, and he felt her agitated fingers grow still. Her lustrous dark eyes were still wary, but he detected the beginnings of a shy smile curving her mouth. Luke found himself wondering what it would be like to kiss those soft red lips. His smile deepened; he opened his mouth to charm her with a few well-chosen words, but they were never uttered. The sound of voices drifted in on the still air. He looked out across the park and saw a group of figures emerging from the trees. Something very like disappointment passed over him.
‘I think this must be the others returning now. I will talk to Kemble.’
Those dark eyes regarded him anxiously. ‘You will not turn me off?’
‘I have no power to do so. But if your work is not up to the standard…’
To his surprise, the worried look left the girl’s face.
‘It will be, sir. I have been well taught.’ She stepped back, gently pulling her hands free. ‘If you will excuse me,
I must go back to my painting; if the plaster becomes too dry, the fresco will be ruined.’
Without another word she scrambled up the ladder and was soon lost to sight. With a sigh, Luke turned to meet the man who was hurrying towards him.
It was natural that Kemble, Mr James Ainslowe’s clerk of works, should want to show his employer’s brother all the renovations that had been carried out, and to assure him that the work was proceeding as scheduled. However, at length Luke could contain himself no longer.
‘Is it now the fashion, Mr Kemble, to employ female painters?’
There was an uncomfortable silence.
‘You refer, my lord, to Signor Durini’s daughter.’ Luke maintained a polite silence, and soon Kemble continued. ‘I believe she has been running wild in the signor’s workshop since she was a babe, and learned all his techniques. Howsoever that may be, when the signor’s apprentice loped off back to Italy, there was no one to take over, and with the master due back in less than three weeks, the signor was desperate for his frescoes to be finished. I admit I was not very happy at first, having the chit here, but the signor assures me she can paint, sir.’
‘But is she not…distracting?’
Mr Kemble grinned.
‘I confess I had to give a couple o’ the lads a clout ’round the ear for staring…’
Now, in the overheated confines of Lady Prestbury’s ballroom, Luke thought that Kemble himself might stare if he could see Signor Durini’s daughter outshining every other young woman in the room.
Carlotta watched Luke walk away from her, then stumbled to one of the cushioned benches that lined the walls of the ballroom and sank down. She was shaking. She put her hands to her temples, trying to stop the memories, but it was no good. She was back at Malberry, climbing down from the scaffolding after completing that first fresco. Even now she could remember her satisfaction at a job well done, feel the warm sun on her back…
The Wicked Baron Page 2