“Animated,” Calum responded, surprising himself. “I’m damned. She looks animated. And impatient.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Struan said. “And now we should leave.”
Calum turned so that Wokingham could neither see his face nor hear what he said. “Have patience, Struan. We are barely arrived. Surely it wouldn’t be polite to leave so soon.”
Struan’s chest expanded with his next breath. “I don’t think I like the look in your eye. You promised me that if I could arrange for you to see him just see him—you’d be satisfied. You said your quest would be done with.”
“Thank you for securing our invitation,” Calum said, smiling benignly. “But I find I must have lied to you.”
“I knew it,” Struan said. “I should never have had any part in this.”
“I didn’t ask for your help,” Calum reminded him. “I had, on previous occasions, managed entrance to London’s soirees quite nicely. I am not entirely without contacts other than you, m’lord.”
Struan gave a disparaging snort. “ ‘A damnably dangerous rogue’ seems to be the reputation I heard applied to you, my friend. And by more than one sharp-eyed papa, if I’m not mistaken.”
“I was not referring to the rakehell days of my youth,” Calum said, feeling peeved. “I had in mind my bride-gathering adventures on Arran’s behalf. But no matter. Why not go back to Hanover Square and await me there? I promise I’ll get into no mischief in your absence.”
“You are by no means far enough into your dotage for me to trust you in this company. Come with me—now.”
“I cannot.”
“Why?”
Calum crossed his arms and rested his chin on a fist. “I cannot come with you because I was probably mistaken. This may well be only the beginning of what I must do.”
Struan groaned. “Franchot is a villain. He is debauched and depraved. Dueling is but one of his illicit pastimes. I beg of you, do not do anything to capture his attention. Not until or unless we are fully prepared to deal with him.”
“I shall bear your warnings in mind.”
“What am I saying?” Struan moaned. “We shall never deal or do anything else with him. You gave me your word that a look at the fellow was all you required. Then, you said, we should leave instantly.”
“I have always had a way with fairy tales,” Calum said, once more looking at Lady Philipa Chauncey.
“You do not and never have had a way with fairy tales.” Struan was clearly incensed. “You are—or have become—the most thoughtful and even of men. You, and only you, kept my brother from allowing his inheritance to pass into our loathsome cousin’s control. You have been our guiding influence since Father died and—”
“And I am only a man, not a saint.” Animated. And incredibly impatient. That was exactly how he would sum up Lady Philipa Chauncey’s present mood. “Excuse us, would you, my lord,” Calum said to Wokingham. He held Struan’s upper arm firmly and led him to a place where they stood directly between Lady Philipa and her fiancé.
“Good God!” Struan immediately turned his back on the girl. “Think, man. If you’ve anything to think with, that is. She will see you staring at her.”
“She is preoccupied,” Calum said, and his eyes went to a rapidly tapping satin slipper.
“Probably horribly embarrassed,” Struan said. “Mortified, no doubt. Made a display of in front of half London.”
“It is not she who is a disgraceful display. And she knows it. The lady is, unless I am much mistaken, bored by the proceedings and anxious to attend to matters she considers more important.”
Struan poked a hard forefinger into Calum’s shoulder. “You, sir, have developed an amazing imagination. You know nothing about any of these people and what they may or may not think or want.”
“She spends time in the fresh air,” Calum said. “Her skin is that light skin of the very dark-haired, but it is healthfully clear. Her eyebrows are black wings—very delicate.”
“Oh, my God!”
“Her nose is rather sharp, but not at all displeasing. Her chin also. Overall, her face is oval with the type of hairline that arches from a central point. Really quite engaging.”
“You have never…At least, you have almost never shown any interest in a particular female. Not since Alice—”
“Kindly do not mention that episode. Lady Philipa’s cheekbones are rounded. I like that. Her mouth is fuller than is fashionable. I like that, too. And deep blue eyes with such dark hair have always intrigued me.”
“Wokingham said she was forgettable.”
Calum breathed in slowly through his nose. “He was wrong. She is understated. A little fragile of build, perhaps, but pleasing. I fancy she would be soft. Rather like a supple, blue-eyed black cat. Mmm. And she clearly has spirit. I like that, too.”
Struan’s finger jabbed Calum again—like an iron spike. “Where are you coming by these remarks? I have never heard you speak so before.”
“I have never before looked upon a woman who was betrothed to me on the day of her birth.”
“Oh, my God!”
“Do stop saying that.”
“You have fabricated an existence for yourself out of God—out of who knows what gossip and rumors. There is no proof that you are anyone other than Calum Innes.”
The familiar turning started in his belly. “Calum Innes, man without a past.”
“Your past is with us. With the Stonehavens. You became one of us when you were but a small boy.”
“You have been good to me,” Calum allowed, and meant every word. “But I am not one of you. I am a man who was left, a child sick unto death, upon frozen ground in Castle Kirkcaldy’s stable yard. Left dressed in rags and with only a worn scapular to guard my body and soul. And the name I have been known by is a lie. A note in a poor hand thrust inside my clothing. Calum Innes. Not my name, I tell you.”
“Calum—”
“She has remarkable eyes.”
“She will see you looking at her.”
“She already has,” he said, and felt a stillness form around him.
“Good God,” Struan hissed. “Please come away. Now.”
“And allow her to be twice spurned in one night? I think not.”
Her foot had ceased its rhythmic tapping. She did not blush, or lower her face, or flutter her thick black lashes. She did not finger the fabulous diamond collar or flip open her beige lace fan.
Her lips did part a fraction, show small white teeth just a fraction. Her eyes rested squarely, curiously, on his, and Calum’s right hand went to the part of his stomach covered by his white waistcoat.
“Calum?”
He ignored Struan and walked with determined step to stand a short distance in front of Lady Philipa Chauncey.
The top of her smooth black hair would reach his chin. From his new, closer vantage point, he saw blue lights in that hair and noted the absence of fussiness. Coiled at her crown and secured with a simple, if diamond-studded, comb, gleaming curls fell loosely to her shoulders.
Without intending to, he approached and offered her his hand.
She took it and allowed him to draw her close enough to force her to raise her face to look at him.
Her black lashes cast a smoky veil across the dark blue of her eyes. Some might find her unremarkable; Calum was not one of their number.
“Where did we meet, sir?”
For several moments it was as if he’d heard her light, clear voice in some other place—at some other time. Then he remembered to smile. “I was going to ask the same of you, Lady Philipa.”
She had begun to smile, but her expression became serious again. “I was right, then. We have met. But you have the advantage of me, sir, for I do not recall your name.”
“I am Calum Innes.” He bowed. “May I have the honor of this dance?”
Without the expected glance in her chaperon’s direction, she folded her hand entirely into his and walked with him to take a place among the couples who
were beginning the whirling steps of a daring waltz.
Calum hesitated only a moment before placing a hand at his partner’s waist.
Her eyes widened and he saw her draw a short, sharp breath. But when he smiled, she smiled back and then concentrated so hard on the steps that her brow furrowed and she held her bottom lip in her teeth.
“You weigh nothing, Lady Philipa,” he remarked as he swung her around. “And you are clearly very practiced in the waltz.”
Her face came up. “It is unkind to make fun of a clumsy bumbler, Calum Innes,” she said, and laughed.
Calum forgot to move.
When she laughed, her eyes closed and her nose wrinkled. Pure delight washed any hint of sharpness from her features. And the sound was as abandoned and full as the laughter he had heard among sweet-voiced village girls at Kirkcaldy.
He tightened his grip upon her and turned her effortlessly, glided with her across the floor with more grace and command than he’d known he possessed.
“There, you see,” he said, laughing himself now, “you are a nymph of the dance. You fly as an imp of music through the night.”
“And you lie, sir,” she said, then bowed her head as a blush rushed over her cheeks. “Forgive me.”
“I will not,” he informed her. “Not until you apologize appropriately.”
“And how shall I do that?”
His throat grew dry. “By agreeing to see me again. By allowing me to call upon you.”
Her lips remained parted and he could almost hear her tumbling thoughts. She did not know how to answer. That, at least, was a boon.
“Where did we meet?” she asked at last. “Did we meet?”
“I don’t know,” he lied. “Did we? Or is it just that we ought to have met, because we are clearly so perfectly suited to each other?”
“That is an inappropriate comment, sir.”
He felt rash. “Pretend it is not inappropriate. I should like to know a great deal about you, Lady Philipa.”
She had grown pale. “Please tell me where we met. We haven’t, have we?”
“No,” he told her seriously. “But I felt as if we had, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And I wished we had. I still do. I’m glad we have.” Banter with females was not a skill he’d had any opportunity to perfect of late, yet talking to this girl was remarkably effortless.
“I am engaged to be married,” she said, looking entirely unhappy now.
“Ah.” Calum kept a smile in place and whirled her around and around. “Then I am desolate. Point the lucky man out to me. I shall congratulate him, then demand that he give you up.”
Anxiety and humor flitted by turn across her face. Her fingers curled on his arm. “You are a flattering scoundrel, sir. But…” She hesitated, then shook her head. “I am also glad we met, even if only for a dance. I should have hated to look back on my life and remember not a single dance purely for pleasure and with a man who wanted nothing from me.” Her lips snapped together and something close to horror made her eyes bright.
In that moment Calum was aware of the crush of dancers only as a distant, undulating pattern of colors. The music faded to the outside of the small space he shared with Lady Philipa and with her alone. She wasn’t happy. She felt no power to change her future. And the man who was to take her bright spirit, to trap and to tame it, had no right to claim her.
Calum didn’t know exactly when, but the music had stopped.
The dancers had drawn a little distance apart from him and Lady Philipa. The rustle of rich fabrics came in sibilant waves upon the rise and fall of whispers.
“You there, sir,” an autocratic voice demanded. “I’ll thank you to release my fiancée.”
Even as Calum’s heart pounded, a part of him reveled in the opportunity that was upon him. Keeping a hand at Lady Philipa’s waist, he turned, knowing the man he was about to face.
His Grace the Duke of Franchot gave his “fiancée” the briefest of nods and a stare that promised unpleasant things to come. “What can you be thinking of, my dear?” he said, and to Calum, “You, sir, are a knave. Do you pretend not to know that an engaged female’s attentions belong to her betrothed?”
Calum looked into cool, pale blue eyes and knew absolute loathing. “The fault—if there is any fault—is entirely mine,” he said. “Please do not upbraid Lady Philipa for an innocent—”
“Silence!” the man roared. His height and breadth were considerable, but there was a softening about the handsome lines of him that suggested too great an appetite for rich food and drink. “When you address me, it will be as Your Grace. Not that you will have a great deal of cause to address me. I asked you a question about your understanding of betrothal.”
Calum took his hand from Lady Philipa’s too-warm body and executed a careless, abbreviated bow. “You said that an engaged female’s attention belongs to her betrothed.” He turned a deliberate eye to Lady Hoarville, who stood a few feet from the duke, her coarsely beautiful face folded into puckers of discontent. “As I was saying”—Calum inclined his head to her but spoke to the duke—” the engaged female’s attention belongs to her betrothed.”
“It is fortunate you have such a clear memory.” Franchot held a fine white doeskin glove in one fist.
“Indeed,” Calum agreed. “I would add that, as I understand the subject, harmony between the sexes is most likely to be achieved when there is mutual attention. Given that, I assume the harmony between you and Lady Philipa must be enviable.”
Utter silence fell.
Calum saw the duke’s hand, holding the white glove, rise. The man’s pale eyes riveted the object of his current loathing.
Franchot was going to call him out.
The hand began its deliberate descent.
“Oh, good grief!” a male voice said loudly. A blur of black and white stumbled between Calum and Franchot. “Hell and damnation,” the man exclaimed, his arms flailing. A veritable fountain of champagne shot from an overlarge glass to douse the duke’s perfectly arranged blond tresses and drip down his shocked face onto his formerly immaculate, ruby-studded stock, his midnight-blue coat and his gold-embroidered waistcoat. The red-and-gold silk sash, emblazoned with the jeweled emblems of his rank, might never recover its original splendor.
“Good God!” the duke sputtered, striking at his assailant. “Bloody clumsy oaf. Get your hands off me!”
“Forgive me.” Much flapping of a pristine kerchief followed. “Do let me blot your rubies.”
Muscles in Calum’s cheeks twitched. A giggle from his side made him glance at Lady Philipa.
“Off,” the duke roared. “Off, I tell you…you…”
“Hunsingore, Your Grace. Viscount Hunsingore.”
Struan aimed a malevolent glare at Calum, who obligingly turned away…and walked into the arms of smiling Anabel, Lady Hoarville.
Charmed Two
“I’d be delighted to accompany you to the supper room,” Lady Hoarville said, resting her hands on Calum’s arm and looking up at him through blackened lashes. “I do believe I’m really quite hungry.”
Calum thought to look over his shoulder, then changed his mind and returned the lady’s flashing smile. Under his breath, he said, “How kind of you to join in my rescue.”
Lady Hoarville placed one white-gloved hand on Calum’s arm and pointed them away from the continuing scuffle between Struan and Franchot. “He would have called you out, you know,” she said very softly. “Etienne is exceedingly headstrong and passionate. Passionate in everything he does.” She peeked at Calum.
“No doubt.” Even had he wanted to, and he didn’t, Calum could not have failed to see the truly extraordinary proportions of the lady’s mostly revealed breasts. Sprigs of green satin leaves ornamented her lilac lace gown, the bodice of which was exceedingly tight. The resulting effect was rather that of too much pale blancmange resting precariously in a too-small dish.
After what seemed a lengthy time, they passed f
rom the music room to the supper room, where several long tables bore lavish displays of extravagant edible delights.
Calum halted. “I really do appreciate your kindness, madam, but I cannot take you away from your companions.” He did not add that he was not a man who walked away from conflict, and had Struan not appeared to be on the verge of apoplexy, he, Calum, would be asking his friend to act as his second.
“Fie.” The moue was accompanied by a small dip of her knees and a smart rap of her fan on Calum’s chest. “You would use me and desert me, sir? I am wounded.”
“I believe the time has come for me to leave.”
“No! No, I forbid it. Not until I have found out absolutely everything about you.”
Not for the first time that evening, Calum felt a prickling climb his spine. “I am a dull fellow, I assure you,” he told her.
She wandered to the closest table and selected a small cake coated with pink sugar. “You are not dull to me,” she said, and applied the tip of her pointed tongue to the sugar. Slowly, she licked a circle around the glacé cherry at the cake’s center. “Perhaps I am dull to you? Oh, dear, yes. That must be it. You are bored by my company.”
“Not at all.” Franchot and Lady Philipa totally absorbed him; otherwise he was bored with the entire proceeding. He was also aware that, for some obscure reason, this woman wanted something from him. “Shall I return you to the ball?”
“What is your name?”
There was danger here—he could feel it. “Calum Innes,” he told her. Perhaps the danger he felt arose only from knowing that this woman was a very “close” acquaintance of the man who, only minutes earlier, had been on the verge of challenging him to a duel.
“You know Lady Philipa, don’t you?” Lady Hoarville asked.
The reason for her interest in him began to take shape. “Surely you intend to honor me with your name, madam?”
The whole of the little cake disappeared into her mouth and she chewed. Beckoning, she drew a footman nearer and took a glass of champagne from the silver tray he held. This she gave to Calum before taking a second glass for herself.
Without speaking, she proceeded to a doorway near the towering white marble fireplace and indicated for Calum to follow. Reluctantly he did so and found himself in a sumptuous green brocade sitting room.
Fascination -and- Charmed Page 37