Rebecca gasped. It was a rare occasion when something shocked her, but the thought of a party where the guests appeared in a state of undress did. A hot flush rose in her cheeks at the very idea of Mr. Neville en deshabille. She did her best to force the vision away, as persistent as it was, and made a stoic effort to listen to what Lady Trapleigh was saying.
“They’ve been in the family for generations and were supposed to go to his future wife.”
Rebecca blinked. “I beg your pardon?” she said. “I fear you lost me for a moment. What item are you speaking of?”
“Why, the diamond earrings that Mr. Neville is reported to have given his mistress. Either the man is a fool or he’s hopelessly in love with the woman—in which case he’ll never give her up even if he does one day marry.”
Rebecca sighed. The lady spoke the truth. “Thank you for telling me this. It is clear that I cannot afford to waste my time on him.”
Lady Trapleigh shook her head. “No, considering what you want for yourself, it would probably only lead to unhappiness, as unfortunate as that is.” She turned her gaze away from the two gentlemen with a look of disinterest. “May I offer you a bit of advice?”
Rebecca nodded. “By all means.”
“You see that gentleman over there—the blonde one who’s been speaking to the wallflowers? He’s a viscount—Brekenbridge is his name—and from what I’ve been told, he’s currently looking for a wife. Eagerly so, I might add. He’s a good lad, not the sort prone to visiting gambling hells or entertaining courtesans. He’ll be faithful to you, of that I have no doubt. Unless of course you favor dark-haired gentlemen, in which case you may wish to consider Lord Carvingdale over there—the one dancing with the lady in the green gown.”
Rebecca followed Lady Trapleigh’s line of vision and quickly spotted the gentleman in question. “And he’s available?” Rebecca asked as she eyed his dance partner.
“He is, and also on the market for a wife, though I believe he does have a tendency to gamble.”
Not an ideal match then, Rebecca decided, not to mention the fact that she was quite a bit taller than him and had always imagined looking up to her future husband rather than down. Apparently, if height was what she wanted, she’d have to aim for either Brekenbridge or Mr. Neville, who was both tall and dark haired. Except he was a rake, she reminded herself, and not to be trusted. “I believe I shall set my cap for the viscount then,” she said, speaking in a hushed tone that only Lady Trapleigh could hear.
The widow nodded. “A good choice,” she said as if Rebecca had just picked out a fabric for a new gown rather than the man she was to marry. “I think you will be happy with him.”
Biding her time, Rebecca waited until the gentleman in question had excused himself from the wallflowers and started toward the refreshment table before heading after him. He wasn’t as handsome as Mr. Neville, nor was he quite as tall or as broad shouldered, but his features were pleasant enough, and he obviously had a good heart. Stepping up beside him, Rebecca did precisely what Mr. Neville had done earlier—she tossed aside the rules of propriety and spoke to him without introduction. “I hope you’ll forgive me for approaching you like this, but I couldn’t help but be impressed by the kindness you showed toward the ladies with whom you just offered to dance.”
“They are just as deserving of my attention as everyone else here,” he said as he turned to face her. Confusion registered upon his face as he gazed back into her eyes from behind a silver mask. “I don’t believe we’ve met—Viscount Brekenbridge at your service.”
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord. You may call me Lady Nuit.” Tilting her head, she offered him a bashful smile. He didn’t appear to take any notice of the way in which she was dressed, or if he did, he was so discreet about his observation that it didn’t show upon his face. His eyes were warm and friendly instead, for which she was thankful. “Well, I just thought you ought to be commended for your efforts. However, it appears that the first dance is about to commence. I really mustn’t keep you from your partner.”
“I don’t see why not, since the ladies you just mentioned denied my request. I believe they were too shy in the end.”
Attempting a look of complete befuddlement, Rebecca shook her head. “What a shame.”
“Perhaps you would do me the honor of partnering with me?” Brekenbridge asked abruptly, hope brimming in his eyes while his hands worked nervously at his sides. “If you’re available, that is.”
“Certainly,” Rebecca said, pleased by Brekenbridge’s enthusiasm. It seemed Lady Trapleigh was correct in her assessment, for his eagerness was only too apparent. He would probably propose soon if she voiced an interest, though he did not strike her as the passionate sort, the way Mr. Neville had. Heavens but he’d looked quite ready to rip Starkly’s head right off his neck when she’d last seen him. No, Lord Brekenbridge seemed very proper and civil by comparison—the sort of man who was looking to do the responsible thing and saw no reason for delay when it came to seeking a wife. He would suit her perfectly.
Allowing herself a satisfied smile, which Brekenbridge happily returned, he offered her his arm and started leading her toward the dance floor.
“You move with remarkable grace, my lady,” Brekenbridge said mere moments later as he and Rebecca made their way along the line of couples in a longways country dance.
“The same can be said of you, my lord,” Rebecca replied. She broadened her smile as she gazed up at him from beneath her lashes. His hold on her tightened just enough to strengthen her hope in him.
“You are too kind,” he murmured, giving her hand a little squeeze before the dance forced them apart once more. As they stood facing each other while other couples danced between them, Rebecca met Brenkenbridge’s gaze and found a resolve there that mirrored her own. Perhaps escaping Roselyn Castle wouldn’t be as difficult as she’d first expected.
“I hope you don’t think me presumptuous,” Brekenbridge said when next he stepped toward her, “but I must ask if you’re spoken for. You see, I . . . well, the thing of it is—”
“No, my lord, I am not,” Rebecca said, rushing to his aid.
Relief flooded the viscount’s features. “Well then, perhaps you would be so good as to introduce me to your father later. I assume he’s in attendance this evening?” he asked. “I would be very pleased to make his acquaintance—your mother’s too of course.”
With her hand upon his, Rebecca followed his lead as they turned about in the middle of the dance floor, crisscrossing between other couples as they did so. “I live with my aunt and uncle, my lord. You see, my parents passed away some years ago.”
A pained expression settled in Brekenbridge’s eyes. “My apologies, Lady Nuit . . .”
“It’s quite all right,” she said, hoping to calm his distress. “As I said, it was not recent.”
They parted ways again, and as they stood apart, she realized she wouldn’t be able to lie to him as easily as she had to Mr. Neville and Lord Starkly—not if he was to court her. For that, he’d have to know where she lived. She steeled herself, a bit wary of revealing her true identity to someone. She had little choice but to trust her instinct though, and instinct told her that he was not the sort of man who would abandon her once he knew the truth.
“Are your intentions toward me . . .” she began, speaking in a hushed tone when they approached each other once more, her gown swishing about her legs as they twirled around. Now was not the time to lose one’s nerve. “That is to say . . . I was wondering if you were inquiring about my parents because you were interested in calling on me.”
“Rest assured, Lady Nuit, I am most keen to further our acquaintance, if that is what you also desire.”
She gave a little nod, took a deep, fortifying breath and said, “In that case, there is something that I must tell you. You see—” She was given no chance to make her c
onfession, however, as the music faded and the dance came to an end. Having bowed and curtsied, Rebecca was just about to suggest they take a turn about the room so they could continue their conversation when Mr. Neville stepped in front of them, blocking their way. “Brekenbridge,” he said, though his eyes remained on Rebecca. “Always a pleasure.”
“Likewise,” Brekenbridge said politely.
Mr. Neville finally turned his gaze on Brekenbridge. “If you don’t mind, I do believe the lady has promised me the next dance.”
An endless string of curses streamed through Rebecca’s mind at that moment. Why, the arrogant nerve of the man! Here she was, trying her best to secure a match for herself with a real gentleman, and this . . . this libertine had the gall to try and stake his claim with a lie. The rudeness of it was infuriating. If only Brekenbridge would think of an excuse—something (anything at all) that might prevent her from having to leave his side and dance with Mr. Neville. But of course that was unthinkable. Brekenbridge was far too well mannered to oppose any man who’d claimed a dance. “Of course,” he said as he disengaged his arm from Rebecca’s. Turning to face her, he offered her another bow. “Perhaps we can talk later, my lady? There is a great deal I’d like to discuss with you.” Brekenbridge’s eyes held hers, offering hope. His meaning was clear.
Rebecca smiled at him and nodded. “I will look forward to it, my lord.” And then the moment was over and she was being led away toward the dance floor by Mr. Neville, acutely (and annoyingly) aware of the firm, masculine confidence he exuded. She would not allow her body to respond to his, to how sturdy he felt at her side, the tantalizing scent of him—sandalwood again—and the heat that entered her hand at the point of contact. Heavens! She felt well and truly flushed.
No, she would keep her mind focused and think of what Brekenbridge had promised with his gaze. She could be happy with him, of that she was certain. And yet, when Mr. Neville swept her into his arms, to a waltz, no less, she feared she might be doomed. Oh, she’d found him charming and attractive before, but with his hand resting against her waist she was finding it alarmingly difficult to form a coherent thought.
“The viscount seemed very taken with you,” Mr. Neville said as he spun her in a wide circle. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s wording his proposal as we speak.”
One can only hope.
“It was badly done of you to interfere like that,” she said, deciding to give him a set down and hoping that being stern with him would stop her from wondering what it might be like to kiss him. Turning her head away from him, she determined to watch the other dancers. She would not look at Mr. Neville’s lips. No, only disaster lay in that direction.
“I take it you desire his advances then?” There was an edge of flint to his tone as his hold on her tightened.
“He is a fine gentleman, and from what I’ve seen, he’s also kind. I believe he will treat me well. A lady could do far worse.” She turned her head back toward him, daring herself to meet his gaze in a pointed look. Thank heavens she was as good an actress as she was or she would probably have burst into flames in response to the look he was giving her in return. There was nothing polite about it. Indeed, it was a possessive look with the promise of wicked, forbidden pleasures—the sort of look that Rebecca imagined to be reserved for widows and the demimonde. It certainly wasn’t the way a respectable gentleman ought to be looking at an innocent young lady, and to Rebecca’s horror, she found herself responding to it in a most unwelcome way, feeling things in places that weren’t at all proper. She cursed herself for looking at him. It had been a mistake.
“How well do you know him?” Mr. Neville asked.
“Well enough,” she replied, only too eager to end this topic of discussion.
Mr. Neville held quiet a moment, then said, “You’ve only just met him, haven’t you?”
“No, of course not. I mean, to consider marriage from someone I’ve only shared one dance with—why, that would be ridiculous.”
“Is that so? Then pray tell, what is his name?”
Rebecca glanced up just enough to see the corner of his mouth edge upward into a smile—a cheeky smile.
“Well, that’s easy enough. It’s Brekenbridge.”
A chuckle escaped Mr. Neville’s lips. “Nice try, Lady Nuit, but I was referring to his Christian name. If you’ve known him long enough to consider marrying him, then surely you must have discovered what it is.”
Ugh! He had her there. Not one to give up so easily, she spoke the first name that came to mind. “Daniel.”
Mr. Neville’s eyebrows snapped together, and for a split second he looked at her rather queerly. He then smiled. “A lady to my liking—one who enjoys a good gamble even when the chance of winning is close to impossible.” Lowering his head, he whispered close to her ear, “His name is Thomas Brinkly.”
“Very well,” she said, shaking off the shivers that had run down her spine as he’d spoken, “so we still have much to learn about each other, but that doesn’t mean we won’t suit. On the contrary, it promises to be a typical Society courtship, followed by a typical Society wedding.”
Mr. Neville raised an eyebrow. “And yet you don’t strike me as a typical Society lady. Quite the opposite.”
The music drew to a close, preventing Rebecca from telling him that he had no business passing judgment. She’d never considered herself the sort of woman who would marry for any reason other than love, which made what she now planned on doing so much more ironic. But then again, this was about winning her freedom, limited as it might be as the wife of a peer.
“Come, walk with me,” Mr. Neville said once they’d bowed and curtsied to each other.
From the corner of her eye, Rebecca could see Lord Brekenbridge trying to make his way toward them through the crowd. She ought to pull away from Mr. Neville and go to him, yet when Mr. Neville urged her along, she found herself moving forward alongside him until cool air greeted them and they stepped out onto the terrace. “I shouldn’t be here with you,” she said, not because they were alone, for they were not the only ones looking to escape the heat of the ballroom, and not because she was afraid he might try to compromise her in some way, but because she didn’t trust herself to be alone with him. Brekenbridge offered security, while Mr. Neville offered scandal. She would have to be a fool . . . hell she was already a fool, for if Brekenbridge saw them together, her efforts with him would be for naught.
“I merely want a moment of your time,” Mr. Neville said as he steered her toward the terrace steps. “You see, I find it curious that you’re so eager to marry that you’d throw yourself away without the slightest hesitation on a man like Brekenbridge.”
“Who’s a perfect gentleman, if I may remind you,” Rebecca said.
“True, but he’s also a veritable bore—you’ll get very little excitement from him.”
“Perhaps I don’t care for excitement. Perhaps I’d like a quiet life at home, caring for my husband and children, having friends over for tea, doing charity work and such.”
“Sounds positively thrilling,” Mr. Neville muttered.
“What? Many ladies take great pleasure in such things. Who are you to diminish it?”
“I think the better question, my lady,” he said as he stopped in his tracks and turned to face her, “is not so much who I am, but rather who you are.”
Rebecca sucked in a breath as her whole body went rigid.
“Ah, I see I struck a nerve.”
“You don’t know the first thing about me.” She had the uncanny feeling that Mr. Neville had just pulled the string that would unravel all of her secrets.
“I believe I know you better than you know Brekenbridge. For one thing, you do want excitement in your life, Lady Nuit—the desperate need for marriage that has you plotting, along with the ambiguity about you, your desire for anonymity, they attest to it. This is an adventure for you,
isn’t it? I wonder how many of those you’ve had in the past, and more importantly, will you be willing to give them up in the future?”
They resumed walking. He had a point, to be sure, but he was making it without knowing all the facts. Yes, her life with Brekenbridge might be a bit more placid than what she would have wished for, but it would surely be better than marrying an aging cripple. She winced at the very idea of it.
They started down the stairs leading to the lawn below. “Let’s take a stroll in the garden,” he said. “The fewer people who see us together, the better—for your sake.”
She eyed him dubiously. “Have you any idea of how that sounds?”
“What do you mean?” he asked, turning his head and meeting her gaze with a frown.
“It sounds as though you’d rather keep to dark corners and the cover of trees and bushes, all the while hoping to have me believe that it’s for my own benefit.” She gave him a look that she hoped would underline her innuendo.
If she wasn’t mistaken, his eyes widened a little behind his mask. “Point taken,” he said with a wry smile, “though I can assure you that doing so would benefit both of us equally.”
The way her stomach twisted itself into a tight knot told her that he was no longer speaking of protecting her from ruin but quite possibly the opposite. She sucked in a breath and tried to ignore the sturdy feel of his arm beneath her gloved hand and how elegantly he guided her down toward the path below.
“Tell me, Nuit, what’s the most outrageous thing you’ve ever done?”
As much as she would have liked to blame her gown for causing her to lose her footing as he spoke those words, she simply couldn’t. Thankfully, he caught her before she had the chance to fall, the only problem (aside from the obvious embarrassment the situation offered) being that he couldn’t possibly ignore her reaction. To her annoyance, he even chuckled. “So you have done something outrageous then? And to think that I was only fishing.” The smile he gave her was a conspiratorial one filled with the promise that he would keep whatever secrets she might be willing to share with him. “Tell me something shocking, Nuit—I dare you.”
The Scandal in Kissing an Heir Page 3