“Who?” Honoria asked, distracted. Her narrow little eyes had found Miranda. Phineas bristled. She looked like she was considering dining on his sister.
“The Earl of Ashdown, of course,” Carrington said, looking at Isobel. “Your husband, madam?”
“He’s dead,” Charles said flatly, also staring at Miranda, who flushed uncertainly as Charles leaned toward her, all but drooling on her, his expression openly lecherous. Phineas started forward, but Adam grabbed his sleeve.
“Careful, Phin,” he murmured. “What would Carrington say if you started a punch-up at your sister’s come-out ball before she’d even had her first dance?”
Carrington was regarding Isobel in horrified surprise. She smiled, and it transformed her features. Slightly.
“My son is the current Earl of Ashdown, Your Grace. As he is only five, he is indeed at home in bed,” she explained succinctly. Phineas didn’t miss the furtive look of exasperation she sent Honoria and Charles, but they did, since it was gone almost as quickly as it appeared.
It was obvious the lady did not like her relatives by marriage. There was anger in the tilt of the countess’s head, in the tight muscles in her jaw and slender neck, yet her face remained free of any emotion at all. Now that made her interesting, in his opinion.
If Isobel Maitland had a secret, he’d know it before the night was through.
Phineas glanced at his grandfather, still beset by Charles and Honoria. There was a dangerous tic starting under Carrington’s right eye.
“Thank you for coming,” the duke said pointedly, but the Maitlands would not be dismissed.
“How soon will you be taking offers for Lady Miranda’s hand?” Honoria asked, and Phineas felt every nerve in his body heat. He finished the champagne in a gulp and set the glass down with exaggerated care.
“Steady, old man,” Adam warned again. Phineas put his fist behind his back and watched Charles smirk at Miranda. She swallowed nervously, the pearls around her neck bobbing.
Carrington’s complexion reddened at the question, and Augusta snapped her fan open with a crack like a pistol shot.
“I will not be entertaining serious offers for some weeks yet,” Carrington replied, his tone brittle. Phineas felt a warm flush of family pride. It was nice to see that there was someone Carrington disliked as much as his own heir. He felt a smirk tug at his lips, and looked up to find Isobel watching him. She looked away at once, fading backward into the crowd like a ghost, instantly subsumed into the crush of living bodies.
“Perhaps we should invite Charles to dinner, and pick his brain for secrets. He seems quite taken with Miranda,” Adam mused, and Phineas shot him a hot glare.
“There are ways to get information that don’t require torture,” Phineas said.
“Good lord, Phin, I wasn’t suggesting torture!”
“What else would you call dinner with a boor like Maitland?”
At the top of the stairs, the footmen closed the doors to the ballroom with a decisive thud, signaling that all the invited guests had arrived.
Phineas felt his stomach sink. She hadn’t arrived. Either that or he’d been so distracted by the damned Maitlands that he hadn’t noticed her.
As the orchestra struck up the first notes, and his grandfather took Miranda’s hand and swept her onto the dance floor, Phineas scanned the crowd. It had been days since Evelyn’s ball, yet he remembered how Yasmina smelled, how she tasted, how she felt in his arms.
He just had no idea what she looked like. He racked his brain, trying to put scanty clues together and assemble a woman.
She was tall, since the top of the little cap she’d worn had reached his ear. Several women present fit that description, but he knew all of them.
Yasmina had full, delicious breasts. They’d been hidden from view under her costume, of course, but he held them in his hands in the dark, heard her sigh, felt her nipples harden at his touch.
His hands curled against his sides as he stared at the ample and well-displayed breasts that filled his great-aunt’s ballroom, trying to picture them naked, measuring them in handfuls.
He remembered her perfume, something exotic and unforgettable, but he could hardly prowl the ballroom sniffing ladies’ necks. That kind of behavior would ensure he’d have more duels arranged for dawn than he could fight in a month, and he made it a rule never to be seen out of bed before noon. Rising early after a debauched night in the lowest gaming hells and gentlemen’s clubs in London would hardly fit with the image of a carefree rake he’d so carefully cultivated. Nor would it do to be seen dueling for something as trifling to a rogue as a lady’s honor.
He had no idea what color her hair might be, but he remembered her mouth. Her lips were full, and she’d tasted of champagne when he kissed her. There wasn’t a single woman in view with a mouth full enough, or red enough, or mobile enough to be hers.
Phineas shut his eyes. He was standing in his aunt’s ballroom, at his sister’s debut ball, staring at the female guests with a very inconvenient erection.
Damn Yasmina!
He backed toward the nearest pillar, wondering if he could slip out of the room without anyone noticing. He needed some air. He needed—
“Eek!”
He stepped on something soft and turned. Isobel Maitland stood in the shadows behind him, clutching the toe of her slippered foot awkwardly, her face furrowed in pain.
He instinctively stepped forward to shield her from the curious eyes around them as she recovered. It hardly seemed necessary. Her dull gown almost matched the heavy shadows that filled the corner she’d chosen. Her pale face floated in the gloom.
“Your pardon, Countess Ashdown. I didn’t see you there,” he said sarcastically, irritated that it should be her of all people. “I don’t know how I could have failed to notice you in the dark.”
She righted herself, leaning on the pillar, her bare, ungloved hand as white as the marble. “It’s quite all right. I didn’t expect you to back up, or I would have gotten out of your way, my lord,” she said in the same frosty tone he’d used.
Despite her polite words, her eyes glittered in silent reproof and her lips were pursed in disapproval. It annoyed him that this dowdy creature should find him repulsive. Women of her sort usually found his attentions flattering.
“Are you enjoying the party?” he asked, knowing she was not—could not—from the dark corner she’d chosen to hide in. She blushed, the added color a distinct improvement to her looks. Her long lashes swept downward over high, elegant cheekbones. He had a sudden urge to snatch the pins out of her matronly coiffure, to loosen both her auburn hair and the lady herself and see what Isobel Maitland really looked like. “Perhaps you’d like some champagne?”
Her mouth rippled in response, but she folded her lips between her teeth, pressing the color out of them. “No thank you,” she said primly.
He stood beside her awkwardly. It would be rude to walk away and leave her alone. He took the opportunity to study her as she stared at the tiled floor. Under purely masculine appraisal, without any bias for her shrewish personality, the severe hairstyle and lack of jewels, the feminine body under the ghastly dress was surprisingly good.
“Marianne is pleased that you came tonight,” he said less harshly, but the comment merely earned him a sharp look of suspicion. “I am trying to make polite conversation, my lady. It would be helpful if you participated. You might say something about how many people my great-aunt has managed to cram into this overly warm room tonight, or mention the pleasantness of the weather. It needn’t be witty, if that’s a strain for you.”
He hadn’t imagined she’d understand the biting comment, but her eyes shot to meet his, a fire kindling in their golden depths.
“It has been a cold, wet spring, save for yesterday,” she said, “and I understand that the number of people here tonight is due to the fact that there is a debut ball taking place. I would be surprised if there was an unmarried gentleman to be found anywhere else in London
, given Lady Miranda’s fortune and beauty. Marianne tells me that you are likewise seeking a wife, my lord, which possibly accounts for the vast numbers of ladies, wouldn’t you say?”
He blinked at her, read the keen wit in her eyes. Marianne was right. She did have pretty eyes, he admitted grudgingly, molten pools of copper and gold, as if an alchemist had taken the lumpen lead of her appearance and transformed it into something precious. It annoyed him that this dull, difficult widow should have redeeming features.
“And you, Countess?” he asked coldly. “If I recollect, your husband died several years ago. Is it not time to come out of mourning and find another?”
The color in her face fled and she glanced around nervously. She met his eyes, her expression expectant for a brief instant, before she lowered her gaze to stare at his waistcoat.
Phineas felt a sharp jab of horror. Good God, surely she didn’t think he meant it as an offer? Even if he did, it would have been a compliment to her, a marquess proposing to a peahen. It would hardly warrant the look of embarrassment on her face.
Perhaps she had loved Robert Maitland, and he had been boorish enough to remind her of her loss. He watched her sag under the cruel blow of his thoughtless comment. This was the moment to ask her a few questions about Robert, but he could not bring himself to flirt with her, of all women, to charm the information out of her.
“I did not mean to suggest—” he began, ready to console her, but she recovered instantly. Straightening her spine, she rose upward like a flower on a stem too fragile for the blossom. Her vulnerability fled and she regarded him with ferocity in her luminous eyes, pride clear in every elegant line of her body. Her breasts heaved under the hissing fabric of her dress as she glared at him.
“I believe the first dance has ended, my lord, and Lady Miranda is looking for you.” She turned her head away to look out over the crowd, her long neck a white column of indignation.
Phineas realized he’d been dismissed. He didn’t like it. Not from her. She should be grateful he’d taken the time to exchange a few words with her at all. It would surely prove the highlight of her evening, since no one else was likely to come near her. He bowed stiffly and walked away, not bothering to bid her good evening.
Isobel dropped her gaze to the black and white marble floor so she would not see him walk away from her, but her eyes were inexorably drawn to him, like a moth to a flame. He was a very stupid man, possibly the greatest fool she had ever met, and that included Charles and Robert and her father too. She also tarred him with the sins of arrogance and rudeness. He had no idea who she was, who she had been to him.
She watched as he bowed gallantly to his sister and led her onto the dance floor. He smiled lovingly at Miranda as they danced. Isobel’s toes curled and her breath caught in her throat. She remembered the warmth in his eyes at Evelyn’s ball, eyes that never left hers, as if she were the most fascinating woman on earth. She felt her heart skip a beat, curl into a tight, hard knot inside her empty chest. It had meant nothing. The man was a heartless rake, an inveterate flirt and not worth another thought.
But she bit the inside of her cheek as he executed the dance’s intricate steps perfectly, his athletic body moving easily in time with the music, all masculine pride and perfection.
Isobel licked her lips, suddenly dry, and longed for that glass of champagne, but knew she dare not indulge while Honoria was close by. She was forbidden to drink spirits at social functions, in case she became intoxicated and found herself contemplating an affair with an Italian musician, as her mother had. She glanced at the orchestra. Not one of them looked even remotely Italian. Nor was there a man among them she would consider giving up everything for.
Not one of them was Blackwood.
The dance ended and Blackwood handed his sister to her next partner and retreated to lean against a pillar near her own, his eyes on the crowd. He did not even glance in her direction, though she was not a dozen feet away. He took a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing footman, and she watched his throat work as he swallowed. Her mouth watered, tasting the wine vicariously.
His eyes were on Miranda, engaged in the next dance, her smile bright and sweet and teasing. Blackwood’s mouth by contrast was twisted, and his eyes were hot enough to burn holes in the fine black wool coats of the gentlemen who danced attendance on his sister.
He was protective, she thought, feeling a frisson of unbidden jealousy skitter across her nerves. What a hypocrite he was. He preyed on women, seduced them, then discarded them. He’d likely forgotten his encounter with Yasmina altogether. He’d probably seduced ten women since that night, though it was only six days ago. Not that she was counting. The memory of his body on hers made her gasp, shiver, and she forced herself to stay placid and unconcerned, though her heart threatened to burst from her chest and fall at his feet.
She watched in dismay as a giggling lady in the most fashionable shade of pink taffeta beckoned him to dance, and he went, smiling that rogue’s smile of his. Every fiber of Isobel’s being yearned to be held in his arms, flying around the dance floor. He swept by her corner a dozen times and never even looked her way, and she held her breath as he whispered something in the lady’s ear that made her blush as pink as her gown.
Isobel did not dare to breathe, in case it came back out as a scream. She stood very still and waited for him to lead his pretty partner through the open French doors, but he did not. He bowed and chose another lady to dance with. Only dance. The heavy weight of bitter relief nearly dragged her to her knees.
She raised a shaking hand to her mouth to hide the twist of her lips, and resisted the urge to sob. It hardly mattered. No one was looking at her. Not even Honoria. She didn’t just blend into the shadows. She was becoming one of them.
Chapter 11
“Good morning, Blackwood. Isn’t it rather early in the day for you to be up? I can’t recall the last time I saw you in full daylight.”
Phineas rolled his eyes at the jest and ignored the speaker, whoever he was. He was right, though. It was barely ten o’clock, and he’d been up for hours, but only because he hadn’t been able to sleep. Yasmina still plagued his mind, and his body.
“I didn’t get the chance to say hello to you at the ball last night. Your sister looked lovely, of course. Very lovely.”
That got Phineas’s attention. He stopped what he was doing, which was running his hand over the silken fetlock of a particularly pretty mare, and glanced up at Gilbert Fielding, an old friend he hardly saw anymore. Gilbert was impeccably respectable, and rarely descended to the kind of low places he himself frequented. He scanned the man’s pleasant face, pleased to see it free of any lewd innuendo with regard to Miranda. He relaxed a little, letting the grim edges of his scowl soften.
“Fielding,” he said by way of greeting, and stroked the mare’s nose. She whickered her appreciation and buried her face in his greatcoat, searching for treats. Typical female.
“Looking for a horse?” Gilbert asked, and Phineas raised an eyebrow.
“Why else would a man get up at this ungodly hour and come to Tattersall’s?” he asked. “I’m looking for a suitable riding horse for my sister. The nags in my great-aunt’s stable are a trifle staid for Miranda.” She’d mentioned it at supper last night while flirting with some ton fop. He’d send flowers this morning, but Phineas intended to make a grander gesture. He couldn’t recall the last gift he’d given her. That had been one of the problems that kept him awake, trying to imagine how he might protect Miranda from predatory suitors, or at least distract her. He decided to buy her a horse.
The other problem was that Yasmina had not come to the ball. He was beginning to think he’d imagined her after all. A bitter mix of frustrated lust and disappointment brought the scowl back again.
“May I say that this lovely lass would be a perfect match for such a beauty as Lady Miranda?” Gilbert said as he ran a gentle hand along the horse’s side, looking at her with clear admiration. Phineas wondered if
he was thinking of the horse or the lady.
Phineas nodded to the trainer, and the lad moved off at a run to show the potential buyer the mare’s paces.
“So what brings you here, Gil?” Phineas asked, strolling over to lean on the fence, his eyes on the mare.
“I’ve come to find a horse suitable for an army captain,” Gilbert said morosely.
Phineas took note of the grim set of Gilbert’s mouth. “Your father will have his way after all?”
Gilbert sighed. “So it seems. He insists I buy a commission in the army. He won’t have his second-born son living a useless life. He has, bless his heart, given me reprieve until the end of the Season to find a rich wife if I can.” He looked at the sky, which was threatening an icy spring downpour at any moment. “At least Spain is warm, I hear.”
“Have you any prospects?” Phineas asked.
Gilbert pointed. “That gray stallion appeals to me. I like the wary look in his eyes, as if he’s sensible enough to run the minute danger threatens, and take me out of harm’s way along with him.”
“I meant prospective brides, actually,” Phineas said.
Gilbert’s smile slipped. “No, not yet. The Season is young, however. Unfortunately, I am even more selective of potential brides than I am of horseflesh.”
“Good teeth, strong legs, twenty thousand a year?” Phineas supplied.
“Twenty thousand? I’d settle for three, as long as we had some regard for each other. I want a wife, not just an income. Of course, a very wealthy wife could be just as easy to love if she were the right woman, don’t you think? Take Lady Miranda, for example.” He shot Phineas a glance, half hopeful, half teasing.
Phineas felt his lips twist bitterly. “Forget it, Fielding. Carrington expects her to marry a title, and you haven’t got one.”
Gilbert looked away, following the mare’s progress from walk to trot. She was parading prettily, like a debutante making her way down Bond Street before an admiring crowd of gentlemen. “Poor devil, whoever her husband turns out to be. Anyone married to Miranda would also find himself related to you.”
Secrets of a Proper Countess Page 9