Nicholas had shot his sire a dark look and formed his own ideas about the meddling Mrs. Steele. “Taken, indeed."
Learning her direction at Almack's, he bid his grinning father a disgruntled adieu, then proceeded to collect Osborne.
Inside the assembly room, Nicholas leaned into Osborne's ear. “I want to confront the harridan who put that maggot into m'father's head. The Brockton townhouse turned into a nursery, indeed. She is probably a fawning Cit. I shall expose her for the toad-eater that she is. If m'father will not bestir himself to protect the family, then it is up to me."
It was useless to protest the arrangement made by the Marquess. The damn man made him feel like two and twenty again. So the hapless Mrs. Steele was as good a target as any.
"Obviously, Osborne, this Mrs. Steele is another one of those encroaching females taking advantage of my mother's good-heartedness."
His father calling Mrs. Steele “delightful,” further worried Nicholas.
Osborne handed him a drink. “Don't look now, old boy, but I think we will be needing this."
Nicholas coolly surveyed the ballroom's mirrors, Greek statues, and crystal chandeliers. Nodding in Mrs. Piedmont's direction, he said, “Indeed, I see nothing has changed over the years. Even the old dragons are the same."
Osborne agreed. “Yes, trying to foist her youngest on the beau monde this time. Believe this is the girl's third season. How Piedmont managed to empty his stable of the other three daughters, I'll never know."
At Nicholas's raised eyebrow, he explained his knowledge. “My mother extends an invitation to Mrs. Piedmont from time to time."
Nicholas raised both brows at this disclosure, to impel Osborne to elaborate.
"Er, there is a distant connection to the Piedmont family. Very distant, I might add. Don't want the news to become general knowledge."
Nicholas offered his condolences, then turned to watch Patricia Piedmont dance the cotillion with her suffering partner. She stomped her heavy feet out of rhythm to the music, and when she smiled, she exposed many overlapping teeth. Nicholas shuddered as if escaping a fate worse than death.
"Good-looking girl that Mrs. Piedmont froze out.” Recovering from the vision of Medusa, Osborne gestured to the door that the slim woman had passed through. “Never saw her before, either."
Nicholas brushed a spot of lint from his dark blue tail coat and replied, “Much too thin, Osborne. All skin and bones. Did you notice how her collar bones protruded from above the line of her shawl?"
"I was not looking that closely,” said his friend, a hint of peevishness in his voice.
"Yes, indeed,” Nicholas went on. “To paraphrase Shakespeare's Caesar, ‘Yond lady has a lean and hungry look ... such women are dangerous.’ She is marriage-bound, I will wager. But if she is to your taste, you may have her."
Osborne laughed, thereby drawing the attention of the matchmaking mamas and their daughters. “Generous of you, Brockton. I think I shall pursue my quarry now. Good luck on your hunt for Mrs. Steele."
After his friend left, Nicholas inspected the room again, hoping to locate his mother. He was met with bold stares, shy glances, and appraising looks. To all he encountered, he gave a curt nod. Spotting the Marchioness talking with an abomination dressed in an outmoded brocade dress, he smiled grimly. Without a doubt, this was the ingratiating Mrs. Steele.
Intent on retaliation, he headed her way.
Chapter Seven
Nicholas was forced to endure his mother's effusive greetings and innumerable questions about his activities. After the fourth exclamation on how remarkable it was to find him at Almack's, the Marchioness seemed to realize she had been carried away by her emotions, and remembered her manners. It was well she did, for he was about to forget his.
She gave her head a shake, causing the feathers in her toque to flutter in the breeze. Laughing nervously, she gushed, “Forgive me, dear Nicholas, for showing so much enthusiasm. But after all, I have not seen you in such an age."
Accepting her apology, he stood stoically, and awaited the inevitable introduction to the biddy monopolizing his mother. He looked the creature over. The woman by Lady Rotterham's side appeared exactly as he envisioned the encroaching Mrs. Steele: large, fawning, and large. Biting back an acid comment, he bided his time until introductions were performed.
"Nicholas, I very much would like to acquaint you with my friend, Mrs. Thurmond Peel."
At his mother's words, he blinked. This monstrosity was not the object of his search. Breaking into the huge woman's speech on how good it was to meet him, he uttered quickly, “Thank you, er, ma'am. If you will excuse us, I wish a word with my mother."
As the Marchioness made parting noises back at the woman, he impatiently guided his mother to an empty corner of the assembly room.
"Now, Mother, where is this Mrs. Steele?” Why waste pleasantries? He fairly itched to vent his spleen.
With narrowed eyes, Lady Rotterham stood on her toes to glance through the crowd. Pity how women were too vain to use spectacles.
She spread her small hands out, palms up. “She must have stepped outside, Nicholas. I do not see her. So glad you want to meet Mrs. Steele.” His mother's warm smile pricked his conscience. “I was afraid you would not approve and—"
"I don't,” he said succinctly. Leaving the Marchioness wide-eyed at his brusqueness, he left her side to cool his heels in the adjoining gaming-room.
* * * *
As the slim woman procured a glass of lemonade, Lord Harrison Osborne surveyed her from head to toe. He liked what he saw. Taking a chance, he asked an old acquaintance her name.
"Mrs. Steele is the Marchioness of Rotterham's latest protégée,” was the reply.
Harrison emitted a low whistle. Even from this distance, he could discern the young woman had self-confidence, poise, and style. In other words, she was not the typical hanger-on. Perhaps Brockton had been wrong about her.
A little close questioning was in order. He advanced to her side. “Dear lady, I must apologize for coming to you like this. Don't know who your acquaintances are, so I cannot ask them to handle the introductions. Would so much like to meet you."
He bowed. “I am Lord Harrison Osborne, at your service."
Her bright green eyes lit up her face. She returned his smile and gave him her gloved hand. “I'm Mrs. Steele. I've just arrived in London so my acquaintances are few."
Odd that she did not mention Lady Rotterham's name. Surely a sycophant would have done so. One point in Mrs. Steele's favor.
He tried again. “I have recently returned to London, also. Spend most of my time at my father's estate. The Duke of Lyndon, you know. I am the younger son."
From under a hooded gaze, he watched the tall beauty. His words should evoke a toadying response. But, by Jove, they did not! Dropping the duke's name caused no change in Mrs. Steele's calm demeanor.
Harrison had been on the town long enough to know he was considered a prime catch in his own right. The knowledge that he was the son of a duke, made ladies of all shapes and sizes dream about securing him as husband. Not to trumpet his own horn, but facts were facts.
However, here was this unknown from the outlands, making polite conversation, and not currying to gain his favor. Perhaps he should make his prospects plainer.
"In fact,” he added, lowering his voice, “my brother, the Marquess of Durnan, and his wife have no children. After fifteen years of marriage, no less."
The woman fell silent a moment, a slight frown tugging on her full lips. What was she thinking? Probably thought his comment was rather personal to tell a stranger—which it was. He mentally apologized to his brother.
She then responded, “How sad for them."
Harrison shook his head impatiently. “No, you do not understand. I am next in line for the dukedom."
This was something he never bragged about. Since it placed restraints on his freedom, he even resented this status at times. Why was he telling this to Mrs. Steele—a woman
his best friend thoroughly defamed?
Pride, Osborne, only pride. This young woman's nonchalance at his exalted prospects irritated him. Here she stood, not acting as expected, but visibly uncomfortable at his unusual confidences. Indeed, were the situations reversed, he would act the very same way.
Still, perhaps she thought he was married. He would set her straight.
Meeting her steady gaze, he stated, “I am still on the lookout for a suitable wife.” Although untrue, he would see how she reacted to that provocative tidbit!
Mrs. Steele tilted her head, as if appraising him. “This certainly is a very unusual conversation, my lord. After only five minutes talking with you, I know more about your personal life than I do about my host, Edward Wycliffe."
She broke the connection, then glanced around the room. “From what I've heard, Almack's is the place for you. To find what you're looking for—a suitable wife. I'm sure you'll have no trouble obtaining what you desire."
Inclining her head a notch, she said, “If you will excuse me, I see one of the few people I know."
By Jove, before Harrison had a chance to delay her, she hurried away. Any other woman at the assembly would have fluttered her eyelashes to suggest he look no further for a wife. Any other woman would have smiled in triumph at his blatant attempt to impress. Any other woman, but not Mrs. Steele.
Grinning, his inherent good humor reasserted itself. What a mindless fool the widow must think him. Brockton was wrong about her. Totally and completely wrong.
Harrison sighed. He really should relay this information to his friend. But after spotting Brockton with a scowl on his face, Harrison decided to have some fun with his friend's dilemma.
"Have you found your Mrs. Steele?"
"She appears to have temporarily quit the scene. Perhaps she has found bigger game. Devil take it!"
Brockton gestured toward a corner of the assembly room. “Look, Osborne, there is Georgiana. Perhaps she can help me. And what a coincidence. She is talking to that skeleton you admire. Come with me."
A decided confrontation awaited Brockton! The tranquil Mrs. Steele would take his crony down a peg or two.
Then Brockton's words registered. Georgiana was here? As Harrison followed in the wake of his friend's unfashionably swift steps, his heart beat a trifle faster. Shifting his gaze from Mrs. Steele to the golden-haired Lady Trent, he was shocked to discover her altered appearance. Not that she was unattractive. She always would be beautiful, to him. But she had lost a good deal of weight, and her face appeared wan and drawn.
Georgiana must have just recovered from a serious illness. Why hadn't Brockton mentioned it?
Keeping his thoughts to himself, Harrison and his friend entered the ballroom.
* * * *
Serenity noticed the two men walking her way. No, Georgiana's way. Serenity again studied Lord Harrison Osborne, intuitively liking his large brown eyes—eyes that mirrored his good humor. He seemed to have a ready smile that went well with his lean and lanky form. But who would've guessed he was such a blabbermouth? Imagine actually telling her he needed a wife. How strange! He was handsome enough, so what was the problem?
The other man was the second of the two latest arrivals at Almack's. Unaccountably, a flush of heat rose on her cheeks. Whoever he was, Harrison's friend was a man in a room full of dandified boys. No simpering airs about him. Though a frown tightened his mouth, he seemed all that was physically desirable.
After sweeping his cold gaze over Serenity, the man single-mindedly prodded through the crowd toward Georgiana. No one else seemed to exist for him. For all the notice he took of Serenity, she might as well have been on another planet.
Harrison's amused expression told her that she'd been staring. Reluctantly, she looked away from his companion.
The determined man stopped abruptly in front of Georgiana. “Georgiana, tell me where—"
"Nicholas! It is so good to see you.” Georgiana impulsively gave him a hug ... and, to the man's dismay, she kissed both his cheeks.
So this is the paragon brother! As the man disengaged himself from his sister's embrace, Serenity dispassionately scrutinized him. He was a trifle taller than his father, and, as his tightly molded coat of superfine and muscle-rippled buff breeches revealed, he was in fine physical condition.
Nicholas Wycliffe's dark brown locks were in slight disarray, curling on the back of his snowy-white cravat. His bronzed skin seemed darker against the white gleam of his teeth. And his eyes—what color were his eyes? She couldn't tell. But while the man's form was pleasing, his expression wasn't. Up close, those opaque eyes were dark and hard, and his teeth were clenched.
He immediately straightened his cravat, obviously not one for family connections. “Georgiana, you must contain yourself."
How stuffy he was. Nicholas Wycliffe—who would've guessed? What a difference between him and his friend. Why, Harrison's eyes were brimming with laughter.
Serenity pulled on her ear lobe. Wasn't Harrison acting differently than just a few moments ago? He seemed less ... flighty.
She sighed. Here were two extremely attractive Regency men: one mercurial in behavior, and the other constant with animosity. As the old adage went, looks weren't everything.
"It is good to see you also, Harry,” Georgiana continued. “Bless me, it has been ages since last we met. In truth, I have missed you both."
Her happiness at seeing her brother and his friend reflected in her pale face.
Harrison reddened at Georgiana's words. Was Harry his childhood name?
"I am honored to hear you say so,” he replied.
For some reason, Georgiana also colored slightly, and fell silent.
Insensitive to the nuances in the air, Lord Brockton slashed his hand in front of him. “Georgiana, enough of this drivel. Where the devil—"
"Nicholas, before you say another word, you must please forgive me. My wits have gone begging! You and Harry must meet Mrs. Steele. She saved my life, you know.” Georgiana's voice was low with emotion and she gave Serenity's hand a squeeze.
Lord Brockton suffered a lag time at his sister's words. As he stared at Serenity, the oddest expression covered his handsome face.
Why was he staring at her? Without thinking, she brushed her fingertips against her lips. Did lemonade drip from her mouth?
He seemed to recall his surroundings for he, at last, performed a stiff bow.
How strange.
"I have had the pleasure of an introduction,” Harrison said smoothly. But what was odder still, he chuckled.
"Is that so?” Georgiana's brother now turned his thundering gaze on Harrison. What in heaven's name was going on?
Harrison drew Georgiana's arm through his. “I insist you grant me this minuet—for old times sake!"
After giving Serenity a friendly wink, he led a flustered Georgiana off to the dance floor.
A wink? As if they were in league with each other.
Now alone with Lord Brockton, Serenity could almost see steam rising from his cravat. Why was he upset? Was he angry at her? Maybe he disliked being left with a widow. Maybe he believed his bachelor status was in danger. That was a switch from Harrison's approach.
Well, never let it be said that Serenity Steele was a thorn in anyone's side. Well, anyone except Stanhope DeVries.
"Perhaps you want to visit with your friends, my lord. Please don't feel you must stay and keep me company."
He neither moved nor replied.
His unnerving gaze gave her the willies. She tucked a lock of hair into her hat. “Your, ah, parents have been most kind to me. They are the nicest couple—"
"I believe we have a few items to discuss, Mrs. Steele,” he ungraciously interrupted. “Shall we go someplace private?"
Not waiting for her answer, he drew her arm through his, tightly holding onto her hand to prevent her escape. He headed for a deserted alcove, next to an open window.
At his unexpected touch, a new sight and smell assailed her
senses. Instead of a crowded ballroom, she saw a vision of her grandmother's old percolator. An aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled her nostrils, teasing her to believe that what she sniffed was real.
Danger. The coffee signaled danger. Her grandmother made the most delicious coffee in the world, however she always warned Serenity about the dangers of caffeine.
She staggered, and leaned heavily on Brockton's arm. Why were these sensations barging in on her here?
Blinded by the illusion of the coffee, she let him guide her into the alcove. He released her hand and helped her sit on the plush cushions of a sofa.
Thankfully, her sight returned. Looking up at him, she saw concern etched upon his face.
"Mrs. Steele, are you all right?"
She was about to answer when he vigorously rubbed the same hand that he previously tugged on. Again, she was enveloped in coffee.
Good heavens! Synesthesia! Was this what Tracy had been talking about—the mingling of the senses? Had Tracy been right? Did Serenity have synesthesia, too? After all, it was hereditary.
Dear God! The experience dimmed all other senses. She pulled her hand away from him to massage her pounding temples. Again, the sensation stopped. Instead of a percolator, she found herself gazing into Nicholas Wycliffe's slate-grey eyes.
"Grey,” she murmured indistinctly.
"Pardon?” Lord Brockton asked. His dark skin seemed to have grown pale. Was he worried about her?
What could she tell him? That she had wondered about the color of his eyes?
No, I think not!
"Um, I apologize for almost passing out.” A cool breeze drifted in through the window. “I guess I needed some fresh air. Everything started to turn grey."
Goose bumps rose on her skin, so she fidgeted with the silk scarf around her shoulders. Why would synesthesia choose to overcome her at Almack's, of all places?
He didn't comment. As he studied her, his eyes darkened.
She prompted him. “You mentioned that we had things to discuss? What did you want to talk about?"
Regency Society Revisited Page 8