She looked up, her face smooth of expression, but her gaze contemplative. She possessed the most striking eyes he’d ever seen.
“The truth is, I do not know how to waltz.”
His eyebrows shot up again.
“If you tell anyone, I shall put it out that you asked me to marry you,” she added.
He grinned. “Threats, my lady? I would have thought such tactics beneath you.”
She made an airy gesture with one long-fingered hand. “I have an absent father. It’s likely I’ve not been raised well. We have spoken long enough, my lord. We’re garnering attention.”
As he wished, for word would get back to the marquess that William was following orders. Still, it wouldn’t do to put his quarry too much on guard. “Of course. My apologies. I’m sure you do not wish to have your name sullied by association.”
“One would think as much, wouldn’t one?” She curtsied.
William bowed, oddly stung she hadn’t disagreed. He turned and strode away. Men flocked about her in his wake, setting his teeth on edge.
He didn’t remain at the ball, but headed outside to call for his carriage. After two encounters with Lady Lanora, though she knew of only one, William was rather certain he had a problem. That problem, as usual, was the marquess. The old man said William must marry. Lady Lanora was on Lethbridge’s list. William knew, though, that she wouldn’t be if the marquess had reviewed it.
Lady Lanora was more apt than any other person in London to discover that William had never been to Egypt, let alone lived there until he reappeared at age fourteen. She might feel sympathy for London’s poor. She might wax compassionately on the worth of a man, but he knew his peers. If she learned he’d grown up in the slums of London, she would disdain him. Worse, she would reveal his secret to the ton.
The trouble was, now that he’d met her, William was intrigued. Her raven locks and sparkling emerald eyes set her apart from other ladies of the ton. Her lithe form, gently curved in the most desirable places, begged a man to put his hands on her, and he was resolved to. William would have his waltz.
More than that, beneath a façade obviously designed to keep the world at a distance, resided a keenness of wit in her eyes, and a spark. It made sense, being the daughter of a renowned scholar and explorer. As Darington’s daughter was. William could tell from the man’s letters she was intelligent. Was Lady Lanora similarly so? He feared she might be.
Equally disturbing was the stab of fury as he walked away, while other men crowded her. No woman had inspired that spark of possessiveness in him. He was very worried it was the seed of attraction. With that seed planted, it would be impossible to consider any of the other suggested women. If William must bind himself to one of the ton’s diamonds, it would be one for whom he felt at least a spark of desire.
When his carriage arrived, William told his man to take him to the marquess’s London home. They set out for the Westlock residence, where William had spent the first four years of his life, and then four more, before heading to the reprieve of university. After that, he’d established his own household. He’d sworn never to reside under the same roof with the old man again.
The marquess would think rebelliousness drove William to select Lady Lanora from Lethbridge’s list. Let him. That was safer than giving the old man any truth, for knowledge was leverage, and giving the marquess leverage was dangerous. If he wanted William married, he would have to agree with William’s choice. It was Lady Lanora or no one. She was the first woman of the ton to stir so much as a flicker of interest in him.
His resolve marshalled, when the carriage stopped at the marquess’s home, William vaulted from the vehicle. The house was a stern, sever building, and dark. Almost a blight on the wealthy London street, though faultlessly maintained. The marquess’s butler, a man whose face didn’t move even when he spoke, opened the door. He bowed, accepting William’s hat and gloves.
“He’s in his office?” William asked.
“Yes, my lord.”
Halfway down the hall, grim ancient faces glared at him from gilt frames on the flock-clad walls, William reined in his purposeful strides and slowed. He took several deep breaths. A confrontation of wills was best avoided. The marquess held too many cards. Lighter steps brought him to the dark mahogany door. He knocked, pressed the door open before the sound died, and stepped in. He took petty delight in the minor disrespect.
As always, the sturdy form of the marquess filled the large leather-upholstered chair behind the desk. William closed the door, attention on the old man as he passed matching leather couches and continued to the chair before the desk. The marquess didn’t stand. William didn’t bow.
The marquess set aside his pen, dropping a blotting page over his work. “You’ve come about your marriage.”
It was difficult to tell in the flickering lamplight, but the old man looked drawn. William liked to imagine there was an unhealthy yellow tinge to his skin. “You would force me to wed in twenty days.”
“Under twenty now. Your score of days began when you signed. In spite of your numerous weaknesses, I expect you know how to count. I also expect you to honor your word.” The marquess coughed. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his mouth, then shoved the square back in his pocket.
How William longed to wrest the handkerchief from him, in the hope it held blood. “And I expect you to honor yours, old man. If I wed a woman from that list, the Westlock fortunes are mine.”
“Lethbridge assured me they are all quality breeding stock. If you get one to bind herself to you, you’ll deserve the wealth that goes along with our name.”
“Then I select Lady Lanora Hadler.”
The marquess eyed him for a long moment. He slammed a palm down on the desk. William didn’t flinch, though the sound ricocheted through the wood paneled room. “Lethbridge.”
“Yes, Lethbridge. That’s what you get for leaving something as important as the Westlock line to a lackey.”
The marquess coughed again, for longer this time. The handkerchief came out, was applied, and disappeared. William watched with avid interest.
“Yes, I’m dying,” the marquess growled. “I’m sure you’ll have quite the celebration when I’m gone.”
“Only as is right to honor your exulted life, my lord.”
“Spare me your insolence. You will not court Solworth’s daughter. You know the risk.”
“If I wed her before she learns I never lived in Egypt, my secret will be doubly safe. She’ll be bound to me. She won’t dare reveal the truth then.”
The marquess drummed his fingers on the desk. He shook his head. “The risk is too great, greater than you realize. Besides, how will you marry the chit? She has what, eighteen years? You don’t have the time to write her father for permission and receive a reply.”
William forced a smile. Damn the old bastard for being right. William hadn’t considered that. “I’ll think of something, never fear. Perhaps a trip to Scotland is in order.”
The marquess grunted. “I’ve heard of the girl. They say she’s as warm as a corpse. You’ll have little luck there. If you wish to set yourself an impossible task, so be it.”
“You think she’ll prove impervious to my charms?”
“She’s Solworth’s daughter. She’ll prove too intelligent to bed you.”
William leaned forward. He took in the deep shadows draped under the marquess’s bloodshot eyes. “A wager? If I can get it in writing, within my twenty days, that she’ll wed me, you set aside this notion of signing the new will. Throw it on the fire.”
The marquess shook his head. “Women have no honor. What’s to say she won’t sign and then back out? No, I want one wedded and bedded before I die.” He fell into another fit of coughing.
“Fine, wedded it is, by Gretna Green, if I must. I put my name to that page and I will honor it, but you will honor the names listed.”
“Do as you will,” the marquess wheezed. “Pursue all the women on the list if you like. M
anage to wed one of them, even Solworth’s chit, and the Westlock fortune is yours.”
“You’re too kind, my lord.” William stood. “If you’ll excuse me.”
The brief interview was all the time he could remain in the marquess’s presence before images of his mother, dying, and locked in a cell would fill his vision until it turned red with rage. There had been times before he went to university when only fear kept him from pounding the life from the man. In the years since, that fear had disappeared, leaving behind coiled anger.
The marquess answered with another grunt. He moved the ink blotter and retrieved his pen. William closed the door firmly on his way out.
Chapter Eight
Lanora was inexplicably miffed when Lord William never returned to claim his waltz. Not that she’d agreed to one, but she expected him to insist. His hazel eyes were a stormy blue-green as they talked, giving her the impression his interest was more than passing. But, that was the way of a rogue, making a woman feel he meant more than he said. Still, each time a waltz began, a breathless anticipation touched her, but she never saw his tall form again.
Until she went to sleep. Then they waltzed endlessly through her dreams. They also spoke of Mr. Darington and her father, though Lanora couldn’t remember what was said. In her dreams, she took Lord William to see the home for women Mr. Darington was building, only to find an empty square of land.
She woke early and gave up on the pretense of rest. She didn’t know what her mind was trying to tell her, with the mix of dancing and talking. Obviously, Lord William was handsome. More so than the average gentleman, being taller, with a physique that bespoke strength, but that shouldn’t warrant a restless night. Perhaps it was her failure to inquire about Mr. Darington? Lord William represented an opportunity to pass along her concern about the lack of progress on the home for women. Lanora, too caught up in his charms, had squandered that chance.
She slipped from bed and began to ready for the day, her brows puckered in a frown. She’d spent the previous evening thinking about Lord William. Then the entire night. Now, he filled her morning thoughts. If she didn’t know better, she’d worry she was developing some sort of infatuation with the man.
That, of course, was impossible. Impeccable tailoring and good looks aside, he was a rake. He was one step above a highwayman. She’d rather have an absurd infatuation with the unknown Lord Lefthook, like all the other ladies of London.
Still, she found she couldn’t put Lord William from her mind, especially the strain in his voice when he spoke of the poorest part of London. It was an odd tone for a future marquess. Then there was her aunt’s tacit approval of him.
Perhaps that was the trouble. Her aunt’s words in the carriage had wheedled their way into Lanora’s mind. Aunt Edith knew precisely where to strike; the people who would someday be beholden to Lanora. She loved her home and the people there. She would never leave them to the uncertainty of who-knew-what remote relation, or have the land reverted to the crown to be overseen from afar. The only way to stop that was to have a child, and the only way for that to happen was to marry.
Give up her freedom. Have someone there to tell her Grace was her maid, not her friend. That she couldn’t celebrate Christmas with the staff, or attend country dances. Could she give up her life to ensure the future of those she cared for? What if she bore a son and he grew up to be a rake, like his father?
Lanora gave her head a vigorous shake. Why would her son’s father be a rake? She would not marry a rake, especially not Lord William. She’d spoken with the man once. He hadn’t even returned to dance with her. Likely, he’d already forgotten their exchange. She was being ridiculous.
Lanora made her way to the breakfast parlor, a silly affectation. At home, she ate in the kitchen with the staff. Why force Cook and her helpers to rise early, devote the morning to creating a cornucopia of items, then carry them all into a parlor, employing a ludicrous number of platters and plates, so that Lanora could pick out the two items she wanted and eat alone at a giant table?
Here, though, that was how it must be. Her aunt seemed to enjoy the breakfast parlor, and the selection, as did her terriers. Much of Cook’s work went into dogs’ bellies. Grace also assured Lanora that word would get out if she behaved in so odd a manner, for staff gossiped. On top of that, much of the food was repurposed to serve with tea in the event of callers, and everything that was left was consumed by the staff, who would be dismayed not to receive it. So, with the entire household arrayed against her, Lanora must dine alone in the breakfast parlor, while her aunt and the pups snored the morning away in their rooms and Grace ate in the kitchen in the company of friends.
Lanora nibbled on toast and sipped her tea, the Times open before her. Another joy a husband would undoubtedly take from her. He would claim the paper first, likely not deeming her mind capable of understanding it.
“Why are you making that face?” Grace said as she entered the room. She carried her gloves and hat. “Who has angered you?”
Lanora set her teacup down. “No one.” She shrugged. “Rather, men. My aunt says I must have one.”
“You know she’s correct.” Grace’s look was sympathetic.
“You don’t have one. She doesn’t have one. Cook doesn’t have one.”
“None of us have your responsibilities.” Grace smiled. “Besides, how can I become your cook if you stay in your father’s country house and dine in the kitchen? You’re to have a home of your own, and proper meals, and entertain.”
She took in Grace’s dreamy tone and sighed. “Yes, well, at least one of us shall be happy.”
“We will find you a gentleman who makes you happy. We’ll simply investigate them, like we do at home before dispensing charity.”
“There’s no village to ask around, and we can hardly walk over and survey each man’s holdings, as we would a farm.”
“This is London.” Grace’s smile turned sly. “It’s easier. We simply bribe a man’s servants and we shall know all. When I return from the paper, you shall tell me if there are any gentlemen in particular who make you go all calf-eyed, and we’ll send out footmen to bribe their staff.”
“Wonderful.” Lanora didn’t hide her lack of enthusiasm.
“It will be, as will bargaining the best price for this Lefthook story.” Grace donned her hat and tied the ribbon under her chin.
“You’re not to give your name, or Mrs. Banke’s.”
“I know. I won’t be long.” She pulled on her gloves and, with a jaunty wave, left the parlor.
Lanora sighed, envious of Grace’s freedom. Lady Lanora Hadler could never go to the paper with a story about Lord Lefthook. She would become the story. Grace could go. She could give a false name, or none at all, and no one would press her. They wouldn’t care who she was in view of what she had to tell.
Grace could be a cook and eat in the kitchen if she liked, and not marry if she didn’t find a man she wished to wed. Lanora knew many lady’s maids didn’t live as happily as Grace. They were put upon, demeaned, made to endure uncertainty and, sometimes, unwanted attention from the men of the house. Still, in that moment, being Grace seemed more preferable than being the only child of a duke.
Irritated with her petulance, Lanora gave up on her toast and went to the library to browse her grandfather’s collection. She preferred her father’s books in their country home. Still, searching through those assembled by her more distant ancestors, who preferred London, was interesting. She liked to imagine her father there as a child, and tried to pick out the books he would have been drawn to. That strategy soon found her in the front parlor, where the light was best, reading the Iliad in archaic Greek.
Much of it was tricky, for the Greek she’d learned was modern, but that made it all the more entertaining. After all, she already knew the story. She’d read it several times, in several languages. She sat curled in an armchair near the window, engrossed, when someone cleared their throat.
Lanora looked up to find a
wild-eyed maid standing in the parlor doorway. Behind her loomed the darkly clad form of Lord William. She stared, feeling as bereft as the maid obviously was. No one visited their home, not after her cold treatment of the first handful of guests, and certainly not men. Definitely not rakes.
“I came to see if you’re in, my lady.” The maid rolled her eyes and grimaced. Obviously, she wanted Lanora to know she’d tried to dissuade Lord William from following her to the parlor.
Lanora brought her feet to the floor and stood. “Apparently I am.” Over the girl’s head, she took in Lord William’s lazy smile. “Could you see if my aunt is about? I’m sure she’d like to greet Lord William.”
“Yes, my lady.” The girl curtsied and hurried away.
He entered, shrinking the room with his presence. Lanora inclined her head in response to his bow. Marking her place, she set the Iliad in her chair and moved to the sofa before the low table where refreshments would be served, if he accepted any.
“Would you care to sit, my lord? Shall I call for refreshments?”
“No, thank you. I’ve recently dined.” Two long strides took him to the chair. He scooped up her book. His eyebrows swooped upward as he paged through it. “You read Greek? This Greek?”
Of course, he didn’t think her, a mere woman, capable of reading the manuscript. She shrugged. She didn’t miss the way his gaze dropped from her face to take in the motion. “It passes the time. Do sit, please.”
He snapped the book closed, a sly glint in his eyes. “I’m not here to socialize.”
“That seems highly unreasonable, my lord, as this is the hour for socializing, and you have come to my parlor.”
“I am here to teach you to waltz.”
Lanora swallowed, her treacherous pulse quickening at the thought of his arms about her. “That is not necessary, my lord.”
“But it is. You’ve too fine a form not to be waltzed about every ballroom in London. Think of the grace you’re depriving us all of.”
“I agree,” Aunt Edith said. She entered the room amidst a sea of terriers.
The Archaeologist's Daughter (Regency Rendezvous Book 3) Page 6