“True enough. His father is a duke and then there is Damaris’ guardian to consider as well. Once word reaches him....” Sarah's voice trailed off. There was no need for her to finish her statement.
Araby fought the panic threatening to engulf her. There was someone much more lethal to her than either of those men. She drew in a ragged breath. Where could she go? What could she do? He’d guess that she was the one who'd written Arland about the abduction. He’d learn of the marriage and this time her stepfather might just kill her. Oh God, how would she ever protect her mother?
“There are other peers, Araby,” Katherine said quickly. “Many of high rank. You can still pull off a fabulous match. Arland can’t sully any of our names without doing the same to his precious Damaris. Married or not, she would still be at the center of a scandal and Arland's sister will make her debut next Season. His father will see the sense of remaining silent, even if he does not. So will Damaris’ guardian, come to that. None of them want scandal at their door. You still have your reputation. You are still the Incomparable.”
It was too much to take in. All her plans had gone so hideously wrong. Arland could still destroy them all with just a few well-placed words. She never should have written him that note, even anonymously, yet if she hadn’t.... Ultimately her stepfather would blame the failure of his plot on her. This called for a swift change in strategy.
Araby made a quick calculation. The Grantham’s affair was in two days, another ball in three. If she could get through the evening, perhaps begin a mild flirtation. “Who’s here tonight?” she demanded. “Someone who will suit.”
“Lansing, Coltrane. Marshwell has his eye on Sarah, so no good looking there.” Katherine patted a straying silver-blonde curl back into place. She paused and gave her fellow Furies another of her shrewd looks. “Iredale. He’s recently back from the Continent. He’s presently a viscount and one day he'll become a marquess. His purse would give Croecus a run for his money.”
“Eminently suitable,” Sarah murmured drily.
Katherine laughed, a light, but brittle sound. “You’d do well to look to your own future, Sarah, but that’s a lecture for another time and place. I suggest we return to the ballroom ladies.” She reached out and pinched Araby’s pale cheeks. “Best foot forward. Remember, Arland can’t touch us without inviting scandal into his own house. Certainly your family will be...disappointed at the news of his marriage to that little nobody, but with Iredale in your pocket, you will be all right.” She gripped her friend’s shoulders as if to steady her. “Trust me on this.”
Araby nodded, fighting to stop the spinning sensation in her head. She lifted her chin and curved her mouth into a stunning smile by sheer strength of will. Everything would be fine, she told herself as they entered the ballroom. It had to be. After all, she was the Incomparable Araby and any titled man would be thrilled to claim her as his bride.
Katherine sighed. “Oh, Lord, don’t look now but here comes your spaniel.” Araby turned to look over her shoulder. Andrew Lassiter, youngest brother to the Earl of Stowebridge crossed the room and moved steadily towards them. He was all she needed to make a further disaster of the evening – an impoverished third son trying to claim her attention when she had none to spare. Her stepfather would be less than pleased if he noticed Drew at her side again and the man would be volatile enough tonight once word of Arland's marriage circulated throughout the ball. Araby prayed her stepfather remained in the card room. He and his cronies usually played deeply enough that they rarely paid attention to any gossip floating about. She watched the young man wend his way through the crowd towards them. Every so often someone in one of the groups he passed would stop him to make an offhand comment and more often than not the comments drew laughter from the other people. Drew’s face stiffened and colored slightly before he continued on his way.
“For Heaven’s sake, why don’t you set him down hard, Arabella?” Katherine demanded with a flourish of her fan. “The boy is a menace.”
If they only knew how much of a menace he really was, Araby thought. Andrew Lassiter had the power to ruin any chance she had of landing a peer simply by making a careless remark to the wrong person. He was far too observant for his own good, or for hers. He’d once witnessed the results of her stepfather's burst of temper first hand and correctly surmised the source of her bruised forearm a few days later. Araby had tried laughing denials, aloofness, even cajoling him to let matters rest, but the boy was determined to be her champion, completely ignorant of just how dangerous a man her stepfather could be.
“He’s a sweet boy,” Sarah remarked as she gave Katherine a stern look. “He’s just a little young, that’s all.”
“You mean immature. He’s no younger than any of us, but he’s firmly tied up in his mother’s leading strings. Besides, he was always such a sickly child,” Katherine replied, her lip curling ever so slightly in distaste. “The last thing you need tonight is him frolicking at your feet like an over-exuberant pup, Araby. You have no time to waste if you want Iredale secured by the end of the Season.”
“I know,” she murmured. She’d learned from experience that the best way to deal with Andrew Lassiter was to grant him a country dance, flirt enough to render him incapable of cohesive conversation and then embarrass him. Nothing too harsh, but something guaranteed to make him turn red and garner a chuckle or two at his expense. He’d keep away from her for the rest of the evening.
Katherine made an exasperated sound as the young man stopped in front of Araby. He included all three of them in his bow as he greeted them in turn. “Lady Arabella, Miss Melborne.” He delivered a slight pause. “Lady Katherine.” Katherine stared down her regal nose at him. She hadn’t missed his slight. Her father was of higher rank than Araby’s and Sarah, though the grandniece of an earl, was only the daughter of a knight. Katherine should have been acknowledged first. Andrew Lassiter, Drew to those he counted as friends, knew exactly how to deal with Lady Katherine Saunders' derision. His mouth turned up ever so slightly at one corner. Araby dropped her gaze and pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. Really, Katherine could be so high in the instep – a trait learned at her mother’s knee and constantly drilled into the girl since childhood. Not many young men held their own against Katherine and Araby felt a surge of admiration for Drew.
“Lady Arabella, I was hoping you had an unclaimed waltz,” he said clearly and without even a hint of nervous stammering. He looked up at her with sincere adoration and Araby realized that if Drew were allowed to come into himself he would one day be not only handsome, but charming and perhaps even a little commanding. She steeled herself against softening towards him. It would only endanger them both.
“Hope springs eternal, as they say,” she drawled as she arched one of her perfectly shaped eyebrows. She knew the effect suited her. “Don’t you ever get tired of being rebuffed, Drew?”
“Yes,” he replied with candor, “but not enough to stop asking for a waltz.” His blue eyes held a soft, open expression and when Araby looked closer she saw the one thing in them more dangerous to her than anything else – sympathy. She immediately bridled. If he'd heard the whispers of Arland's hasty marriage to Damaris Kingsford, so had others. She looked out over the ballroom trying to discern any twitters, or sneers cast in her direction. There was nothing apparent and she turned her attention back to Drew. How dare he feel sorry for her. He was not even her social equal, not here in her kingdom where cachet counted more than social rank. Very well. In short order he would find his sympathy misplaced. He could have his waltz, but she doubted he would be smiling by the time it ended.
“As luck would have it I have saved the next one.” She gave him a smile that other men had called bewitching. Clearly, Drew thought so as well. “For right now you may escort me to the refreshment table.” Drew offered his arm. His eyes gleamed with happiness and his grin widened. Araby placed her hand in the crook of his arm and nodded to her friends. No, Drew Lassiter would not dance atte
ndance on her this evening. She could guarantee it.
“You look lovely tonight, Lady Arabella,” Drew said once they were out of earshot of her friends. That...that color suits you.”
“Really?” Araby asked, slanting her gaze at him artfully. She knew how to tease. “And what color would you call it, Drew?”
“Pink, I suppose...I...I really don’t know.” He was nicely flustered, but then he surprised her. “All I know is that it glows around you like a rose arbor in full bloom. You’re this light in the very center, beautiful, yet so fragile. What color is it?”
She looked away from him, fumbling with the fan she held in one hand. “The draper called it Romantic Rose,” she murmured. Why did he have to say such things to her? Why did he have to notice what she tried to keep hidden? Just then a noise caught both their attention. It was a single, heart-wrenching cry, and a young girl ran towards the doorway, her chaperone in hot pursuit.
“What’s happened to Miss Stevens?” Araby asked, tracing the path of the girl’s flight back to its source. Then she knew. Three young men stood laughing, two of them apparently congratulating the third.
Drew make a sound of disgust. “I see Bennet hasn’t lost his taste for tormenting the helpless. Miss Stevens was tonight’s quarry. Each of them danced with her and then staged a mock argument over who would claim the supper dance.” At Araby’s raised eyebrow he continued. “The idea was to make her believe she’d taken at last and then dash her hopes by letting her know it was all a joke. Charming, isn’t it?” He spoke the last bitterly. Drew had plenty of experience being set up to look the fool amongst her set and much of it came at her own hand. She didn’t like Bennet, however. He was never satisfied to simply give clever set downs. He was cruel and he never knew when to stop.
“They did it to impress you,” Drew stated flatly. “Miss Stevens is a cit, an upstart American with no family connections to protect her. Muriel Cathcart and Susannah Grantham suggested the prank and told Bennet that humiliating the girl would amuse you.”
“What makes you think it didn’t?” she countered.
“Because I’m intelligent enough to see what’s in your eyes even if they aren’t,” he answered mildly.
It was true. Inwardly, she seethed for the girl. Lucinda Stevens was pleasant enough. She had no idea how to dress and her manners were beyond gauche, but she’d tried to learn by watching the Furies closely when she thought none of them would notice. She simply had abominable taste in both hairstyles and clothing. Still, Miss Stevens voice was pleasant to the ear – slow, but rich and sweet, like warmed honey.
Araby shrugged, “Bennet is unpleasant and everyone knows it. People ignore his behavior because he’s so wealthy. I may not agreed with his performance tonight, but he and I have both thrown our share of barbs, Drew.”
“You don’t throw yours at those who stay out of your way,” Drew said. “Granted, you did cross the line more than once with the things you said to Damaris Kingsford. Still,” Drew paused, his eyes looking meaningfully into hers “we both know you had your reasons for that.”
Araby glared at him, her heart fluttering in her chest as she remembered her current predicament. She made a quick search of the ballroom with her gaze. If she couldn’t snatch up Iredale she might well be stuck with the likes of Edmond Bennet. The very idea made her blood run cold. A man like that enjoyed the hunt and the capture, but not the having. She had no doubt that in a marriage to him the best she could hope for would be indifference. Her thoughts turned away from Lucinda Stevens and to her own problems. A third son with no money of his own could never help her. Only securing someone like Iredale would put the catastrophe of Arland’s sudden marriage safely to rest.
The opening strains of a waltz began and Drew led her to the floor. Araby firmed her resolve for what she must do. Tomorrow morning she would remember this waltz and despise herself for her treatment of Drew, but tonight she’d do what was necessary for both their sakes.
Chapter Two
Michael watched his youngest brother toy with the food on his plate, his irritation building with every scrape of tine against fine porcelain. “For pity’s sake, Drew,” he snapped, “if you’re not going to eat with that fork at least stop endangering Fiona’s china pattern with it. Our sister- in-law will have your hide if you put scratches on her beloved Spode, that is if I don’t choke the life out of you first.” He crisply refolded the newspaper he’d been attempting to read since his brother’s arrival in the breakfast room and set it down sharply on dining table. His brother regarded him balefully from across the table.
“Pardon me for disturbing you,” he murmured, “I suppose I’m not as hungry as I thought.”
The door to the breakfast room opened and the Dowager Countess of Stowebridge breezed in on a frothy swirl of organza. It was clearly a gown designed with a much younger woman in mind and certainly a woman with more subdued tastes in color than the alarming shade of orange his mother favored. It looked as if every ruffle on Bond Street had found its way into their breakfast room. Michael winced at the startling gown before he could temper his reaction. Not that it mattered. His Mother only saw what she wished to see and that was rarely Michael. The brothers rose in unison to greet her. She cooed and kissed Drew’s cheek, fussing over the small portions of food on his plate. He flushed a dull shade of red, embarrassed by his mother’s coddling. She dipped her head slightly to Michael in cool acknowledgment.
“Late night?” Michael murmured to his brother. Drew’s expression turned from mournful to miserable.
“I suppose that’s it,” he said, dropping his eyes to his plate.
“More than that I should expect,” Lady Stowebridge remarked. “Fresh coffee, if you please, Jamison,” she instructed the footman. It never mattered if the footman had just replaced the coffee or not, Lady Stowebridge insisted on freshly made coffee whenever she appeared for breakfast. She held firmly to her belief that servants were a lazy lot and would pass off stale food as fresh if given the opportunity. Michael assisted her into her chair. The dowager countess fluttered her finger at one of the footmen and the young man quickly began filling a plate for her. By this time, the household had grown used to his mother’s demands and the footman presented a filled plate for her inspection in remarkably short time. Lady Stowebridge pinched her mouth in dissatisfaction before nodding her acceptance of the footman’s offering. She then attacked her meal with vigor making Michael glad he didn’t bear the cost of feeding her.
“You shouldn't waste time sulking over that spoiled creature, Andrew,” she said around a mouthful of sausage. “Plenty of young women know they would be fortunate to secure your interest. Not that I’m in favor of you settling on someone so quickly, mind, and you could certainly do better than Baron Seaton’s stepdaughter.”
Drew flushed. “Mother, Lady Arabella is daughter of an earl and the granddaughter of an marquess.” He darted an embarrassed look at his brother. “She has her pick of gentlemen,” he muttered into his cravat, “and as everyone is so fond of telling me, I’m a third son and I have no title coming to me. Now, can we please drop the subject?”
Lady Stowebridge charged ahead, unaware, or uncaring of her youngest son’s wish to let the subject go. “Nonsense. I believe the Winston girl is simply playing hard to get, though she thinks too much of herself by half, if you ask me. Lady Arabella should consider herself lucky to have caught your eye at all.” She nipped off a bite of toast and chewed it thoughtfully. “Still, you snaring a debutant of such standing would certainly be a feather in my cap. You must remember that a young girl, especially an Incomparable, expects to be wooed boldly, Drew. You must work to sweep her off her feet.” Their mother waved her toast for emphasis and came perilously close to catching the footman with her arm. “A grand gesture is what you need, something romantic. ‘Faint heart never won fair maid.’ ” She laughed archly. “Your father learned that lesson quickly enough, I can tell you.” Probably from one of his opera dancers, Michael thought, bec
ause the old earl had never particularly enjoyed his wife’s company, nor cared whether she felt sufficiently wooed or not.
“I believe Drew would have a much better time exploring life outside of a ballroom at his age,” Michael stated with a wink to his brother. “Sow a few wild oats and leave this chit to her ballroom swains.”
“I’m quite certain that’s what you would think,” Lady Stowebridge said repressively. “Thankfully Andrew has better sense than to follow in the footsteps of a reprobate.”
Michael fixed her with a cool stare. There it was, the gauntlet she’d been toying with since her return to town for the season – Michael’s unscrupulous past and his efforts to darken his family’s reputation. His mother played with the ruffle at the neckline of her gown nervously. Good, Michael thought. Let her remember that he was no longer dependent upon the family estate for his income. Every farthing he had came at the cost of his own sweat. It hadn’t been handed to him by an accident of birth. Sweat and blood – his as well as others. He returned his attention to his plate intent on guarding the direction of his thoughts.
“Really though, Drew, you must stop making such a target of yourself among Edmond Bennett and his set. I fear if you don’t stop being so awkward, you’ll give the Winston girl a disgust of you. Why, it was all the talk last night how she led you on with a waltz and then....”
Drew sprang up from the table as if he’d been stuck with a pin, his face aflame and his shoulders hunched. “Excuse me please, I have correspondence I must see to.” He bolted from the room, leaving his mother calling after him in her shrill, carrying voice.
“Never mind, dearest, I shall brew you a pot of your tonic tea. That always makes you feel so much better.” Drew never even slowed down, not that Michael blamed him. Clearly, the boy had good survival skills. That tea was an abomination and had turned his brother’s stomach more often than eased it.
A Terrible Beauty (Season of the Furies Book 1) Page 2