How to Dazzle a Duke
Page 25
As the song was done, the room did applaud. It was nicely timed.
“As long as she requires it? What the devil does that mean?” Edenham asked Sophia. But it was not Sophia who answered him.
“Until she gets a husband,” Katherine said, looking at Sophia with the barest of smiles.
“Precisely,” said Sophia.
“And when is that to be?” Edenham asked.
“Darling,” Sophia said softly, laying her fan on his arm, “don’t be so coy.”
Lord Ruan laughed.
“I can’t think what you’re being so coy about,” Penelope said. “All I’m asking is that you escort me over to Edenham. I should think you’d be glad to be done with your part in my …”
Well, what to call it? Of course, there were words to describe what she was doing, but they were not the sort of words one said in front of a man.
“Your pursuit of a husband?” Iveston said pleasantly, his turquoise blue eyes twinkling almost dangerously. Dangerous? What could possibly be dangerous about Lord Iveston?
His kisses?
Perish the thought.
Oh, of course he kissed quite splendidly; she was not the type of woman to lie about something like that. No, a man had to have his skills, his areas of expertise, and Iveston had clearly found his. He could kiss. He could kiss very well. Well, what of it? A woman did not choose a husband based upon something as inconsequential as that. Why, if that were so, she might as well have married the groom. Though, to be honest, the groom’s kisses, what she could remember of them, quite paled in comparison to Iveston’s.
He could kiss.
He could also play the pianoforte and she wasn’t about to marry him for his musical skills either.
Marriage? Why ever had marriage entered her mind when cataloging Iveston’s scant list of skills? She nearly blushed in shame at the wayward nature of her thoughts. A woman did not make the most ideal marriage by becoming distracted by incidentals.
“You’re blushing,” Iveston said, standing up from the bench.
He was quite tall, nearly towering over her. She supposed she should find it extremely unattractive, it was only that he looked so very well, even with his cravat a tatter. He was a very handsome man. There was little point in denying that. There was little reason to deny it either. So, he could kiss well and he was handsome. What was that? Nothing to build a marriage upon.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “I never blush. I never find the need.”
She sounded like a prig. She knew it. She couldn’t seem to stop herself. The problem was that Lord Iveston didn’t seem to mind. All the men minded. Why didn’t he?
“Can’t you feel it?” he said softly, taking a step nearer to her. They were quite close enough. It was entirely unnecessary. He did it anyway. “Can’t you feel the heat of it?”
“No.”
She wasn’t going to count the little lies. If she did, she would be overwhelmed with counting in a half hour’s time.
“You never blush,” he said, looking at her mouth, “yet you are blushing now, for me. I like that.”
“I don’t care what you like.”
“Did you know,” he said, ignoring her completely, still staring at her mouth, “that your mouth goes quite rosy when you blush? Nearly like a berry stain. It’s quite compelling. I do think you should stop, if at all possible, or I shall be hard put to refrain from kissing you again.”
It was a horrible truth to admit that she didn’t mind the idea in the least.
Whatever was wrong with her? She needed to plant herself at Edenham’s side immediately or Lord Iveston would distract her past all reckoning. And that couldn’t happen, no, couldn’t be allowed to happen. She had her plan and she was not going to be waylaid by a few kisses of superior quality.
How did Edenham kiss, as long as she was thinking of it? Certainly, after three wives, he must have developed some talent for kissing. Pity that she couldn’t ask one of them how he … performed. She did like to have all her facts in hand before making a decision. Of course, she could simply arrange to kiss him herself. There was nothing like firsthand exposure. It was so much more reliable than hearsay.
“I do hope Edenham likes the color of my lips,” she said. “Do you think he will?”
Her words had the desired effect. Iveston pulled back from her and considered her from beneath his pale brows.
“Let’s ask him, shall we?” Iveston said. And without another word, he escorted her across the floor to where Edenham stood with Sophia and Lady Richard.
Penelope braced herself. She was more than certain that this was not going to be pleasant. If there weren’t already so many wagers flying about the room, she would have wagered on it.
“WITH so many wagers placed on Miss Prestwick’s marital prospects, I haven’t been able to get a man’s attention all evening,” Bernadette, Lady Paignton, said. “I can’t even find that Indian, and I did think he’d be an interesting experience.”
“You have too many interesting experiences,” Antoinette, Lady Lanreath, said. “It’s becoming something of a problem, don’t you agree?”
“No, actually, I don’t,” Bernadette said.
“I should like it very much if you would change your mind,” Antoinette said softly, looking out over her room full of guests, at how perfect it all looked, and how empty it was of all meaning. It wasn’t even her house anymore, having been passed to her husband’s son. The moment he married she would likely be thrown out on her bonnet. “I may want to marry again, and it will be a bit difficult to arrange if you continue on as you are doing.”
Bernadette turned her green eyes upon her sister, looking quite obviously stunned. “I had no idea. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I had no idea myself,” Antoinette answered. “I think watching Miss Prestwick has inspired me. This girl, nothing stops her, does it? She is arranging her own match, on her own terms. Did you or I do the same? We did not. We married where we were told. She is barely younger than we are now, yet so much stronger in resolve. Yes,” Antoinette said, lifting her chin, “she has most assuredly inspired me.”
“To marriage,” Bernadette said skeptically.
“Yes, to marriage. I do not aspire to be any man’s whore, Bernie. I should think that you would want more for yourself. Certainly I want more for you.”
Bernadette smiled. It was a smile without joy and without warmth.
“We want different things, Toni. However, I will do whatever I must to aid you. I only want your happiness, nearly as much as I want my own.” And then she smiled, a most genuine smile.
“Very well. For now. Don’t think I shan’t try to convince you of my wisdom and brilliance upon this topic, however. I shall return to it at some future date.”
“I shall look forward to it.”
“You are an appalling liar.”
“Yes, but I’m so good at everything else.”
And at that, both sisters laughed, causing Lady Richard to look over at them, and frown.
“NOW, darling, don’t frown,” Sophia said. “Miss Prestwick will think you don’t approve of her.”
“I’m nearly certain I don’t,” Katherine said, and then smiled. “But as she may become my sister, I don’t wish to start off on the wrong foot with her.”
“Oh, come now,” Edenham said, frowning at both women. “I’m hardly likely to marry Miss Prestwick and you both know it.”
“I certainly do not know any such thing,” Sophia said. “I’ve wagered that you will. Don’t disappoint me, darling. Ah, Lord Iveston, you’ve escorted the lamb to the wolves. How cordial of you.”
Miss Prestwick, for perfectly obvious reasons, did not care for the metaphor in the slightest, and who could expect her to? She was a woman of resolve and action, yet still a lamb in the ways of men, for all that. Although, as Iveston turned his head to greet Lady Richard, it became clear that the lamb had sharp teeth: Lord Iveston had a love bite on his neck, and quite a nice one, too.
“What a lovely concert,” Sophia continued, studying Penelope and Iveston. “Such harmony and what can only be assumed a natural fluidity of timing and instinctive musicality. No one can believe that you have not been practicing together, in seclusion, for weeks.”
“As I’ve only just met Lord Iveston, that would have been impossible,” Penelope said.
“Which is precisely what I’ve been saying, darling, but of course, no one will believe me,” Sophia said. “I do think you should lend your voice to the choir, as it were, Lord Iveston. You are certain to be trusted far more than I.”
“And I?” Penelope said, her gaze quite as blunt as a hammer. “I am not to be trusted?”
As there was another woman at the pianoforte, both singing and playing, and as she was sharp one note out of every three, it did not look at all hopeful that anyone was prepared to believe that Penelope and Iveston had come together so beautifully as a result of mere chance. But Sophia was not going to be the one to say that to her. No, there was a better source entirely.
“Certainly the duke has expressed doubts,” Sophia said, casually fanning her face.
Miss Prestwick gave Sophia a look she clearly hoped would wilt her—it didn’t—and then turned to face Edenham. To her credit, she faced him squarely. To his credit, he gave every appearance of gentleness.
To Iveston’s credit, he did not hold his tongue, but stepped in and settled the issue instantly. Or tried to, poor darling.
“We’ve just met,” Iveston said. “Last week, in fact. I was under the impression that you met Miss Prestwick the same night that I did, at a ball in her home.”
“I did,” Edenham said, “though I do think that, between then and now, you have become better acquainted with her than I have done.”
“I daresay that’s true,” Iveston said, nodding pleasantly. “As I understand it, Edenham, there is a wager on White’s book, the odds quite heavily in your favor, that you will marry Miss Prestwick.”
“So I’ve been told,” Edenham said calmly.
Penelope was scarcely breathing. Katherine was clearly uncomfortable at the boldness of the conversation. Sophia could not have been more delighted than if she’d written the script herself, and she nearly had.
“You may be unaware of it,” Iveston continued, moving so that he stood nearer to Edenham and almost directly facing Penelope, “but I placed a wager of my own, that I would marry Miss Prestwick.”
“Having known her for less than a week?” Edenham asked.
“Quite right,” Iveston said, smiling. “Ridiculous bit of nonsense, isn’t it? I did it to win a bet, of course, an entirely different wager with Cranleigh, and of course, I have won it.”
“What?” Penelope said sharply. “A wager? You … it was nothing but a wager?”
Iveston turned the full force of his blue gaze upon Penelope. She gasped on a whispered intake of breath. Katherine murmured some unintelligible bit of comfort. Sophia smiled behind her fan. Penelope needed no comfort; she was the sort who came out fighting, which truly was so clever of her.
“The first wager, Miss Prestwick, which I am quite certain you can have known nothing of. I shan’t be so crass as to discuss the particulars with you, but I have won it many times over.”
Penelope did not fire up in her anger and outrage, no, nothing so pedestrian as that. She looked quite icily calm and held herself as still as a marble statue.
“You shan’t be crass enough to discuss it, yet you show no hesitation to perform in calculated fashion to win this mysterious wager? How perfectly like a man you are, how hopelessly illogical in your thoughts and actions.”
“Thank you,” he said, bowing crisply in her direction. “I am pleased that you have, finally, noticed that I am a man and will ever behave as one, Miss Prestwick.”
It was as if a cold wind blew through the room at that exchange of observations, a wind that began at the epicenter of Penelope and Iveston and rushed out to encompass the room. Sophia was certain she was not imagining that the drawing room grew quite quiet, the girl at the pianoforte sounding louder and more discordant as a result. Poor girl. But then, she couldn’t help them all, could she?
“The wager on White’s book, what of that?” Edenham asked into the awkward silence.
“Oh, yes, you must explain about that,” Sophia said. “It’s the key to the whole thing, isn’t it, Miss Prestwick?”
“No, I—” Penelope began. She looked nearly flushed. It quite agreed with her.
“Miss Prestwick,” Iveston said, cutting her off, his glance to her as slicing as his tone, “asked me to place a wager on the book that she and I would marry. Her idea was that it would intrigue you enough to want to pursue an alliance with her. My idea was that it could only aid me in my wager with Cranleigh.”
“An odd way of getting a man’s attention,” Edenham said.
“Yet did it not work?” Penelope asked a trifle angrily. Not very wise of her to be angry now, but that was part of the charm of youth. How else to explain it?
“Yes, I confess that it did,” Edenham said. “But the wager that she and I would marry? Who is responsible for that?”
And here is where Miss Penelope Prestwick lived up to every one of Sophia’s expectations of her.
Lifting her delightful little chin and staring both men in the face from her very diminutive position, she said clearly, “I am. I am responsible for both wagers.”
“I do hope you can afford to lose your wagers, Miss Prestwick, for you have lost them both,” Iveston said calmly. And with that, he walked away from her.
She followed him with her eyes until he was lost from view.
“Were you prepared to lose, Miss Prestwick?” Sophia asked.
She turned back to face them, looking fully at Sophia, ignoring Edenham and Lady Richard entirely. That told the entire tale most explicitly.
“No, I don’t believe I was,” Penelope said in a hushed voice.
“Then I think it’s past time I talked to your father, don’t you?”
Twenty-Two
VISCOUNT Prestwick was a man who enjoyed a social outing as well as the next man, but as he was far more interested in maintaining his fortune and, indeed, increasing it, he kept hours that did not suit the ton. He was up at first light, working, and he was therefore not at all disposed to attend a soiree such as the one Lady Lanreath had hosted last night where dinner was served at half past midnight. Being a man who wanted all that a title implied and yet being a man who understood the cost of maintaining all that a title implied, he was eager to know everything that happened in the upper branches of Society and yet able to witness very little of it firsthand. So it was that he was taken completely by surprise when Lady Dalby presented her card to Hamilton, his butler.
Was he in for Lady Dalby?
He most assuredly was.
Lady Dalby knew everything that happened in Society for the simple reason that she instigated much of it.
Prestwick instructed Hamilton to make Lady Dalby welcome in the red drawing room, a quite sumptuous room that should show her the proper respect; he was no fool. He had not got himself a viscountcy by alienating the wrong people, and even the right people took great care not to insult Sophia Dalby. It was for that reason that he hurried into his bedchamber, throwing off his coat and waistcoat, alarming his valet exceedingly. He didn’t care a whit about his valet. It was only completely necessary that he wear a waistcoat that was the first pitch of fashion. The green silk ought to be just the thing.
When Harold Prestwick, the first Viscount Prestwick, entered the red drawing room, he was as puffed up and polished as it was possible for a man to be. Sophia Dalby, in a white muslin gown with fitted sleeves, a pair of pearl earrings, and a straw bonnet crisscrossed with red ribbons, looked at him admiringly. He was qui
te certain it was a gaze of admiration. What else? He was a very fit man and still in the very pink of health, and she was a famously lovely woman. He had not heard that she was quite so forward in choosing her companions, but he was more than willing to be pursued by so noteworthy a woman.
She rose to her feet in a fluid motion that was quite wonderful to behold and greeted him with a curtsey and a flirtatious smile. He was utterly certain it was flirtatious. What else? She was Sophia Dalby; she dealt in flirtation the way a baker dealt in bread.
“Lord Prestwick, how kind of you to see me,” she said. “Are you quite recovered?”
His smile froze on his face. Recovered? Didn’t he look as fit as he was certain he was? Perhaps the green silk did not suit his complexion. His valet had made some comment in that direction, but he had ignored him. The green silk waistcoat had cost him twice as much as any other waistcoat he possessed; he was certain it must look wonderful for that reason alone.
“Lady Dalby, I could not fail to be in top form for a woman as exalted as you. I am honored that you came to see me. What refreshment may I offer you?”
“Only the refreshment of your charming company, Lord Prestwick,” she answered, taking her seat again. The chairs were covered in the same red silk damask as the walls, making it quite a warm and welcoming room. To say that Lady Dalby looked like a pearl set in a red box would have been redundant. Lady Dalby always looked remarkably beautiful. She was famous for it. “By your manner, I must suppose that you have not spoken with Miss Prestwick yet? Nor Mr. Prestwick?”
“No. They are still abed.”
Why should the whereabouts of his children, his grown children as to that, matter to her? Certainly she couldn’t want George for a paramour; he was far too young at twenty-three to be of any interest to a woman of her mature years. Though she still looked quite young herself. How old was Sophia Dalby? She’d been famous for fully twenty years and yet she didn’t look to be anywhere near forty. He couldn’t think how she was keeping youth clustered about her white shoulders, unless it were in taking young men for lovers. Well, she couldn’t have George.