“Aha! I knew there was an ulterior motive!”
Miles smiled patiently. “Who is the young lady standing with those utterly repulsive specimens? She looks decidedly out of keeping with them. Unless I mistake?” The subject of his interest inclined her head to the Honorable Sir Robert Harrington. A puzzled frown momentarily shadowed the duke’s urbane features. Sir Robert was as unsuitable a companion for the young woman as the ladies.
What could her chaperone be thinking of? Every wary dowager knew Sir Robert to be a rake, a gambler, and patently unfit for the company of ladies of quality.
Lady Jersey started talking, but his attention lamentably strayed. His eyes followed the unlikely duo out the stuffy interior, past the hedgerow, and through the long lines of chestnuts that grew in columns along the path. As he watched them disappear into the night, he thought he caught a murmured plea, then shrugged at his mistake. Unlike him to grow whimsical!
Shaking himself from his reverie, he turned back to Sally.
“It’s a damnable scenario, Miles! Miss Beaumaris’s brother, the current earl of Surrey, is on the war lists, presumed dead. Sir Robert, as next male kin, stands as heir. I believe he and his delightful family are making life extremely uncomfortable for Miss Cassandra Beaumaris. She is the lady you are gazing after with such open astonishment. Hello?” Lady Jersey recalled his attention with a sharp tap of her elegant fan. At his blank look, her ladyship’s mouth pouted in exasperation. “Your Grace, I vow you have not heard one word I’ve been saying.”
The duke blessed Sally with one of the comical grimaces that so endeared him to womenfolk.
“I am sorry, my dear! Continue, please!”
“I will if you favor me with your attention! Miss Beaumaris has a tidy sum coming to her on her marriage and charm to boot. An unusual combination and one Sir Robert is only too well aware of, I’ll warrant.” She glanced at St. John assessingly. Sally was a veritable goldmine of useful social anecdotes, but he felt she needed prompting.
“The brother? Dead, I assume?”
“Well, that is the problem, Miles. We just do not know! The war lists have the current earl down as missing, although all the world knows his chance of survival is set at practically naught.”
“Poor girl! A tragedy.”
“Yes. But what is worse is that the Harringtons, being a distant connection, lay claim to the earldom. They’ve been denied vouchers, of course.”
There was a smug smirk at this last, for without the sanction of the said Countess Lieven, Princess Esterhazy, and a small but select group of patronesses—of which she was one—the Harringtons, title or not, were as nothing, doomed forever to the lower ranks of gentility. It said much that for once all the illustrious ladies had been in agreement: Robert Harrington, earl or no, was simply not Almack’s material. To admit him or his singularly vulgar family through the sanctified portals of the club would be a desecration in the extreme.
“A charming revenge, my dear”—Miles’s dry retort brought her back to the discussion on hand—“but what of the sister?”
“Miss Beaumaris? It has placed her in a terrible position, of course. She cannot bring herself to accept the reality of the situation. Instead, she clings with touching—if misguided—eloquence to the belief that her brother will return. I spoke with her only the other day and was quite moved to pity. Of course, his being gazetted missing, not dead, adds fuel to the hope and only prolongs the agony.”
“What of the Harringtons? Surely they cannot lay claim on the estate until the matter is settled?”
“Not legally, no. But from what I gather, they’ve moved into Surrey Manor, lock, stock, and barrel. There is some small dispute over the legality of Harrington acting as guardian to her, as she is not yet of age. At all events, while he has not been invested with the title, he seems to be making ample use of its privileges. Rumor has it that the duns have only held off because of his expectations.”
Her lips curled at the thought. “By all accounts a debtor prison is too good for him, Miles! And there is little that we can do, save offer Miss Beaumaris our support and patronage. She’s not been seen at Almack’s since all this has happened. I’m surprised she’s here tonight. And in such company!”
“Perhaps she had no choice.” The duke’s voice took on an unexpectedly grim tone. His valet, sensing his mood, would have taken good care not to anger him. My lord St. John was devilishly good to his servants, but there were times where it was wise to steer good and clear. By the set of his mouth, this was one of those times. Lady Jersey looked up and sensed rather than saw the rigid tightening of his muscles and the almost involuntary twitch of his left cheek.
The eighth duke of Wyndham, she knew, was very much like his father. Not the type to be easily aroused to momentary passion and transient adoration. He would like as not sneer at sentiment and label romance a fool’s pleasure. It was a notable contradiction, then, that when he did feel deeply about something, he became wholly absorbed. She watched his eyes flicker in thought then move back to her face. She guessed that he wanted to be alone. Alone to absorb the information imparted to him and to ponder truly on the circumstances of so striking a young lady being vulnerable to such manifest coercion.
When he misheard her for the second time, she permitted herself a tiny sigh before nodding to a gentleman of her acquaintance and allowing him to lead her in, once more, to the swirl of skirts and the delicious world of the beau monde.
FOUR
In the gardens, the rain had not yet turned to showers, but the misty haze did not portend well. A cluster of gray clouds lingered low in the sky, showing every sign of fulfilling the duke’s prediction of a stormy road home. Young ladies, lightly clad in ball gowns of sheer merino, muslin, and diaphanous patterned silks, took themselves off for the shelter of pavilions and the great hall. Tinkling laughter followed in their wake, the querulous tones of dowagers quite lost in the magic of the evening.
The duke found himself walking against the throng of people. Had his mind been less occupied, he might have been surprised at the number of men and women out in the gardens that night. As it was, his tread was firm and a little on the brisk side as he walked over to the hedgerow and down toward the long line of towering green chestnuts on the far end.
The Honorable Sir Robert Harrington was not known among his contemporaries for chivalry. On the contrary, the man had been dubbed an outright cad, although to Miles’s knowledge he had in the past dabbled more with the opera-singer set than with ladies of quality. All the same, it would not do to be complacent. The sooner he satisfied himself to the fact of the young lady’s well-being, the better pleased he’d be.
He did not like to dwell on the faint plea he had earlier dismissed as imagination’s fancy. Miss Beaumaris’s background coupled with what he knew of Harrington added up to an uneasy alliance that did not bode well for the unfortunate lady. He knew it was not his place, but in the absence of a close male relative he felt it his duty to intervene. The duke’s steps hastened to a run as he rounded on the far pavilion.
What he saw there stopped him short in shock. It was worse than his hazily foreboding instinct had envisaged. Harrington had the girl’s arm pinned behind her back. Sheltered from passing eyes by the contours of the folly, he was forcing himself upon her with a laugh that held no mirth at all. His voice indeed, was sibilant with an anger that raised prickles down His Grace’s spine.
“You will pay for that, you termagant!” Sir Robert rubbed his cheek dismissively then edged his face closer to her own. “Lay hand to me once more and I warn you, you will find yourself regretting it!”
Cassandra turned her head away, her cheeks high with color and revulsion. Pinned as she was, she could not move, but her expressive face said much
Harrington released his grip, amused at her open terror. “I hope you understand that, my sweet. We needed to come to a more conformable arrangement.” His mouth moved to close on hers, an ugly leer transforming his features.
&
nbsp; “For now, I will merely satisfy myself with a little light punishment. You may consider it the discerning taste of a treat in store.” The threat was palpable as his dank breath closed in on her lips. His eyes lit with a strange sort of amusement as he gave her a brief respite. Then he began his advance once more. Miles realized that Sir Robert was enjoying a little cat and mouse game at Cassandra’s expense and he shivered. As Sir Robert drew closer, she wrenched her hand from his grip and gasped in an involuntary combination of anguish and anger.
This was silenced on the instant. The detestable Sir Robert quelled her protest with a deft twist of his arms, his head bending toward her with a sudden savagery that shocked Miles from his momentary paralysis.
With a murmur of stony rage, he took the steps of the pavilion two at a time and caught the Honorable Harrington in a steely vice that left him rasping for breath. Surprised into releasing his grip, Cassandra’s captor fell back. She found herself stepping clear, nursing her arm, and suffused with a sudden shame for what had just occurred. While she knew herself to be utterly indebted to the mysterious gentleman in green, she knew, too, that she was compromised beyond all hope of redemption.
Recognizing in her savior the man who had so boldly locked eyes with her earlier in the evening, she felt a hot blush suffuse her being. That he should see her thus! In her weakened state, she could only reflect remorsefully on what he would think. The Honorable Miss Beaumaris knew well that she would be judged by the company she kept. First her encroaching female relations and now the odious Sir Robert Harrington. As she caught her breath, she reflected—not without a measure of bitterness—that she was fair game now in the eyes of society. It could not be hoped that her shimmering cream redingote would obscure her identity for long. The incident would ruin her, as no doubt Harrington had intended.
The thought was so lowering to her self-esteem that it was some moments before she allowed herself to heed the tableau unfolding before her eyes. Harrington was seeing fit to spew obscenities fit only for a bawdy house. He had released himself from the duke’s grip and was now facing him, anger blazing from every pore.
What license had this unknown gentleman—duke or not—to interfere with something that was rightfully his? With an obtuseness shocking in its candor, he failed to see that Cassandra’s revulsion of him bore on the matter at hand. To a man of his twisted perspective, she was all but his, no person having the mandate to overset his well-laid plans. Forty thousand pounds was not anything to sneeze at, certainly, and an heiress within his grasp was as good as money in the bank. In a moment of frenzied outrage, he challenged his opponent.
“Name your men!”
The duke demonstrated a masterful control. When angered, his movements became deceptive in their simplicity, lethal in their conclusion. Like Harrington, he was at the pinnacle of an exquisite rage. He did not, however, expend one ounce of surfeit force. His methods tended to be as vigorous as they were nice, perfection in their simplicity of motion and accuracy of intent. Not for him were the coarse epithets and the brazen appeals to a greater audience. He needed not the stimulus of applause to rouse himself to dizzying heights.
Though Miles’s fingers fairly itched to run the villain through, his face remained impassive, silent. Those who knew him would have cringed in awe. The duke in a mood like this was a man dangerous in the extreme. His voice had deepened, deceptively soft. “A duel is too good for you, Harrington. I’d not sully my name by having it linked with yours.”
The insult came as a sharp blow. Puffed up as he was in his own consequence, Sir Robert nonetheless knew all too well that his situation in society was precarious to say the least. In far too many circles he found himself a persona non grata and the circumstance rankled. The outright implication that he was no gentleman was the perfect stimulus to further fuel his rage. It was perhaps fortunate for the duke that Harrington’s side-sword was presently on the mantelpiece at Surrey Manor.
Sir Robert lunged, his fists poised to strike an earnest blow at the interloper’s temple. His breathing was ragged, perspiration oozing from every pore. As his arm lunged forward, it was caught in an unstoppable grip. A split second later he was doubled over, groaning audibly and hanging from the balcony in an attempt to retch. My lord St. John, satisfied that a flush hit had been delivered, turned his back in contempt.
“Miss Beaumaris, you are unharmed?”
Cassandra turned to him wonderingly. A flash of memory shook her, but she quelled the thought.
“You know my name, sir?”
The duke’s eyes softened for a fleeting moment, then regained their habitual gallantry. “Indeed I do, fair creature! May I lead you in?”
Miles had resumed his veneer of quiet banter, secure in the knowledge that Harrington would present no further menace for that evening. The light drizzle was changing to heavy droplets and his suggestion was opportune.
As Cassandra presented her hand, stammering her thanks, he hushed her with a smile so dazzling she was enchanted.
“Don’t thank me, my dear. The man is a villain, and the less said the better.” He bowed formally. “I claim the next dance, however!”
“It’s a waltz sir.” Cassandra’s half-coy protest amused the world-weary duke. A far cry from the simpering young ladies within. They, he was sure, would be only too happy to oblige him in the execution of a dance still considered “fast” in the more fastidious circles.
“I know.” Miles’s eyes twinkled as he let the implication of his words set in. He realized with a great deal of irony that he longed to have his arms encircle this delicate yet strangely self-possessed young woman. He hadn’t felt that way since his salad days. What an enigma she was, so fragile, yet exuding such an immensely firm inner strength. The red streak blighting Harrington’s cheek had not escaped his all-encompassing attention. Clearly, she had courage. His mind flitted back to the only slap he had ever received from the gentler sex, and he grinned. She hadn’t changed that much, after all. “Never say you’re afraid of a waltz?” Miles’s eyes challenged her, teasing.
Cassandra could feel her heart beat just a little faster under his unerring gaze. That sort of behavior was strictly reserved for storybook heroines. She could hardly credit that she was responding in such a gauche and missish manner. Annoyed, half shy, half bold, she took up the challenge. “Not of the waltz! The partner, perhaps?” Cassandra amazed herself by her audacity.
“Afraid of me?” Miles feigned astonishment. “How can that be so, fair creature? Have I not already demonstrated a willingness to fight for your honor? And shall I not continue to do so if need be?”
His tone had been bantering, but the last sentence was uttered with so much quiet force that Cassandra looked up, startled.
What she saw in his eyes made her recalcitrant pulse race once more in that unaccountable, yet rather wondrous manner. “Here,” her heart cried out, “is a man!”
“Your name, sir? I rather think we’ve not been introduced.”
Her voice held an interrogative. The duke, like herself, was still sporting an eyeshade. Though she must have been one of the very few that evening to be ignorant of his person, there could be little doubt that she was, indeed, so ignorant. His face, like his motive, remained a mystery.
For an instant Miles looked skeptical, but the moment passed.
“You’ll have to stay for the unmasking. Until then, dearest, my identity shall remain a secret! So much more edifying, do you not think?”
Cassandra’s eyes were reproachful. The man was playing games with her. And yet ... why not? How long had it been since she’d put away her cares and just danced without worry? A very long time, she reckoned.
Lady Sefton had indicated strongly that she might dance if she wished. She could not be expected to remain in mourning for her grandfather and now her brother forever. That she had chosen not to dance was a decision entirely of her own making. Tonight, for this one waltz, she would rescind the ban and enjoy herself. If only for the sake of one new a
nd pleasurable memory amidst her daily sorrows.
The music was striking up and before she knew it, she found herself heading for the great dance hall, her handsome protector’s elbow just a fraction away from her own. She was curiously aware of this fact as their steps hastened to avoid the pelter of rain now descending earthward. Harrington not quite forgotten but no doubt still retching in the far off arbor, she took her place, the duke’s arm gently circling her waist.
His touch was as light as gossamer yet it burned into her senses like nothing had ever done before. Acutely aware of his closeness, she allowed herself to be guided around the room, reveling in the sensation that for these few moments, at least, she need not be in control. Quietly, unconsciously, she yielded to him. He, sensing this, tightened his grip over her person, his very being caught up in the singularly unusual sensation of closeness, of oneness.
He had danced the waltz thousands of times before, with women far, far more beautiful than the little mite in his arms at that moment. What he’d never before felt, however, was this strange sense of union, of bonding. He felt her trust and instinctively responded to it.
His mouth drew down close to hers, and he could feel her warm breath on his neck, tantalizing. Feeling for all the world like a callow halfling smitten with unbridled passion, the duke of Wyndham, Earl Roscow, and Baron of the Isles found himself yearning for the music to stop, for time to stop, and for the two of them to stand together and become one, his mouth on hers, her hands in his.
Perhaps she sensed this longing, for her eyes looked up at his, searching. For a moment her body became so still that she forgot her steps and stumbled. He reached out to catch her and smiled. It was a moment that would stay with them always.
Cassandra conjured up the picture of the dark young rider on his stallion, and she knew of a certainty it was he.
“Tell me,” Cassandra urged. “Who are you?”
“Miles. Miles St. John. The duke of Wyndham.” The words were out before he could stop them. What he felt was no longer an idle game.
By Way Of A Wager Page 4