She danced two country-dances with him and two more with her uncle. All the while her gaze raked the crowd. Her heart beat an unsteady rhythm as she continued searching.
“Whom ever are you watching for?” Aunt Winnie asked partway through the evening.
Until that moment, May had not realized that she had been craning her neck to peer through the thick crowd.
Whom indeed was she searching for? Certainly not that despicable Viscount Evers. Why ever would she be interested in him?
“No one, Aunt,” she said, forcing her eyes to keep steady on one point. “Why, there are just so many people here dressed in such a splendid array of colors.”
“Poppycock!” Aunt Winnie scolded. “Lying is so unbecoming, May. This night is no different than the week before, nor the week before that. In fact, these events are fast becoming quite a bore. Who has turned your head?”
“No one has.” May felt her face heat. “No one of import.” Definitely not the dashing Lord Evers.
“Mr. Tumblestone appears quite taken with you this evening, does he not?”
May caught herself before giving into the temptation of peering around the crowded room again. Although the viscount often attended, he rarely lingered long in the ballroom. For a rake like Evers, the card room better filled his needs. Certainly she wasn’t searching for the viscount, was she?
“Yes, he does,” she answered absently.
“And what do you think of him?” her aunt asked. “Do you think he would be able to make you happy?”
“No,” May answered thoughtlessly.
Did she spot the viscount’s square shoulder through the crowd? No, that gentleman with the stark black coat was Mr. Rankcor, a happily married London banker.
Aunt Winnie’s pursed lips and carefully set frown startled May back to reality. Winnie cared as deeply for May’s happiness as May cared for Winnie’s. And Winnie would willingly move to Redfield Abbey to live in luxury with her brother if she was confident that May was happily settled. If not for concern over May’s future, Winnie probably would have already agreed to let Uncle Sires care for her.
May fluttered her hands. “I mean, Aunt, I don’t really know Mr. Tumblestone, do I? He seems a very kind man.”
“He does.” Aunt Winnie sat back on her bench and peered out from half-lidded eyes. May felt as if her aunt’s gaze was trying to tease out the truth. “Marriage is an important decision, May. You would be wise to avoid doing anything rash.”
How could Aunt Winnie know that despite Mr. Tumblestone’s behavior being the model of propriety, May was already wracking her mind with plans to wiggle out of a marriage with him?
“I promise to consider all aspects of marriage before making a decision, Aunt.” She would have to marry Mr. Tumblestone . . . if only for Winnie’s happiness. No other man had ever offered.
“There is something you must know, dear.” Winnie leaned forward and whispered. “Before you make up your mind. You must understand—”
Mr. Tumblestone approached with a confident swagger. Winnie blushed prettily as she looked up and noticed his approach. Whatever May needed to understand must have slipped Winnie’s mind as she straightened her skirt and gave May’s suitor a welcoming nod.
Tumblestone smiled widely, his gaze lingering again on May’s embarrassing chest while he bowed. “The night grows late, ladies. It is nearly eleven o’clock. The last dance begins.” He offered Aunt Winnie his arm. “And yet, my dear woman, you have not yet danced a set.”
How kind Mr. Tumblestone was. How thoughtful of him to think her aunt in need of rescue. Aunt Winnie, who rarely danced a set since the onset of her illness, fluttered her hands and accepted graciously. She looked decades younger as she batted her lashes while accepting Mr. Tumblestone’s hand.
“Please be careful, Aunt,” May could not keep herself from warning. Country-dances contained vigorous moves. Winnie mustn’t overexert herself or her heart wouldn’t be able to take it.
“Oh, pooh! You worry overmuch. You’re no different than an old clucking hen sometimes. I daresay I’m strong enough to survive one mild dance,” Winnie said as Mr. Tumblestone led her out to the marble dance floor.
May settled on the wooden bench in the spot Aunt Winnie had vacated. Her gaze continued to search as she watched the last set of the night begin.
No prince appeared from the card room nor from deep within the crowd. Why should she expect him to? He never danced.
May swallowed hard and straightened her spine.
She was a fool, naught but a fool.
There were no magical princes lurking in the shadows . . . at least, none searching for her.
Chapter 6
“Tell me you haven’t sunk into a foul mood again,” Wynter demanded of Radford when he barged into the drawing room in typical Wynter fashion.
The two had avoided each other for most of the day after parting in anger the previous morning. After the incident in the Pump Room—which still left Radford cringing—Wynter had dressed him up and down, using language colorful enough to make the most hardened rough-and-tumble foot soldier flinch.
“Gentlemen, no matter how arrogant or high-in-the-instep, do not treat women as if they were naught but sotted servants,” Wynter had said finally.
Though Radford agreed, he refused to put voice to his holding the same opinion or to promise to change his ways. He merely professed a willingness to court the young Lady Lillian. A confession that sent Wynter into another rage.
“But, Wynter, you must see the benefits,” Radford had said with hopes to sooth his friend’s ire. He then patiently listed the lady’s qualifications. She was young, soft-spoken, fair-haired, born into a respected family, and known throughout England as an accomplished horsewoman.
“What else could a man want in a wife?” he asked.
What else, indeed?
To that question, Wynter simply could not give a coherent answer. And with them at such an impasse, they had parted ways.
Today, they’d plans to meet for drinks before escorting Radford’s mother to a private concert the Duke of Newbury was hosting. The lovely Lady Lillian had penned the invitation with her own hand, Radford had been told. All was moving forward smoothly with his plans to woo her properly.
Yet, this disagreement with Wynter left Radford feeling slightly askew. He wondered whether his friend would appear as planned or leave him to face the lovely lady and her mother on his own.
But sure as the rains, always dependable Wynter arrived on time. When Radford growled his regular greeting, Wynter, quite uncharacteristically, growled back.
Curse his foul moods. Try as he might, Radford couldn’t seem to settle his own flaring temper that evening. Perhaps it was because it wasn’t just his mood that pained him.
Radford had hurt more than his pride with his near fall in the Pump Room the day before. His foot throbbed with a devil’s vengeance. He’d retreated to the parlor that evening and propped up his foot on the sofa cushions while waiting for Wynter’s arrival.
“Once again, I find myself having to ask you to forgive me,” Radford said, grateful for the few friends who’d stayed with him despite his infirmities and sour moods. It wasn’t good form to snap at Wynter without a worthy cause. “It pleases me to see you willing to put up with a worthless blighter like me.”
“That tone is even more pitiful than your growl,” Wynter said while tugging on his waistcoat—a sure sign he was on the verge of losing his temper. “If you don’t stop feeling sorry for yourself, I will feel compelled to bash your head into the ground.”
“Bash his head—?” a missish voice preceded a delicately boned, fair-haired, willowy woman into the parlor. She was dressed in a pale peach silk sheath that hid how much weight she had lost in the past year. “I will allow no such violence in my home, young man.”
Wynter bowed his head. So did Radford. His mother was a beguiling force no man could resist.
“Lady Evers,” Wynter said. He swept across the ro
om and took up her hand in his, brushing his lips across her knuckles. “May I say your beauty tonight puts the fragrant nosegay you hold to shame?”
“Flatterer,” she hissed. A smile creased her thin lips as she batted him away with her silken fan. The stresses of the past year had etched deep lines on her slender features. To lose a husband and watch her only son crippled by war within a span of a few months had taken a harsh toll. Radford thought it a wonder she could find it in her to smile at all.
“Are you certain you are up to the concert tonight, Mother?” Radford asked. He pulled his leg from its soft perch on the sofa and struggled to his feet.
Lady Evers rushed to his assistance, tugging on his arms and fluttering her hands about him. “What have you done with your cane? The doctors say you should use it. Look at you, ready to fall. My word, you will be the death of me.”
The fuss she made only pricked at his anger. But he could not turn his temper on her, not after all she had suffered and all the anguish his injuries had caused her so soon after his father’s death. So he once again turned his bitter tongue on his long-suffering friend.
“Is there not but mush in your nob, Wynter? Can you not even wipe that grin from your dreadful face long enough to put yourself to use?” Radford roared.
When he chanced a glance of his mother’s eyes after such an outburst he was horrified by what he saw. She never hid her feelings. Sorrow spilled over into a light sheen of tears.
“Please, Radford, try not to fuss so. You will surely make yourself ill again.” She believed him an invalid, unable to care for himself. Many a time she had complained how his valet was inadequate to see after his care. He needed to hire a nurse, she had told him for the sixth time just that morning at breakfast. The helplessness her loving care provoked only added flames to his fiery temper.
Wynter’s grin didn’t help either. “Looking to put three sheets to the wind before introducing your mother to the woman you have decided to marry, eh Evers?”
“Go to the devil,” Radford roared, forgetting for a moment his mother’s delicate ears.
Lady Evers released Radford immediately. Her cheeks flooded with color. “Is this true?” she whispered the question as if afraid she had heard Wynter wrong.
Radford huffed and tripped his way to the sideboard. He hadn’t planned on involving his mother in his courting process, at least not so soon. She would be sorely disappointed if he failed. Thanks to his friend—he sent Wynter a killing glance—his mother would undoubtedly put all her energies into seeing the deed done.
“I have not exactly decided to marry her, Mother.” It was a hopeless gesture. Her eyes were beaming brighter than the sun. He splashed a bit of brandy into a glass. “She barely knows me, in fact.”
“But she will have you,” Lady Evers said with determination. “She must. Who is this lady you have selected? I trust she is from a respectable family?”
“Oh yes,” Wynter answered before Radford could attempt to dissuade his mother from having him married and off to Scotland for his honeymoon before the evening was out. “Her father is the Duke of Newbury.”
“Newbury!” Lady Evers clutched her hands to her heart.
Her sudden look of rapture pleased Radford. He was doing the right thing. This marriage was exactly what his mother needed.
“There could not be a better choice. All of his daughters were raised to be proper ladies. Not an unseemly trait in the lot. I heartily approve of your choice. Heartily.”
She threw herself in his arms with such force his glass spilled and his lame leg bowed—reminding him. Lady Lillian might not be interested in marrying half a man.
“She has not accepted me, Mother,” he warned. “I have not even formally declared my interests.”
Nothing he could say could diminish her enthusiasm or quell her planning. In her mind, the marriage was a certainty.
“You will just have to pay a visit to the duke on the morrow to declare yourself, son.”
Wynter snickered and wisely stayed out of punching range. “Shall we depart? I daresay there is a certain Newbury daughter breathlessly awaiting your speedy appearance, Evers.”
Radford glowered. The thought of seeing Lady Lillian again and having to woo the pretty young thing made his stomach churn. She might not take to him. She was young and pretty. Surely, such a woman wouldn’t feel compelled to settle.
But what was he to do?
He straightened his shoulders and tugged on his dove gray gloves. The deed was done. He would not, no matter what he felt in his heart, disappoint his mother.
* * * *
The concert dragged at a painfully slow pace. Though the entertainment was first rate and the company friendly, May found maintaining her gracious smile a tiresome chore. Mr. Tumblestone fawned over her, her uncle scowled over her choice of gowns, and the fool Lord Evers flirted shamelessly with Lady Lillian.
She needed to escape . . . just for a moment . . . to catch her breath.
At an intermission, May slipped into the duke’s darkened library and swiftly closed the door behind her. She let out the breath she’d been holding and slumped against the door. This evening was intolerable.
“Perhaps I should call a constable, my pretty thief.”
From the far side of the room an ember blazed as it floated up the flue from the banked fire. Other than that brief light, darkness blanketed the room. The unmistakably smooth voice seemed to sink even deeper within the library’s depths.
Startled, May’s hands flew to her mouth. “Why ever for, my lord,” she replied, her gaze searching the gloom for the viscount. “I am a guest, not a thief.”
“Is that so? Then why is a delicate little cup missing from my china set?”
The blasted teacup! In the chaos of the last couple of days, she had completely forgotten to send her housekeeper around to return it.
“Did you shatter the poor thing into tiny pieces in a fit of rage?”
“Of course I did nothing of the sort.” May found no comfort in speaking to a gentleman under the complete cover of night. Especially a rogue . . . an incredibly handsome rogue who had persisted to haunt her unruly thoughts. Her hand curled around the door handle. Not generally a coward, tonight she was more than prepared to flee.
“If not a thief, what are you doing hiding in the darkness?” he asked.
Curiosity kept her hand from turning the doorknob. “What are you doing in the darkness?” she asked. “Do not forget, I was the one who found you in here. Not the other way around.”
The rustle of material alerted her to his approach. He was mere steps away from her and her thundering heart when a curtain parted and welcomed a beam of moonlight into the room.
“I was trying to find a moment’s peace,” he said and then sighed deeply. “And you?”
“The same,” she admitted.
“Ah.” He took a step closer. His sharply defined features were bathed in the ghostly pale light of the moon. “Our hosts would be horrified to learn of the reason for our escape.”
“I just needed a moment to collect my thoughts”—she rushed to explain—“not flee from anyone particular.”
“No? Not even from that droll Mr. Tumblestone?” His brows rose. He crossed his arms over his chest and presented a languid pose only properly executed by the most notorious of rakes. “He is what? Sixty years old? I shiver at the rumor that you are soon to be his bride.”
Was he mocking her?
“I wonder if Lady Lillian is shivering at the thought of you as a husband,” she returned cruelly.
A frightening look of pure anger tightened his lazy expression. His lips hardened into a thin line.
“I have struck a chord, have I?” Good. She was glad for her tongue’s accurate marksmanship. “Perhaps you’re only too aware that you’re old enough to be her father.” May wasn’t certain of the fact. She knew that Evers had passed his thirtieth year. For how many years, she could not guess.
“My age?” His grim expression rel
axed. “You think my age frightens her as thoroughly as Mr. Tumblestone’s frightens you?” He laughed then, a low sound that rumbled in his throat. “You’ve overlooked one important fact, my pretty thief. I am a man in my prime. A man with lustful needs.”
May didn’t trust the wolfish gleam that suddenly brightened his eyes or the deepening pitch of his voice. She had read stories about men being transformed into beasts by the sight of a full moon. The situation coupled with an inordinate amount of moonlight pouring through the window was enough to make her wary.
A single woman should never be caught alone with a man, especially in an unlit room. Such an oversight in propriety could leave her reputation in tatters.
“My lord,” she whispered as he leaned forward, closing the gap between them. The pure scent of him, a refreshing blend of cheroot and vanilla, left her senses reeling.
He peeled off a glove. The rough pad of his thumb caressed her lower lip. She gasped, unable to catch her breath. Her mind could barely form a protest before his head dipped down and his lips captured hers.
At first, shock paralyzed her. She couldn’t pull away even if she had wanted to. Then, a deep heat rose up from low in her belly, melting her resolve . . . washing away any warring thoughts. She pressed her hand against his chest, thrilling in the raw sensations a kiss—naught but a simple kiss—could conjure in her.
* * * *
The caress wasn’t much more than a brush of her lips. Radford reined in his desire to run his tongue over her soft lips and tease open the entrance.
She’d tensed at his initial touch. He’d fully expected her to jerk her head away. The sensual sigh she breathed instead emboldened him. She wanted this kiss as much as he. When she pressed her hand against his shoulder, he took the cue and pulled her closer so their bodies could meld together.
Her fairy lips tasted of the sweetest nectar, stirring a mysterious, overpowering sensation in the center of his chest.
The Sweet and Spicy Regency Collection Page 5