by Claudia Dain
“I can see that she did not,” he said pleasantly.
Sophia looked at him fully again and gave him a spectacular smile. “Mrs. Warren is such a charming companion, such a dear friend, but I do her a disservice. I consider Anne Warren a member of my family. Certainly I treat her as such.”
“She is in your every confidence,” he said, smiling.
Sophia laughed delicately and tapped his shoulder with her folded fan. “Darling, no one is in my every confidence. I have far too many confidences which must remain . . . confidential. I’m certain you understand.”
“Fully.” And he did.
Anne Warren was under Sophia’s able protection, but they were not complete confidantes. That boded well for him. He had no direct wish to cross Sophia Dalby, as it was rumored by those in an acute position to know that she was a ruthless adversary, yet it was entirely possible that he could seduce Anne Warren without Sophia being privy to the act.
It was an entirely reasonable supposition and he was entirely committed to acting upon it. While managing a flagrant Louisa Kirkland, he would bed Anne Warren.
Simplicity itself.
OF course it should have been the most simple thing in the world, but it wasn’t, and Amelia Caversham was getting so very tired of trying. Here she was, face-to-face, and looking quite marvelous, truth be told, with two, two, dukes or nearly dukes and she could barely keep them looking in her direction.
One of them being the Duke of Calbourne, a highly eligible duke of rather remarkable good looks and perhaps of slightly more than desirable height; but, he did have a son, which proved he could do the deed. She had heard a rather interesting rumor that the Earl of Summerlund was not up to that sort of performance, the result being that his wife, who was a full year younger than Amelia, had been forced, forced, to make good use of the head groom.
The Summerlund heir had been born last summer.
Anyway, the second of them now facing her was the lovely and quite elegant Lord Iveston, heir to the Duke of Hyde, who was terribly old, wasn’t he, and could not live forever, could he? Iveston, having not yet married and having never been married and, truth be told, appearing not at all interested in being married, was a very handsome prospect. If only he would show some interest. In her. Immediately.
Or the Duke of Calbourne. Either one would do nicely.
The entire problem, as far as she could make out, was that dukes and almost dukes, particularly if they were young, as these two were, but even if they were not, knew that they should do very nicely indeed and as a consequence they were not at all cooperative.
It was really most disheartening.
It was particularly disheartening and discouraging and, really, disgusting as she had planned and planned for this evening, when there would be at the very minimum two dukes or almost dukes and she happened, now, at this very instant to see yet another duke just entering the salon.
Because he, Edenham, was a duke and behaving perfectly like a duke as she had come to know them, he paid her absolutely no attention whatsoever.
And on top of all that, if that wasn’t absolutely enough, Louisa was having the most spectacular time in that not only was Lord Henry Blakesley, brother to Lord Iveston, almost duke, engaged in a blatantly passionate conversation with her, but Lord Penrith, the Marquis of Penrith, whom everyone knew was the most exquisite man of the Season, even if he had the misfortune to not be in line for a dukedom, was bowing before Louisa now. Even at this distance and through at least forty people, Penrith looked quite taken with Louisa.
Worse yet, Mr. Grey, Sophia’s rather remarkable nephew, was standing, hovering actually, over Louisa and looking positively and dangerously mesmerized by the very sight of Louisa.
And hadn’t Louisa just met Penrith and George Grey in Sophia Dalby’s salon this very day?
Amelia loved Louisa as well as any girl ever loved a cousin. Certainly. Without doubt.
But it was not at all a lovely feeling to watch Louisa get so much attention, whether she wanted it or not, and since it was not Lord Dutton who was fawning over Louisa, Amelia was more than certain that Louisa did not realize how fortunate she was because now, more than ever, Amelia was very well aware that no one, no one, cared whether she left the room, the house, or the town.
And she wasn’t counting her brother in that because brothers were worthless in calculations of that sort.
The evening, just barely begun, was turning into perhaps one of the worst nights of her life, and she had quite a few to choose from. Worst nights, that is.
She had not, despite all her plans, hit London by storm. No, more a light drizzle with not even a promise of lightning.
Her governess, when exclaiming over her shining blond locks and clear blue eyes, had not led her to believe that this, this, would have been her future. She was on the shelf, or almost on the shelf, and she was not yet twenty-one. It was failure she was facing and nothing less.
Amelia’s gaze, blue and crystalline (a direct quote from Mrs. Weaver, her former governess), lifted again to watch Louisa quarrel, by the look of it, with Blakesley, flirt with Penrith, which would explain the quarrel with Blakesley, and pointedly ignore Mr. Grey, which didn’t seem to be working out at all, and let herself drift out of the conversation Calbourne was having with Iveston about the height of his latest foal. They let her drift, the louts, because they didn’t care if she stood listening, questioning, sticking her bosom out so far that her back ached, or pulled her hairpins out with both hands. They didn’t care. They didn’t notice.
They weren’t at all interested. In her.
It was a perfectly dreadful evening and they hadn’t yet sat down to dinner.
But of course the worst, the complete worst was Anne Warren. It was well-known if one listened to gossip, which of course she did for how else was she to know anything about anyone, that Anne Warren’s mother had been only slightly better than a common lightskirt, which clearly meant that Anne Warren herself was only slightly, if at all, better than that. And this woman, this, it must be admitted, widow of a naval hero of the most minor variety, was completely, completely riveting to both Calbourne and Iveston.
It was not to be borne.
She felt the distinct and unwelcome urge to cry.
Which she naturally would not do as she had been better brought up than that and besides which, no one would have noticed in any regard.
“Do you not care for horses, Lady Amelia?” Mrs. Warren said.
Perhaps someone had noticed after all.
Anne Warren’s lovely eyes looked at her sympathetically. Mrs. Warren’s eyes were a remarkable shade of light greyish green and matched to perfection the soft pewter-colored trim of her stylish gown, which it must be noted seemed to reliably prove that a friendship with Sophia Dalby had its advantages, for it was flatly impossible for a woman of Anne Warren’s background and status to have afforded such a gown otherwise. All of which, naturally, caused Amelia to ponder yet again the wisdom of Louisa’s seeking Sophia out for counsel in the matter of her pearls.
In some lights it looked positively wise.
But that had to be absurd as any properly brought up lady knew, knew, that listening to anything a former courtesan said would have to rank as one of the most unwise of acts.
Amelia let her gaze stray from the well-groomed Mrs. Warren across the room to Louisa, who was currently engaged in conversation with Mr. Grey, Lord Henry Blakesley, and Lord Penrith. The Lord Penrith. Why, his voice alone could cause a girl of impeccable breeding to tumble under the nearest shrub. To tumble him under the nearest shrub was the actual saying, but girls of impeccable breeding were not supposed to say such things, even to themselves, and as she was fully intent upon becoming a duchess, she had made it a point to do all, all, with perfect propriety.
Fat lot of good it had done her.
“Lady Amelia?” Anne Warren said.
“Oh,” Amelia said, pulling her gaze away from Louisa and her conversation with two very obviou
sly attentive men, “I find horses and their bloodlines to be very interesting.”
What else was she to say when one duke and one almost duke were discussing horses in that very instant? She cared about horses only as a method of transportation, but could she admit that now, in this company? Hardly.
“I’m afraid that I do not. I suppose it is because I was not around horses in my youth,” Mrs. Warren said pleasantly. “I suppose I am too old now to acquire the fascination.”
Amelia’s father had always prided himself on his stables, not that he had let Amelia anywhere near them.
“Calbourne,” Iveston said, inserting himself into their conversation, “I do think Mrs. Warren’s attention has wandered. We can speak of this later. For now, let us think of the ladies and what would interest them. I do believe,” Lord Iveston said with a sweet smile aimed directly and exclusively, exclusively, at Anne Warren, “that I saw a very fetching ribbon yesterday that would exactly match your eyes, Mrs. Warren.”
Anne laughed in delight, which is exactly what Amelia would have done if anyone had bothered to talk to her, and said, “I cannot believe that you shop for ribbons, my lord, fetching or otherwise. Talk horses if you please. It is your day and you should and must be indulged.”
“I like the sound of that,” Iveston said, ignoring Amelia completely and, by all appearances, effortlessly.
“Yes, well, I think you have been indulged quite enough,” Calbourne said. “It is time that the ladies be indulged.”
“And I like the sound of that,” Mrs. Warren said.
Aunt Mary snorted and shook her head loosely. She had found the punch. She had become quite more agreeable since she had done so.
“Young women should never be indulged,” Mary said primly, or as primly as three glasses of punch would allow. “Ruins them completely.”
“I should say that would depend upon what they were fit for to begin with,” Iveston said, fighting a blush.
It was most charming, though if she married Iveston, their children would likely be white of hair and pink of cheek, which could sometimes result in offspring that looked peculiarly like white rabbits. It was something to consider, that was certain.
Not that Lord Iveston behaved as though he were bothering to consider her.
“Because in that case,” Calbourne continued, “it might be the making of them. Indulgence can be a very satisfying end, wouldn’t you say, Iveston?”
“Not in mixed company, no,” Iveston said, turning quite pink in the cheek.
Rabbits.
Of course, Lord Calbourne, being older and more experienced, particularly where having wives was concerned, might be more than she was capable of managing.
Ridiculous. If she could manage to marry a duke, she could manage him while married to him. One simply followed the other.
But she did not particularly care for his bold tongue and his unfortunate habit of speaking rather more suggestively than was proper, habits which she would naturally overlook if he expressed even the slightest interest in her.
Amelia, bosom carefully arranged, looked coyly at Calbourne.
He did not look even slightly interested. He was, in point of fact, looking with unbecoming warmth at Mrs. Warren.
It was entirely possible that, like Louisa, she might learn to positively loathe Anne Warren.
ANNE Warren was quite aware that Amelia Caversham was on the road to a very strong distaste for her. She could hardly blame her. The men, Calbourne and Iveston, were behaving dismally. It was obvious to her that they were behaving that way entirely intentionally.
It was equally obvious to her that Amelia had not reasoned that out.
Amelia Caversham, as lovely as she looked and as sweetly as she behaved, was rather too obvious in her pursuits. Namely: a duke for a husband. It was not a bad goal, certainly not, and a woman should have goals, quite firm ones, in fact, but it was best if they were not displayed quite so obviously. And, in fact, it served a woman’s best interests if they were not displayed at all.
She had learned that from Sophia, or was learning it, and it was good counsel indeed. She intended to follow it fully and to the letter.
She was going to attain her goals and she was going to do it quietly and with all good taste. She was going to marry Lord Staverton, a lovely man, quite tender in his regard for her and quite charming in his devotion, no matter that he was fully old enough to be her elderly father and that he had the unfortunate aspect of having one uncontrollable eye. He was a lovely man. He was a titled man. She had quite learned to ignore his eye and his age.
The most delightful development of her engagement to the delightful Lord Staverton was that Lord Dutton was completely poleaxed by the news.
It was too wonderful.
Dutton was miserable and confused and surly, which was a condition he entirely deserved. She couldn’t have been more delighted to be the cause of such misery on such a deserving man.
Of course, Dutton looked entirely self-satisfied and arrogant and confident to her, but Sophia, who surely understood men better than any woman she had yet to meet, had told her in no uncertain terms that Dutton was facing the crisis of his manhood and that it was high time he did so.
Sophia must be believed, and Anne did. Resolutely. Without hesitation, qualm, or doubt. It was the simple truth that ever since she had begun listening to Sophia’s counsel concerning men that Caroline had married the man of her choosing a mere three days after choosing him and Anne had become engaged to a perfectly lovely gentleman and had simultaneously cast Lord Dutton into misery.
Things couldn’t get much better than that.
If only Amelia could see what was so very plain to her; namely, that Calbourne and Iveston were punishing her after a fashion for her too plain pursuit of a title. It was entirely natural, of course, for a woman to want a title, natural and logical. Why, even a man must admit that he preferred being titled to untitled. That he would become so unreasonable as to expect a woman to ignore such details was beyond logic, but men did so often drift beyond logic into their own strange land of honor and tradition that it could often become difficult to reason with them rationally.
And in those instances, which happened all too often to be entirely complimentary to men, the only course for a woman to follow was to leave them ignorant of events as they stood and for her to proceed with her very logical plans accordingly. Which is exactly what she was doing and which is exactly what Amelia should be doing.
It was unfortunately and flagrantly obvious that Amelia was wanting in sound counsel.
That she should be counseled by Sophia was also obvious.
That Anne could suggest no such thing to her was also, sadly, obvious.
Ah, well, she would do what she could, staying within the bounds of strict propriety as she properly ought. When a woman had a mother such as she had endured, she lived forever within the bounds of propriety or risked immediate censure and expulsion. She had lived after having been expelled. She had crawled her way back in, in large part by Sophia’s efforts, and she was not going to risk being tossed back out.
She felt sorry for Amelia, but not so much so that she would risk her own survival.
It was a truth Sophia knew well, as did Anne, because it was a truth they had lived and survived to remain silent about. One did not discuss life on the outer wall of Society because it was simply too dismal to revisit, even in memory. That was another truth they shared, albeit silently.
Anne looked across the small space that separated her from Sophia, who was currently laughing about something with Dutton, who looked as compelling as he ever did, miserable or not, and watched her. Sophia, black haired and ivory skinned, her black eyes shining like polished onyx, was more mother to her than her own mother had been. She owed her a debt of love and gratitude that she paid daily and gladly. Not that Sophia expected anything of her, but the depth of understanding and devotion they shared for each other was precious to her.
If Sophia Dalby had a
sked Anne to walk through fire, Anne would have certainly tried to do so, which is exactly why Sophia had not told her to marry Staverton. No, she had let Anne make her own mind up about that, and then affirmed her when she had.
It was the right choice. Caroline, Sophia’s headstrong, protected daughter and Anne’s dear friend, could not see it. Caroline had lived well loved within the bounds of Society all her life. No, she could not see the wisdom, the pure gift, of marrying dear Staverton.
Staverton, charming and sweet, was her salvation.
Anne turned her gaze back to Amelia Caversham. From the slightly haunted look in Amelia’s eyes, it looked like she needed some salvation of her own and it was not going to come from either Calbourne or Iveston. Anne was not at all accustomed to behaving in any way that could be deemed heroic, but she was determined all of a sudden to play the hero, in whatever small measure she might, with Amelia. The poor girl looked quite ready to burst into tears.
And the men looked not at all disposed to care.
Men, like the brutes they were on the worst of occasions, had to be managed most carefully, at least according to Sophia. Anne had seen nothing to dissuade her from that observation.
“Then do we agree?” Anne said, compelling the men to look at her. “Is it not the ladies who should henceforth be indulged?”
“I am in complete agreement, Mrs. Warren,” Iveston said. “In what fashion would you prefer your indulgence? Wine? Food?”
“A canceling of your debts?” Calbourne said slyly.
The Duke of Calbourne was most captivating when he was acting sly, and she was entirely certain he knew it. Impossible, irrepressible man; it was quite apparent by his behavior that he had been married once before. He was entirely too comfortable around women. Although the same could be said about her, she supposed; having been married, she was quite comfortable with men and their odd little jests and random moods. They often behaved like rather large children and responded best when dealt with firmly and not unkindly. They could not help their limitations, after all, and should not be faulted for them.