Irresistible

by ROBARDS, KAREN

  To that end, she concentrated on locating her sister. The dancing was well under way, and Beth was taking her part in a reel with the laughing enjoyment that was so much a part of her nature. Beth was lovely in virginal white, practically the only color considered suitable for a debutante to wear to Almack’s, with her bright hair dressed in a simple knot on the top of her head. Her high-waisted frock with its tiny puffed sleeves was caught up under her bosom with sapphire ribbons that almost exactly matched her eyes, and its slim cut set off her figure to perfection.

  Oh, to be that young and carefree again, Claire thought wistfully. Observing the sparkling optimism on the faces of the dancing young girls, she suddenly felt hideously old in comparison, and her spirits sank even lower as a consequence.

  She took a bite out of the small poppy-seed cake she held in one hand, then had to work to chew and swallow the dry, tasteless morsel without choking. She was only twenty-one, she reflected gloomily, and her life, to all intents and purposes, was already over. After all, she had successfully performed the gently bred female’s ultimate function: She had wed. Except for the bearing of children, which happiness was not likely to happen to her, there was nothing else for a lady of quality to look forward to.

  Except having a blazing affair with her husband’s cousin, perhaps.

  As that thought entered her mind, quite unbidden, Claire choked on the cake after all. But at least her subsequent fit of coughing served one purpose: It forced the tantalizing image out of her head.

  “Really, dear, you should know better than to eat the cakes they serve by now,” Aunt Augusta, who was seated beside her looking very much the grande dame in lavender satin, whispered reprovingly as Claire recovered. “The refreshments are quite dreadful, but then, one doesn’t come here for the food, after all.” A couple promenading past caught her attention and thankfully gave her thoughts another direction. “Lud, look at that gown: Who is that? Oh, Emily Poole! She was always the most forward creature! If her father hadn’t been a duke, no one would receive her. See how her gown clings to her? Do you think her petticoats are damped?”

  “I don’t think she’s wearing a petticoat,” Claire replied, looking obediently at the lady in question, a woman closer to thirty than twenty who was nevertheless attired in the girlish fashion of white muslin, which in her case had been somehow rendered practically transparent. “I think she’s damped her gown.”

  “Oh, my.”

  As Aunt Augusta turned to draw the attention of Mrs. Weston, who sat on her other side, to the scandal in the making, Claire disposed of the last of the despised cake by handing it off to a passing waiter. Brushing her hands over her lap to remove any tiny crumbs that might have lodged in the folds of her gown, she reflected that there was at least one advantage to her situation: Having attained the coveted status of a matron, she was no longer expected to defer to the prevailing preference for white or the palest of pastel gowns. Her gown tonight was of shimmering bronze silk tied up beneath her breasts with dark green ribbons, and she wore a delicate emerald necklet that had been her mother’s, along with matching earbobs.

  Exchanging desultory conversation with Lady Holsted, a plump and placid mother of four hopeful daughters who sat on her other side, Claire once again watched, this time with slightly envious eyes, as her sister skipped down the room.

  “Oh, there’s Barbara Langford beckoning to me. Well, I must just go see what she wants,” Aunt Augusta said in her ear, then rose and made her way across the room. Claire nodded, and tried not to feel downcast as Lady Holsted proceeded to chat about her youngest daughter’s recent bout with the measles. As she listened, she did her best not to let her toes tap in time to the music. She wanted to dance, and indeed she could have done so at any time since they had arrived as at least half a dozen gentlemen had already asked her, but there was no one present she felt like dancing with. Chatting with one of her group of particular friends might have lifted her spirits, but none of them seemed to be present, which wasn’t surprising as most of them were too young to have daughters of marriageable age or too old and too secure in their married status to be on the market themselves.

  “May I join you?”

  Claire glanced up in surprise at the deep-voiced question, then nodded with some reluctance as she ascertained the identity of the questioner. Aunt Augusta’s vacated seat was promptly filled by Lord Vincent Davenport. A fortyish widower, Lord Vincent was not overly tall, muscular to the point of being stocky in build, with thick auburn hair that waved back from his brow and bright blue eyes above a square jaw. He was a noted Corinthian, a member of the Four Horse Club, and a confirmed rake. Currently in search of a new wife, he had come to London to look over the current crop of debutantes, as he had informed Claire in his languid drawl on the occasion of their first meeting, but had found that her beauty quite drove the purpose of his visit right out of his head. Despite her hints and then outright assurances that she was unavailable, Lord Vincent had since become most persistent in his attentions. It required little intelligence on Claire’s part to guess what role he desired her to play in his life, but so far he had not crossed beyond the line of what was permissible, and, beyond what she had already done, she was at a loss as to how to discourage him. Had her husband ever been present at the same time as Lord Vincent it would have helped, but David, preferring his own amusements, almost never accompanied her to evening events. Lord Vincent was considered quite a catch by the matchmaking mamas, but under the circumstances Claire found his attentions more annoying than gratifying, and tonight the situation was made worse by Lady George’s presence: Her mother-in-law, who was talking with Lady Sefton and Princess Esterhazy nearby, kept casting disapproving looks her way. Claire had little doubt that on the morrow she would be subject to a lecture on the perils of seeming fast.

  “ ’Twould be futile of me to invite you to make up one of a party picnicking in Green Park tomorrow, I take it?” Lord Vincent murmured even as he plucked her fan from her lap and used it to ply a gentle breeze toward her face.

  Though the room was abominably stuffy, making the cool waft of air most welcome, Claire reached immediately to retrieve her fan. He gave it up with a smile.

  “Quite futile, I’m afraid,” she said, slipping the fan’s ribbon over her wrist. “I am in London strictly to act as my sister’s chaperon, you know, not to amuse myself.”

  “What a dutiful sister you are,” he said, looking at her with a predatory gleam in his eye that, despite his lowered lids, was quite unmistakable. “I admire you for that—and for much else besides—I assure you.”

  Claire did not reply. The band struck up a quadrille—she had not even realized the previous dance had ended—and she used that as an excuse to turn her face away from him, ostensibly to search for Beth among the dancers.

  As eye-catching as Beth’s bright hair made her, Claire never found her. Her gaze was caught and held by another dancer first.

  It was Hugh, looking devastatingly handsome in the formal evening wear that was the correct attire for gentlemen hoping for admission to Almack’s. He had not been present earlier: She could not possibly have been unaware of him if he had been. As the clock had just struck eleven, he must have entered right before the doors, which were closed to new arrivals promptly at that hour, had been shut.

  Her heart gave a great leap in her breast. Suddenly the world took on interest and excitement, color and meaning. Then the rest of what she was seeing registered, and her stomach knotted and her hands curled into fists in her lap: Hugh was dancing with the flaxen-haired Harriet Langford, and giving every indication that he was enjoying it.

  28

  Jealousy was an ugly thing, Claire discovered as she watched Hugh’s head bent over Harriet Langford’s, and she felt ugly even as she helplessly harbored the corrosive emotion. It was one she had never felt before, she realized, although it had been directed at her by other females more often than she cared to remember. To think that she had not sympathized with their fe
elings, or even realized how horrible they felt! She almost deserved to be put through such a heartburning experience herself. Deliberately she reminded herself that if he was dancing with Miss Langford at Almack’s for all the world to see, then at least he was not off doing far more intimate things to the far less respectable female who’d been in his carriage that morning. But no matter how she rationalized it, to see him clasping hands with Miss Langford, to watch him smile that devastatingly charming smile of his directly into Miss Langford’s eyes, to observe how slender and blond and ethereally lovely the chit looked when viewed in tandem with his tall, muscular form and swarthy good looks, was almost more than she could bear. It did not help that the girl was scarcely eighteen, and prime marriage material. It certainly did not help to reflect that, as Duke of Richmond, Hugh must of necessity marry someone someday.

  Someone besides herself. She, Claire, could never be his bride.

  It was that which stuck in her craw, she decided, watching him with her teeth clenched so hard her jaws ached and a set smile plastered to her face.

  He was hers, and yet she could never really have him, or be his.

  “Lady Claire, are you ill?” Lord Vincent leaned forward with knitted brow to peer into her face. “You are suddenly gone quite pale.”

  Lord Vincent was watching her, she realized as his voice penetrated her absorption. Others might be watching her as well. She could not give away her secret. She must be careful, so careful, not only for her own sake but for Beth’s.

  There was, she realized, genuine concern for her in Lord Vincent’s face. Drawing in a quick and, she hoped, subtle breath, she unclenched her fingers and managed a smile for him.

  “I was just thinking,” she said, “how much I would like to dance.”

  “Would you indeed?” His expression was both surprised and appreciative, and no wonder. She had turned down his invitations to dance so many times that he had stopped making them. Standing up, he bowed and offered her his arm. “I’m delighted to be of service, believe me.”

  The quadrille ended even as they headed toward the floor, and Claire found herself taking her place opposite Lord Vincent as the band struck up a boulanger. She’d had some thought of making Hugh as aware of her as she was of him when she’d practically ordered Lord Vincent to ask her to dance, but that, she quickly learned, was going to be all but impossible.

  For the boulanger, Hugh was partnering Beth.

  It was all Claire could do not to miss any steps as she watched them together. Beth, with her vivid coloring and curvaceously feminine shape, was a perfect foil for Hugh’s dark masculinity. Where Miss Langford had seemed shy, Beth bubbled over with vivacity, laughing and chattering away at Hugh as if she’d known him all her life. For his part, Hugh looked as relaxed as Claire had ever seen him, regarding her little sister with indulgent eyes and a lazy smile.

  It occurred to Claire suddenly that Beth was free to marry him. The idea of her little sister wed to the man she loved made Claire feel physically ill.

  The man she loved. The thought struck terror into her soul. She hadn’t even realized that was how she felt until the actual words had run through her mind. Now that she knew, it was all she could do to continue to breathe.

  As panic seized her, she tore her gaze from Hugh and Beth, and smiled brilliantly at Lord Vincent, who was watching her with a rather sardonic expression on his face. She pirouetted, and curtsied, and the music ended.

  She loved Hugh. So much that her heart had ached like a sore tooth every day of the months they had been apart; so much that just seeing him enjoy himself in the company of another female was enough to make her want to gnash her teeth and clout him over the head; so much that she was willing to consider, finally, shamefully, the possibility of becoming his mistress.

  She could not become his mistress. Oh, dear Lord, she could not.

  Sir Vincent was saying something to her, offering her his arm. She smiled and murmured a reply—she had no idea what she said—and tucked her arm in the crook of his elbow. Just as they reached the edge of the dance floor, Beth came dancing up to them—with Hugh in tow.

  Claire looked over her little sister’s head, met Hugh’s narrowed gray eyes, and felt her heart skip a beat. Hugh smiled at her, the wry, twisted half-smile that she saw every night in her dreams, and her heart began to pound.

  “Claire, I was just bringing Cousin Hugh to find you. He has no partner for the next dance.” Still holding on to Hugh’s arm, Beth cast a beaming smile over her shoulder at Hugh. Then she looked at Claire and her eyes twinkled mischievously. “I told him I was sure you were free.”

  Oh, Beth, Claire thought, near panicking. You know not what you do.

  The manners drummed into her by Twindle from childhood proved her salvation in that moment of crisis. Pulse pounding, stomach twisting once again into knots, Claire removed her hand from Lord Vincent’s arm, lifted her chin, and, with a smile, performed the necessary introductions.

  The band struck up a waltz.

  “May I have this dance, Cousin Claire?” Hugh said, offering her his arm. There was the slightest of smiles on his face now, but his eyes were intent as her gaze instinctively sought his.

  With the best will in the world to do so, she couldn’t find the strength to refuse. She drew in a deep breath, nodded, and placed her hand on his arm.

  “Alas, I suppose I must surrender to force majeure,” Lord Vincent murmured, glancing from Hugh to Claire. Then he looked at Beth, and bowed. “Lady Elizabeth, will you dance?”

  It said much for the state Claire was in that she barely noticed when her sister walked away with Lord Vincent. In the ordinary way of things, she would have gone to almost any length to keep Beth from being exposed to attentions of that most confirmed of rakes.

  The floor was crowded when they reached it and she stepped into Hugh’s arms. Unwilling to meet his gaze for fear of what he—and others—might read in her face, she kept her eyes demurely lowered. He slid an arm around her waist, she placed her hand on his shoulder, and, with the proper distance between them, he swung her into the dance.

  Then they were waltzing, and she was suddenly supremely aware of every little detail: the seductive lilt of the music—and the solid muscularity of the broad shoulder beneath her hand; the other couples swirling and swaying around them—and the warm strength of his fingers clasping hers; the rapid rise and fall of her breasts as exertion quickened her breathing—and the scant inches that separated the creamy globes from his wide chest; the gliding rhythm of their steps—and the silken rustle as his long legs brushed her skirt.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said quietly, and without thinking she lifted her eyes to his face.

  He was as dark as a Gypsy; though he had undoubtedly shaved that evening before coming out, the faintest hint of stubble was already visible as a shadow darkening his jaw and lean cheeks; his long, thin mouth was curved into the faintest of smiles. She met his eyes, those lead-gray eyes, and found that they were soft with tenderness for her.

  “I love you,” she said, her heart in her eyes. She had not meant to say it in the least; under the compelling warmth of his gaze the truth had just come tumbling out.

  His eyes widened; his step faltered; his grip tightened on her fingers and her waist. His eyes bore into hers.

  Then, most unaccountably, he laughed.

  She couldn’t believe it: She had told him she loved him, and he laughed!

  Even as he recovered his composure and his step, indignation seized her. Her spine stiffened; her chin rose; her eyes met his with a militant glint that would have given either of her sisters, or indeed anyone who knew her well, pause.

  Mindful of the other dancers twirling with them about the floor, Claire was careful to keep her voice low as she demanded ominously, “Did you find something amusing in that?”

  Swinging her around in a movement of the dance, Hugh shook his head. As a negative response it was quite spoiled, however, by his twinkling eyes and the incipient
grin that seemed to be tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  “Claire,” he said, his voice as carefully low as hers had been, but brimful of amusement for all that. “Oh, Claire. Only you, my outspoken darling, would tell me such a thing in the middle of a crowded dance floor at Almack’s, of all places, with dozens of eyes watching our every move and just as many clapping tongues eager to dine out on the least hint of scandal. What do you expect me to do about it here, I wonder?”

  Only slightly mollified by the fact that he had called her his darling, Claire eyed him with a good deal less than the love she professed to feel.

  “You could,” she suggested tartly, “try telling me that you love me too.”

  “Silly chit,” he said with an indulgent grin. Before Claire could reply—and she meant to reply pretty smartly, too, to that bit of gross provocation—the dance came to an end with a flourish of music.

  “I have to leave,” he said, suddenly sober as he bowed over her hand. “Meet me in the vestibule in a quarter of an hour.”

  He had to leave? What did he mean by that? Almost as alarmed as she was affronted, Claire barely had time to nod before they were joined by Lord Vincent and Beth, apparently none the worse for her dance with him. Claire somehow managed to maintain her part in the general conversation as Hugh escorted her to her aunt’s side. Then, after exchanging a few polite words with her aunt and her aunt’s friend Lady Cowper, with whom she had been conversing, he bowed and left them. At almost the same moment, Beth was claimed by her next partner and went off quite happily on his arm.

  “No doubt you have hopes in that direction, Augusta?” Lady Cowper asked significantly, nodding after Hugh.

  “Well. The girl is quite taken, as I’m sure I may say even though she is my niece, but Richmond may look as high as he chooses for a bride, you know. It is early days yet, but they seem to like each other well enough. We will have to see what happens as their acquaintance progresses.”