The Scoundrel's Daughter

by Anne Gracie

  “She’ll be minding her steps,” Alice murmured. She hoped it was true.

  “Our hostess looks even unhappier about it,” Lord Tarrant observed.

  Alice followed his gaze. Almeria stood at the side of the dance floor, glaring at her son and Lucy. Almeria swung her gaze around the room, fixed it on Alice, standing at the entrance, and stalked toward her.

  “Oh dear,” Alice murmured.

  Lord Tarrant glanced down at her. “Trouble on the way?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Alice took a deep breath and braced herself for Almeria’s tirade.

  “Right then.” Lord Tarrant took Alice by the hand and, without warning, swung her into a nearby set of dancers.

  “What on earth?” she gasped. But the dancers around them happily adjusted to an extra couple in the set.

  He swung her around masterfully. “Do you dislike dancing?”

  “No, but—”

  He twirled her in a circle, and she was too breathless to speak.

  The top couple danced down the row, and everyone clapped to the beat. After a quick glance at Almeria, fulminating on the sidelines, Alice clapped along obediently.

  “I told you I had no intention of dancing tonight,” she told Lord Tarrant when they met in the next movement. Almeria would be even more furious now, imagining that Alice had deliberately thrown Gerald and Lucy together. And was now avoiding her.

  “I know, but the situation called for action,” he said solemnly. His eyes gleamed with amusement.

  She snorted. “Action?”

  “Retreat and regroup—an old army tactic. Avoid a confrontation unless you can be sure of winning.”

  “Since when is dancing an army tactic?”

  “Oh, Wellington is all for dancing—all his staff officers were excellent dancers. It’s a very healthful—and strategic—exercise,” he said with a virtuous air that fooled her not at all.

  She wanted to laugh, but she didn’t want to encourage him.

  “Besides,” he added as they came together again, “did you really want to stay and listen to whatever that woman has to say to you? She looks ready to explode.”

  Alice didn’t, of course, but Almeria would say her piece eventually. She always did.

  “As for being here en chaperone,” he continued, “isn’t this a much more agreeable way of keeping a close eye on your charge?”

  “Agreeable for whom?” she said tartly as she circled gracefully around him.

  Those gray eyes had a wicked gleam in them. “For me, of course. I wouldn’t dare speculate about how you might feel. I don’t yet know what pleases you.”

  Yet. As if he planned to discover what pleased her. No one had ever cared to discover what pleased her.

  He was flirting. He was definitely flirting. And she had to nip it in the bud before he got ideas. She wasn’t that sort of widow.

  * * *

  * * *

  Her first ever ton party, and she was dancing with a lord. Papa would be thrilled. Lucy was decidedly unthrilled.

  Of all the lords in all the houses . . . And for him to be Lady Charlton’s nephew!

  Had she known this party was for the arrogant fellow she’d encountered on the Brighton road, she’d never have come; she would have pretended she had the headache or something.

  As it was, she’d done her best to avoid talking to him. She’d deliberately caused him to be swamped by marriage-minded debutantes, distracting him from looking too closely at her. And had turned her back on him and flirted madly with the two old fellows. Old sweethearts they were, too.

  She’d been about to quietly slip away, but the minute the music sounded in the next room, Lord Thornton looked at her over the heads of the other girls—he was annoyingly tall—and asked her to dance. By name, so there would be no mistake.

  Curse him. If he hadn’t been a lord, and she hadn’t encountered him on the Brighton road that day, she would have accepted like a shot. He was rather good-looking, and despite the fuss the other girls were making of him, he didn’t seem too big-headed.

  But he was wrong for her in every way possible.

  She’d pretended not to hear, but the clot of eager debutantes had parted like the Red Sea, leaving a clear path for Lord Thornton to step forward and repeat his invitation.

  She’d looked around for Alice, but she was occupied talking to her tall admirer. So with all eyes on her, and it being the first dance at a birthday party for this wretched lord, Lucy had no option but to accept.

  He led her into the next room, where people were beginning to form sets. “So, Miss Bamber, you’ve only just arrived in town.”

  “Apparently so.” Imitating the haughtiest of her former schoolfellows, a girl she’d christened Lady Languid, Lucy gave him the sort of smile she hoped looked both cool and enigmatic. And repellant.

  “Are you enjoying living in London?”

  “It’s tolerable.” Lady Languid always spoke in an affected drawl. Nothing was ever fun or even enjoyable; everything was tolerable or intolerable or barely tolerable or insipid or dreary.

  They danced on.

  “Where were you living before?”

  Lucy gave him a cold glance, but otherwise ignored him.

  Apparently unaffected, he continued, “You’re quite a mystery, aren’t you? Everyone is wondering where you’ve sprung from.”

  She arched a brow and said languidly, “They must have very dull lives to be so easily intrigued.”

  They separated in the dance, and when they came back together, he seemed to have dropped—thank goodness—his interrogation about her origins. “You’re very light on your feet, Miss Bamber. You clearly enjoy dancing.”

  “It’s tolerable.”

  “What else do you enjoy? Music?”

  “It’s tolerable.”

  “Do you play an instrument?”

  “No.” Would the man never give up?

  “Sing?”

  “No.” Only for her own enjoyment. Never for performance. What was it Frau Steiner had told her? Your technique is execrable, your instrument barely mediocre—Lucy’s “instrument” being her voice. Opera singers. What did they know? Singing was for joy, not just for performance.

  She glanced over to where Alice was dancing with her tall admirer. If she knew how Lucy was treating her nephew at his own birthday party, she’d probably be appalled. Lucy was a bit appalled herself, but she had to ensure Lord Thornton wanted nothing to do with her in future.

  And to give nothing away.

  But Lord Thornton seemed unaffected by her haughty behavior. Perhaps he was used to this kind of conversation. He probably knew lots of much haughtier ladies—the haughtiest lady Lucy had met here tonight was his mother, which made sense. The other girls she’d met had been quite friendly—especially after she’d called them over to talk with Lord Thornton.

  The dance continued. He circled around her, regarding her thoughtfully.

  “You know, I have the strongest feeling we’ve met before.”

  Curse the man. Couldn’t he take a hint? Lucy sighed ostentatiously. “That line didn’t work the first time, and to repeat it is really rather . . . sad.” How long would this wretched dance go on for? Any minute he was going to work out where he’d seen her before, and then it wouldn’t just be embarrassing for her; it would be awful for Alice.

  “I mean it,” he continued. “Your face is oddly familiar to me. I just can’t place it.”

  “Nonsense, I have a very ordinary face. There are girls like me everywhere.”

  He seemed to take that as an invitation to look at her in quite a personal manner. “I don’t find you ordinary at all.”

  Lucy felt her cheeks warming, and it was with relief that she launched into the next stage of the dance, “stripping the willow,” in which she had to twirl around all the other men in
the set, and conversation was impossible.

  But the minute conversation became possible again, Lord Persistent said, “Perhaps I’ve met some of your relatives, and what I’m noticing is a family resemblance.”

  It wasn’t easy to shrug while dancing, but Lucy managed it. “Perhaps.”

  “Would I have met any of your relatives?”

  “I’ve no idea.” She gave him a wide-eyed, limpid look. “Would you?”

  His eyes narrowed, and at that point Lucy decided to give up on the Lady Languid imitation. It wasn’t putting him off in the least. Time to change the subject.

  “I understand you were at Waterloo, Lord Thornbroke. What was that like?”

  “Thornton,” he corrected her. “Lord Thornton. War is not a pleasant subject for ladies. The best I can say of it is that it put an end once and for all to the depredations of Napoleon.”

  “You’re not worried he will escape again?”

  “No, his rule is well and truly broken. His time is over.”

  “And so you’ve sold your commission and returned to civilian life. How are you finding that?”

  “Tolerable.” His expression made it clear he’d chosen the word deliberately and was indicating that what was sauce for the g—no, she wasn’t even going to think about geese.

  “And so today is your birthday?”

  “Yes.”

  Was he being deliberately difficult? She tried a different subject. “So, tell me, Lord Thorncliffe, are you a sporting man?”

  “Thornton, it’s Lord Thornton,” he said grimly. “I played cricket at school, of course, but if by ‘sporting’ you mean riding to hounds, no. I don’t hunt. I’ll shoot game, as long as it’s for the pot, and I enjoy fishing when I get the chance.”

  “And where do you like to go fishing?”

  He glanced at her. “Are you really interested in my fishing habits?”

  She smiled sweetly. “Not at all, but one must make conversation, mustn’t one?”

  He let out a huff of laughter, which wasn’t at all her intention. Then, thankfully, what had felt like the longest dance in the history of dances finally ended. “Thank goodness that’s over,” she said as they bowed and curtsied to each other.

  One dark brow rose. “You didn’t enjoy the dance?”

  She smiled. “It’s just that I’m frightfully thirsty.” She glanced around and saw the other Lady Charlton signaling him, a grim expression on her face. “Oh, look over there—your mama wants you. Hadn’t you better run along?” As if he were eight instead of eight-and-twenty.

  He didn’t even glance in his mother’s direction. “I did not survive years at war with Napoleon’s forces only to dance to my mother’s tune,” he said, escorting Lucy to a nearby seat. “I’ll fetch you a drink. And then, perhaps you’ll grant me a second dance.”

  Lucy had to admit she liked his matter-of-fact attitude, but she couldn’t afford to let him get to know her any better. The minute he’d gone, she jumped up and hurried across the room to where Alice was standing with her tall admirer.

  “Godmama,” she said, “excuse me for interrupting, but I feel the most horrid headache coming on. Would it be possible for me to go home early?” She fixed Alice with an intense look, hoping she got the message.

  “Yes, of course,” Alice responded instantly. “You poor dear, you’re looking quite pale. We must leave at once, get you into bed with an eau de cologne compress.”

  Lord Tarrant glanced at Lucy. His mouth quirked. “Dear me, yes, that’s the palest flush I’ve seen in a long time.”

  Alice’s lips compressed. “Come along, Lucy dear, we will just make our apologies to our hostess and be off. Goodbye, Lord Tarrant, so . . . interesting to have met you.”

  They hurried away.

  “Do I really look pale?” Lucy whispered.

  Alice glanced at her. “No, but it was the first thing that came to mind. Drat him.”

  “You wanted to leave early, too?”

  She nodded. “Now hush and try to look ill,” she said to Lucy as they approached their hostess, who was also called Lady Charlton. Lucy found it very confusing.

  “Almeria, I’m very sorry but—” Alice began.

  “So you ought to be!” The other Lady Charlton gave Lucy a scathing look. “I warned you about attempting to entice my son with your . . . your guest.” The way she said guest it might have been dipped in vitriol.

  “Gerald asked to be introduced. I could hardly refuse,” Alice said calmly.

  “And then they danced together.” Lady Charlton glared at Lucy as if she’d committed the crime of the century. Old bag.

  “Yes, because Gerald asked her in front of others. She could hardly refuse that, either,” Alice said. “And now, Almeria, we’re leaving. Miss Bamber has the headache.”

  Lady Charlton sniffed.

  Lucy tried to look pale and wan. She was impressed with Alice’s cool responses. If anyone had spoken to her like that, she would have snapped back, and probably lost her temper. But Alice had responded so calmly and reasonably, the other Lady Charlton had nowhere to go—you could see the frustration on her face.

  Even more impressive was that Alice had defended Lucy. Nobody had ever defended Lucy.

  “Thank you for inviting us,” Alice said. “It’s been a delightful party.”

  “Yes, thank you so much,” Lucy murmured. She glanced back and saw Lord Thornton holding a glass of ratafia and looking around. She slipped an arm through Alice’s, and they quietly slipped away.

  * * *

  * * *

  Did my nephew upset you in some way?” Alice asked once they’d reached home.

  Lucy was embarrassed to explain, but it had to be done. “No, I’m not upset—but oh, Alice, he’s going to be a problem.”

  “In what way?”

  “I’ve met your nephew before—and not in the best of circumstances.” She told her about their encounter on the Brighton road.

  Alice regarded her wide-eyed. “You mean you’re the reason Gerald lost his race?”

  Lucy nodded. “Well, it was the goose, really. He’d stopped because of her. I just collected her off the road.” And held him up further, by giving him a piece of her mind as well.

  Alice let out a muffled snort. “A goose? Gerald lost his race because of a goose? Oh, he won’t like people knowing that.”

  “No, and the way I was dressed, in my old clothes and an apron, and with my hair down and blowing about—I’m sure he thought me some kind of maidservant or farm girl. And the way he spoke to me, ordering me off the road as if he owned it—well, it was so, so lordly, it made him want to cheek him. And so I did.” He’d been furious.

  Alice was still chuckling. “A goose. No wonder he didn’t explain. But what were you doing with a goose anyway?”

  “She’s the comtesse’s pet goose.”

  “Your comtesse has a pet goose?”

  Lucy nodded. “Apparently back in France at the height of the Terror, the comte was imprisoned in Paris—she heard later they chopped his head off—and the comtesse was alone in their castle in the country. One night something had stirred up the local peasants, and they marched on the castle carrying sickles and pitchforks and burning brands. The castle geese started hissing and honking like mad, and when she looked out to see what the matter was, she saw the peasants coming for her. She managed to grab her jewels and escape, but her castle was burned to the ground.

  “And ever since then she’s kept a pair of geese—Ghislaine and Gaston—to protect and warn her. But Ghislaine is naughty and likes to wander, and she wandered onto the road when your nephew was coming.”

  “It was lucky he missed her.”

  “He stopped, actually.” Lucy hadn’t expected that. Most lordly types she’d encountered would have driven straight over a goose. But then he’d shouted at her, and
still shaken by the close encounter, she’d snapped and shouted back.

  She wished now she hadn’t, because he obviously recognized her, even if he didn’t yet realize why.

  “Ghislaine and Gaston, what a tale.” Alice sobered. “So you and that goose were the reason poor Gerald lost his precious race. Oh dear. He’s not likely to forget that. Or forgive.”

  Lucy nodded. “I know. I’m going to have to avoid him. He already thinks he knows me from somewhere.”

  “Yes, I see. It does make things rather awkward.”

  “That’s why I wasn’t very polite to him tonight. I tried to give him a disgust of me so he won’t want to have anything to do with me in future.”

  “It won’t be easy, seeing he’s my nephew.” Alice glanced at Lucy, her expression faintly embarrassed. “I wasn’t particularly polite to his friend, either.”

  “The tall colonel?”

  “He’s not a colonel anymore.”

  “Is that why you were rude to him?”

  “No, of course not. And I wasn’t rude, exactly, just not very encouraging.”

  Lucy was perplexed. “But he liked you, I could tell.”

  “I don’t care. I don’t want to encourage him.”

  “Why not? What’s wrong with him? Was he too forward? Coarse? Suggestive?” Men often were, in Lucy’s experience. Especially lordly types. But surely they wouldn’t behave like that to a proper, gentle lady like Lady Charlton, would they?

  “No, no, nothing like that. He was a perfect gentleman.” Alice sighed. “It doesn’t matter. I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Hours later Alice lay in bed, sleepless, twisting, restless between her sheets. She couldn’t get Lord Tarrant out of her mind. He’d behaved perfectly politely—apart from initially addressing her without being introduced. So why had she reacted to him that way?

  He hadn’t made any kind of nasty proposition—he’d just looked at her with an expression in his eyes, an expression she didn’t even know the meaning of—and she’d fled from his presence like a nervous virgin, which lord knew she wasn’t.