A Dance of Manners

by Cynthia Breeding, Kristi Ahlers, Erin E. M. Hatton

  “Waitley could be using her as a messenger to France.”

  “Oh, come, man. You are in your cups.”

  The viscount laid a finger alongside his nose, almost missing it. “Perhaps so. But I say she bears watching.”

  Andrew almost grinned. Watching her wouldn't be a problem. In fact, he planned to stay as close to her as possible the next few days. There was something intriguing and different about her. If she were harboring any secrets, he would find out what they were.

  “Consider it done,” he said.

  * * * *

  “I know you Americans are on less formal terms than we are,” Lady Waitley said as she maneuvered them toward where the duke had just finished his dance with a young and beautifully delicate, blonde lady, “so you may call me Caroline, but do address the duke as ‘His Grace.’ He has had the title for such a short time, and as young as he is...”

  “I understand,” Ashley said and stopped herself from rolling her eyes. Obviously, this whole cast was into Method acting. Yet, she was still surprised when she was introduced and actually sensed a regal presence about him.

  He was young, perhaps early twenties, his face somewhat soft-featured with large, somber eyes that held a trace of wariness. The girl eyed her curiously.

  The drunk had mentioned the girl earlier—Lady Felice. She had the kind of porcelain-doll perfection that made Ashley feel tall and awkward and plain. Was Felice Andrew's girlfriend?

  Lady Waitley dipped a curtsy. “Your Grace, may I present my friend, Miss Ashley Bouvier? She has just arrived from America. I do hope you will forgive my manners in bringing her with me. My husband is indisposed, and a lady hardly can travel without a companion.”

  Caroline was really good at Improv, too.

  The duke waved his hand. “Of course. I am sure there is an extra room to be found.” He turned to Ashley. “Where in America are you from?”

  “New Haven, Connecticut.”

  He knitted his brows. “That is a coastal town with a harbor, is it not? I wonder—forgive me, I know ladies need not concern themselves over the trivia of men's business affairs—but as a seafaring town, its inhabitants cannot be well-pleased over the embargo your President Madison has placed on trade with us.”

  So they were going to play-act in the year 1811. She could go along with that. “Oh, they'll have plenty of business once the war begins.”

  She wasn't prepared for the instant silence that fell around them. The duke lifted an eyebrow. “War, Miss Bouvier?”

  Caroline's hand tightened like a vise-grip on her arm. The woman must not want her to go into an explanation of the War of 1812. Maybe the actors did have some sort of loose script they followed, after all.

  “Well, there is ... unrest, you know. With the embargo. As you mentioned.” If the woman's hold got any tighter, she'd break a bone. Ashley tried not to wince.

  “If you will excuse us, Your Grace,” Lady Waitley interceded. “I do so want to make the rounds and introduce my guest.”

  “Of course, my lady,” the duke said graciously, but he wasn't smiling as they left.

  * * * *

  “What is the problem, Hart? Why the secrecy?” The Earl of Tiverton put back the book on Celtic myths he'd been wanting to read. It would have to wait. He raised an eyebrow as his friend poked his head out of the library to make sure no one lurked in the hallway before he bolted the door.

  The duke poured each of them a brandy, then answered, “We go back to childhood, Drew, before either of us had a care for titles—”

  “And I still don't,” Andrew said. “Too bad my brother was not the first born.”

  “Speaking of that,” the duke answered, “I have always thought of you as a big brother...”

  “You are wanting brotherly advice?” Andrew grinned. “Is it about a woman? Lady Felice, perhaps?”

  “God, no! She is practically betrothed to you.”

  His grin vanished. “I have not offered for her and do not intend to.” Or any other. He'd almost been compromised into offering for a baron's daughter just last year. No one was going to force him into a marriage.

  The duke grimaced. “Not what Southbury thinks.”

  Andrew sighed. “Her father has blinders on when it comes to her. Whatever she wants, he thinks she should get. So, another woman's caught your eye?”

  “In a way. I was introduced to the American. Miss Ashley Bouvier.”

  Andrew nearly choked on his brandy. Hart wanted the same woman as he? The duke was seven years younger and the lady had to be much closer to Andrew's age, not that it mattered. A sudden surge of possessiveness flooded through him. He knew he had affected her when they met. He'd seen how her eyes darkened, her breathing shallowed, and those very fine breasts suddenly strained against her bodice. Damn.

  “Wanting a little sport?” Andrew asked carefully.

  “Sport?” The young duke colored. “No! Of course not. I mean, I have ... Well, no. Quite another matter entirely.”

  Andrew exhaled the breath he'd been holding. “What then?”

  “Miss Bouvier's quite the bluestocking. A rather odd choice for a ‘friend’ of Lady Waitley, I would think.”

  “True.”

  “She seems to think we are going to war with America.”

  “What?” Andrew straightened in his chair. “What did she say?”

  “She said the shippers would not have to worry about work next year. Lady Waitley cut her off quite quickly, which concerns me even more. Those French relatives of the baron's are loyal to Napoleon and the United States has resumed trading with him...”

  This conversation sounded suspiciously like the one he had just had with Northrup. “Who knows what the future holds?” When his friend didn't answer, he slumped back. “You think she is a spy?”

  The duke shrugged. “It is a possibility. You know Prinny sent a missive just a few weeks ago, warning us to be on alert for unusual occurrences.”

  “That had more to do with the irate husband of his latest mistress nearly catching them. He wanted to make sure no rebellion was being hatched anywhere.”

  Hart nodded. “Still, have you ever known Lady Waitley to befriend a woman before? She sees them all as natural rivals. But if the baron is using this woman, it would make sense for him to be ‘indisposed’ and let his wife do the introductions as purely social, would it not?”

  It made sense. Female spies weren't unheard of. Still, he hoped it wasn't true.

  Hart leaned forward. “You have a way with the ladies, Drew. I want you to charm the truth out of her. Drop a hint or two that you have worked with Colonel Wellesley. If she is a spy, she will use all her feminine wiles to get the information she needs. Besides, I have never known you to turn down a good romp in bed with a willing woman. Will you do it?”

  Andrew nodded but hardly relished the prospect. The idea of having Miss Ashley Bouvier naked under him should be making his blood hot. He wanted her. He could almost taste her kisses and feel the softness of tender flesh between her legs. But would their coupling be mutually desirous? If she were a spy, would she simply use her body to get what she wanted?

  Lady Waitley would. Were they really friends, after all?

  * * * *

  Ashley surveyed the ballroom once again, struggling to make sense of the underlying tension among some of the actors. Caroline had been upset about her mentioning the War of 1812, acting as though it hadn't happened. The other people she'd been introduced to had also reacted with a certain caution, as though being American was something akin to acknowledging a mongrel dog in a pedigreed house. She almost laughed at that thought. If this were really the Regency period, it would be very typical of the elite ton to treat her as such. These were actors though, and very good ones, but they differed significantly from the friendly people of Barmby Moor. She was having a hard time adjusting to this ‘attitude.'

  “A guinea for your thoughts, Miss Bouvier.”

  Startled, she turned to see the handsome hunk Andrew Colt
on. She smiled. “I'm not sure they're worth that much.” A corner of his sensual mouth quirked up, giving her the strange sensation that he shared a secret with her.

  “Contrary to Society's opinion that beautiful ladies should not have a thought in their pretty heads beyond the next bonnet they wish to purchase, I happen to like intelligent women. From the frown you had on your face, something tells me you were deep in thought.” He bowed slightly. “Perhaps you could tell me your thoughts while we dance. This is one of those new risqué waltzes. Trust His Grace to play something a bit scandalous.” He held out his arm. “Do you dare?”

  He didn't have to ask twice. She moved into his embrace, her hand feeling the hard muscle of his bicep beneath the frockcoat. He placed one hand lightly at her waist, the other holding hers in a warm, firm way that made every nerve ending in her fingers long to be free of the confining glove. She wanted to touch his skin with hers.

  “Why did the Regency people think this dance scandalous?” she asked as they moved smoothly into the flow of dancers. “I mean, compared to some of the things I see in clubs...”

  He raised an eyebrow as he gracefully turned her. “What sort of clubs do you frequent, Miss Bouvier?”

  “Safe ones. Places where ladies can go and have a drink and meet people.”

  “The States must have a more liberal attitude then, which I applaud. With the exception of Almack's Season Balls, London's clubs are for gentlemen.” His hand slid along her back, bringing her a bit closer. “What goes on in these clubs? Do you talk of politics?”

  That movement sent heat radiating up and down her spine. She wanted to run her fingers through his hair and press her breasts against him. Never had she reacted so lustfully to a mere touch. Not even in the beginning with dh. She settled for bringing her hand to Andrew's neck. His eyes smoldered, and he spread his fingers, massaging her back. Flames shot straight to her core. She tried to remember the question.

  “Politics?” Perhaps it was the dance and not his fingers doing magical things that rendered her breathless. “Sometimes. Many are at odds with the president right now. The war, you know.”

  He faltered slightly, almost missing a step and then he spun her around again. “Sorry about that. Clumsy of me. What are your thoughts on war?”

  What an odd subject to be discussing when her body and mind thought of total surrender. “I suppose we must support a country that wishes to be free of a ruler whose greed left thousands hungry and homeless.”

  “An admirable thought.” The music ended, and Andrew stepped back, bowing over her hand. “Colonel Wellesley was saying, not long ago, that the embargo on the English might leave us in such a spot eventually.”

  Wellesley? As in Arthur Wellesley? The man who defeated Napoleon at Waterloo? Ashley sighed. For a few moments, she thought that Andrew was attracted to her. But no, he was playing a character part.

  “May I have the next dance, Miss Bouvier?”

  She came out of her reverie. The man who asked was Simon Alcott, the younger son of a marquis, if she remembered the introduction correctly. He had a predatory look about him with strangely golden-colored eyes that reminded her of a bird-of-prey. Lady Waitley had flirted outrageously with him. He had Lady Felice in tow. Her lower lip quivered in a slight pout.

  “Your name is on Lady Felice's card for the next dance, Tiverton. Did not think you would want to sully your reputation scandalizing her by making her wait.” Simon smiled, but his eyes were hawk-sharp.

  Andrew's eyes darkened and Ashley could almost feel the air cool around him. “So glad you did the honorable thing, Alcott.”

  Simon's face reddened and Ashley worried both of them would like to come to blows. It didn't feel like acting to her.

  “The music is starting, Lord Tiverton,” Lady Felice said in a breathy little voice. “I should so hate to miss any of it.”

  Simon smirked. “Do not worry, Tiverton. I shall take good care of Miss Bouvier.”

  Andrew's face was impassive as he gave Ashley a small bow. “Perhaps we can continue our conversation at another time.”

  Talking about Napoleon wasn't really high on her list. She'd much rather dance with Andrew again and feel his strong arms around her and the sensual warmth of his fingers stroking her back. She watched as the young blonde put her hand in his and batted her eyelashes at him. Tart.

  “They are practically betrothed,” Simon said in her ear.

  Ashley jumped. When had he moved so close? She took a step back and then realized what he'd said. What kind of a script was being used here?

  “Why are you telling me?”

  “Because you have the look of a smitten woman.”

  Ashley felt herself blush. Was she that obvious? Ogling the man like some star-struck fan? “Don't be ridiculous.”

  His voice held a trace of bitterness. “He affects women that way. Look at Lady Felice.”

  She didn't want to. The girl's eyes were glowing and her face was flushed with animation. Clearly, she was infatuated with Andrew. Ashley bit her lip.

  “We're only acting.”

  Simon laughed, but it sounded more like a bark. “Acting? Hardly. I saw what he was doing dancing with you. Highly improper of him with all his high standards.” He stepped closer again. “But since you allowed it and you are past the years of needing a chaperone, perhaps you would like to stroll with me in the garden? I dare say, there is a little spot tucked away behind some roses—”

  “There you are!” Caroline's voice was a little too shrill. She had probably heard the conversation, but Ashley was too relieved to care. She doubted Simon's improper proposition was part of any script.

  “Lady Waitley! I am ... I am feeling a bit tired. Is there a ladies room where I could rest for a few moments?”

  “Of course, my dear. I shall walk with you.” She tapped Lord Simon on the shoulder with her fan and winked. “Do not you go away, you naughty boy. I would very much like to see those roses in the moonlight.”

  His eyes swept over Ashley one more time before he turned to Lady Waitley and bowed. “I will savor the thought until your return, my lady. Do not be long.”

  * * * *

  Caroline left Ashley in a spacious bedchamber. A luxurious, dark-blue satin spread covered a huge, four-poster bed of burnished cherry wood. Carvings of drapery festoons, bow-knotted wheat ears and various sprays of foliage adorned both the bureau and armoire. The pedestal for the small table was lyre-shaped as were the backs of the two chairs accompanying it. A china pitcher and bowl sat on the bureau, and behind a gilded dressing screen was a brass chamber pot. An oil lamp flickered on the nightstand. It couldn't get more authentic than this.

  A knock sounded on the door, and a minute later the cheerful face of a maid popped through. “Just wanted to make sure ye were proper, mum, before I let the footman in with your things.”

  Her things? Ashley watched in amazement as her suitcase and another small trunk she'd sent on ahead of her flight were brought in. What was going on? She'd rented a room at a bed-and-breakfast for a month.

  “Me name's Dacey,” the maid said and pointed to the bell pull by the door. “You just ring if you need anything.”

  Ashley looked at the closed door for several minutes before she walked to her suitcase. There must have been some mistake. Perhaps when she'd made her reservation for the Regency Ball, she had accidentally checked that she wanted a room for the night?

  She unlocked the suitcase and gasped. Slowly, she undid the latch of the trunk and took a deep breath before she opened it.

  Both the suitcase and trunk were piled high with nineteenth century clothes.

  Her hands trembled as she searched through the items for her own things. Instead of her bras and thong panties, she found a corset with short stays, petticoats, stockings with garters, and soft slippers.

  Shaking, she sank down on the bed. No. This wasn't 1811. Someone had gone to a great deal of effort to convince her that she had somehow slipped through a time-warp, back to a p
eriod when there were strict rules of etiquette, grace and refinement. Where gentlemen treated ladies with dignity and respect.

  Just what she'd always wished her husband had done. How many days and nights had she cried over his betrayal?

  She looked again at the clothing in the trunk and an uneasy feeling washed over her. Be careful what you wish for.

  What if it really was 1811? Besides, no one would go to such elaborate lengths to create such a hoax at her expense. No one cared enough. No one cared at all. Trembling seized her as the possibility sank in. What if it was 1811?

  She massaged her temples at the growing headache. Oh, no. What kind of an impression had she made tonight while she thought this was a huge, unscripted play? Simon—Lord Simon—had all but made a pass at her because of advantages that Andrew had taken rubbing her back. After she'd fingered his hair. It had felt so good, but in this world was totally improper. My God. Andrew was an earl. A real one.

  And Lady Felice was the daughter of another earl. Ashley's heart sank. Simon had said they were almost betrothed. And the girl was clearly enamored of Andrew. What hope was there for an American commoner in the middle of the elite Society of the ton? She couldn't compete.

  She would not be any man's mistress, either. She knew how much misery a mistress caused.

  She'd felt light-headed in the carriage. That must have been when it happened. Somehow that carriage had traveled through time. Tomorrow, she'd find that footman and driver and make them take her back.

  But for tonight ... Tonight she would allow herself to dream of what might have been if Andrew had taken her for a walk in the moonlight.

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  * * *

  Chapter Two

  Caroline hurried back down the stairs to meet Simon. She'd trusted her intuition in befriending the American. Miss Bouvier was going to give her the revenge she'd been wanting since the Marquis of Ashford had rejected her years ago.

  She forced herself to place her hand quite properly on Simon's offered arm and walk sedately down the steps of the terrace. A small garden path led to a gazebo, but Simon turned in the other direction and soon they were well-hidden behind a trellis of hanging vines. He cupped her buttocks and then slid his hands lower, inching up her skirt to her thighs and slipped his fingers into the slit of her drawers.