CHAPTER NINE
It took most of the rest of the night, but Sophia finally managed to lose Anne and go in search of her erstwhile savior, “Devil Jack” Seward. He was in definite need of reward.
It didn’t take long to find him. He was alone, standing beside the door leading to the dining room. Several popularly acclaimed beauties paraded slowly by him, but they did not draw his interest.
Sophia had no intention of being subtle; she would—as she’d told Anne—take what she wanted. And she wanted Jack Seward. She walked up to him, opening her fan and brushing the soft plumes across her décolletage.
“Ah, Colonel Seward!” she said.
His glance was speculative but his manner faultless. He bowed his head in recognition. “Miss Sophia.”
“You aren’t enjoying any of the entertainments our host has so kindly provided.”
“It is kind of you to concern yourself.”
“How could I not?” she declared, folding her fan and sweeping it down his broad chest. “La!” she said, “ ’tis too hot in here. I fear I shall be overcome if I don’t get some air.”
The corner of his long mouth quirked with amusement. His hooded gaze grew lazy. “By no means can we allow that,” he said. “May I escort you to Mrs. Wilder?”
“Oh, no!” Sophia declared with a laugh. “I wouldn’t want to alarm Anne. I fear I’ve done enough of that for one evening. If I could just find some fresh air …”
“Allow me to accompany you,” he said suavely. Silently he drew her out into the deserted corridor and down to its end. The window there had been cracked and the cold air stirred the drapes.
She glanced at Jack. He smiled politely and cocked his scar-traversed brow. “Are you feeling more revived?” he asked sardonically.
“Oh, yes. Thank you,” she said, stepping closer to him. She bit her lower lip, knowing it to be provocative. “I must thank you properly for coming to my aid earlier this evening. I see now that my actions were impulsive, certainly ill-considered. Some might think hoydenish.”
He did not deny it.
“But then, I fear I am hoydenish.” She inched closer to him and placed her fan back on his chest. The feather tips touched his strong, dark throat. “You saved me from the effects of my misjudgment. I want to”—she spread her fingers across his chest; it was hard and the skin beneath his waistcoat was warm—“demonstrate my appreciation.”
He looked down at her. “That isn’t necessary, Miss Sophia.”
“Oh, but I want to.”
He shook his head, his smile rueful and apologetic. “I’m old enough to be your father.”
“I already have a father.” She put her hands atop his shoulders, rose on tiptoe, and pressed her body against his.
“You are too kind, Miss Sophia,” he said. “But this is not the time, this is not the place, and I, I fear, am not the man you think.”
He reached between them and gently traced her jaw with a crippled finger. The movement, though tantalizing, effectively broke her contact with him. She dropped flat to her feet, thwarted and unhappy.
“Are you feeling quite recovered?” he asked mildly.
She might not have made her bold advance for all the effect it appeared to have had on him. He must have enjoyed any number of extreme encounters to be so blasé. The thought titillated her.
“For the moment, Colonel,” she said, allowing him to turn her around and lead her back. “For the moment.”
Anne Wilder moved slowly past Lady Dibbs, craning her head surreptitiously as she scanned the crowded ballroom.
“Have you lost your charming young relative, Mrs. Wilder?” Lady Dibbs asked with amusement.
“Dear me, no. I just wished to see that she is enjoying herself.”
Anne contrived to look unconcerned, but Lady Dibbs could see her words had struck a nerve. Satisfaction spread through her.
Seven years ago Lady Dibbs had been the reigning toast of the London season—for all of two weeks. That was when Anne Tribble, a pocket-size nobody from nowhere, had arrived and promptly taken the ton by storm. Not only that, but she’d managed to snare Matthew Wilder, a man who had, for that same two weeks, shown definite signs of succumbing to Lady Dibbs’s attractions.
But that was not the primary reason Lady Dibbs disliked the dark widow. She disliked Anne Wilder for the simple fact that she alone of their peers knew that Lady Cora Dibbs, the wealthy wife of an ancient, bedridden baron, recanted on her donations. Every time she saw the widow, she was reminded that she was a fraud and a sham. Yes, she definitely loathed Anne Wilder.
“Where ever do you suppose she could have got off to?” Lady Dibbs asked innocently.
“I believe she’s dancing. These young girls can dance for hours.”
“Dancing?” Lady Dibbs echoed. “I thought for sure I saw her leaving the room with Colonel Seward.”
That sharpened the interest in Anne’s thin face.
“I know that in your youth you allowed yourself to be familiar with those others would have chosen not to know, but I feel you really should warn your young relative off.”
“Do you?”
Lady Dibbs could not help her sliver of admiration for Anne’s cool expression. Too bad her eyes ruined the effect. They were quite, quite hot.
“Yes,” she said, adjusting her gloves. “I know for a fact that Colonel Seward is quite base and”—she looked to either side before bending closer—“he seeks the company of the lowest type of woman.”
“You don’t know that.” Anne’s voice was taut.
Good Lord, Lady Dibbs thought in amusement, she has developed a tendre, an honest-to-God tendre for him! Several women she knew had declared their interest in Devil Jack, but interest of a purely physical nature. None of them would seriously consider him anything more than an exciting diversion.
“But I do, my dear. He’s been seen procuring their company.”
“I can’t think why you would be telling me this, Lady Dibbs,” Anne said stiffly, thereby betraying herself.
Lady Dibbs laughed. “Why, my dear! Because of Miss North, of course. Why else?”
Ruddy color rushed to Anne’s wan cheeks. She lifted her chin. “I thank you for the advice.” She looked beyond Lady Dibbs and her features flooded with relief. “There is Sophia now,” she said triumphantly. “With Lord Strand. If you’ll excuse me?”
“Oh, yes,” Lady Dibbs said contentedly.
Sophia laughed gaily at a young officer’s comment and tossed her head, catching Strand’s eye to make certain he noted the admiration being showered on her.
He noted it and gave her the appreciative glance she sought. He glanced at the standing clock. It was well after one in the morning. Bored, he wandered into the antechamber. It, too, was overflowing with flushed-faced guests and frenzied servants.
He’d just decided to quit the party and find his club when he spotted Anne Wilder sitting on a velvet-upholstered bench, squinting down at a piece of paper. Above her a long line of Lord Liverpool’s ancestors sneered in eternal disdain. Not that she noticed.
Strand smiled at her concentration, but his smile slowly faded as he considered her.
He’d long been attracted to Anne. At first, he’d explained his interest as being simply another of his self-defeating infatuations. Other men’s property always attracted him. But now Anne Wilder belonged to no man and her attraction only grew more potent. Which was odd, Strand thought as she raised her head and light spilled across her face. She was not the beauty she’d been during her first season.
Mauve shadows stained her lids. Her pale skin cleaved too tightly to her fine-boned skull, and the shallow indentations over her temples looked fragile. She was too thin. No, she was no longer a toast, but there was something in her that stirred him far more than beauty.
Perhaps, Strand mused leaning against the door jamb, his attraction to Anne was in keeping with his past behavior, after all. Because ultimately Anne belonged to someone he could never usurp, never wres
t dominion from: herself.
She was so uniquely and wholly her own creature.
Though he’d tried his best, he’d no idea how to charm her. His address and repartee, which, vanity notwithstanding, were formidable enough to have toppled many citadels of virtue, did not impress this one slip of a widow. He alternately hovered over her and ignored her, treated her with hauteur and courted her with attention … all to no avail. She simply did not see him.
Why?
He pushed off the doorway, angling through the jostling crowd and approaching her obliquely.
“I say, Strand.”
Strand silently cursed as Ronald Frost cut across his path. The whites of his eyes were pink and watery. A cobweb network of veins mantled each of his cheekbones.
“Your servant, sir,” Strand said, and made to step by him. Frost clasped his forearm.
“I say, Strand,” Frost repeated.
Drunk, Strand surmised, well familiar with that too-careful diction.
“Always thought Liverpool was a chap who only tolerated the best of everything: food, wine, company.”
“And so he is.” Strand beckoned for a footman, noting Lord Vedder standing nearby watching them with a sardonic smile. “Here, Frost. We must get you a glass of wine. Liverpool has some Puligny Montrachet that merits a connoisseur’s approval.”
Frost ignored him. “This affair has the stench of the stable about it.”
“Must be my boots, old man,” Strand said, trying to extricate himself from Frost’s grip.
“ ’Tisn’t your boots,” Frost said, “it’s that fellow, that Colonel Seward. Wouldn’t have him in my house.”
“Ah,” said Strand, prying Frost’s fingers loose. “Well, what can one do seeing how he’s so chummy with Prinny and all?”
Vedder abandoned his post and sauntered nearer.
“Still wouldn’t have him under my roof.” Frost puckered his lips disapprovingly and swayed forward on his toes. Vedder caught his arm, steadying him.
“Thank you, Vedder,” Strand said.
“My pleasure.”
“Get Mr. Frost here a bottle of the Bouchard,” Strand said to the footman who’d finally made his way over. “Frost, my dear fellow, this wine is superb.” Far too good to waste on a man half sunk, but even drunk Frost would know if second best was being foisted on him. “You must give me your opinion.”
“Damn fine vineyard,” Vedder drawled. “Wouldn’t mind tasting that meself.”
“Yes. Splendid idea,” Strand said.
“Come on, Frost, old horse. I’m convinced we share similar tastes … and distastes.” Vedder secured Frost’s elbow, gently nudging him after the departing footman.
Terribly obliging of Vedder, Strand thought, and terribly out of character. Still, he must remember to warn Seward of Frost’s growing antipathy. He started through the crowd again, anticipating his opening salvo to Anne Wilder. It would be something clever and sophisticated and provocative. She’d pay him attention tonight, by God—
Strand stopped. Jack Seward stood before Anne Wilder. Her face was radiant with interest. The expression on Seward’s hard, scarred face …
Carefully Strand edged back toward a marble pillar. From here he would be hidden yet could still clearly hear their voices. Feeling despicable, he leaned the back of his head against the cool stone, begging for the integrity to walk away and leave them. He closed his eyes and listened.
“—you enjoyed the museum?” Seward’s voice held real interest.
“Yes. Though I don’t know much about art.”
“I thought ladies learned painting and artistic things from birth,” Seward said.
Anne was silent a few seconds. “I’m not really a lady, Colonel Seward. But I’m sure you know that.”
“I know nothing of the sort, Mrs. Wilder,” Seward responded gravely. “You are every inch a lady.”
“No,” she insisted softly, as if it were a matter of importance to her that she convey this to Seward. “I am not. I did not have a formal education. Or much of any education, for that matter. No governess or tutors. Only the vicar and only when he was desperate to settle his grocer’s bills.”
Seward laughed. Strand started. He’d never heard Seward laugh before.
“My parents tried to convince me of the merit of book learning,” Anne said. “I was not very receptive to the idea.” Strand could imagine her lifting her dark eyes to Seward, daring him to match her honesty with his own.
“You were far more interested in …?” Seward invited her confidences. She did not disappoint him.
“Running wild, I’m afraid.” A thread of feminine laughter played like music in Strand’s ear.
“Tell me.” Seward’s rough, low voice was warm with encouragement.
Strand pushed himself away from the pillar, walking sightlessly through the other guests. He’d asked himself why Anne Wilder did not seem to see him. He had his answer.
He’d always measured the success of his love affairs by gauging the effect he had on a woman. Had he ever considered asking a woman how she’d spent her day or what occupied her thoughts? Had he ever considered any woman’s day worth discussion? No. Only their nights. And only if they spent them with him.
The unfamiliar act of self-scrutiny bludgeoned him with reality. He’d never married because he’d always cast his nets too deep. Henceforth he’d only play the shallows … where he’d lived all his life.
For it had only taken a few seconds to recognize the lure Seward held for Anne: Jack cared more about Anne’s words than his own.
Jack was supposed to have passed through that rare stratum of society as a transient interloper in pursuit of a thief. That was no longer true. Because she was here, occupying that rare atmosphere, making it rarer still, and so he wanted to be, too.
He shook himself from his reverie and looked down at her, perched on the bench. He was uncertain what to say next. The sensation unsettled him. He’d always known exactly what was expected of him, exactly how to give satisfaction. With her, he was lost.
He should have been pursuing Lady Dibbs or even the unlikely Jeanette Frost, not spending time playing uncle to Sophia to win a few minutes in her chaper-one’s good graces. He certainly could no longer tell himself he stayed close to Sophia out of suspicion. The girl was clearly not his thief.
His thief.
It angered and confused him. In a life singular for its lack of attachments, to become obsessed with two women at once was lunacy.
“And you, Colonel,” she said, breaking the too-long silence, shifting her gaze away from his. “Do you enjoy the museum?”
“I’ve had little opportunity to learn about art or music.” He crossed his hands behind his back and looked beyond her. There’d been no music in the workhouse but the songs of unremitting hunger. There’d been no art in Jamison’s house unless you counted the human spirits he twisted to his own designs. He could hardly tell her that. “But I confess I do like a landscape and I’ve a fondness for sweet sounds.”
“ ‘The man that hath no music in himself, /Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, /Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils,’ ” she recited softly, her expression gentle.
“You’ll find yourself labeled a bluestocking, Mrs. Wilder. Beware of bedazzling poor regimental officers by quoting Shakespeare at them.”
She laughed again. She was beautiful. “Colonel, my days of fretting over whether I reveal too much or too little are long gone. And you simply cannot be offering yourself as an example of this ‘poor regimental officer’ I am to have bedazzled.” Her lovely mouth softened on a wistful note. “We both come here by way of the back door, don’t we, Colonel?”
“Yes, Mrs. Wilder,” he heard himself say. His heart beat heavily in his chest. With so few words she bound him to her.
“Like yourself, my father had scant opportunity in his youth to pursue learning for pleasure. Music was one of his primary indulgences and my mother’s, too.”
“You we
re … much involved with your parents,” he said.
Memory lent her severe beauty a gentleness he’d not witnessed in her before. “We loved one another.”
The tentative bond he’d felt snapped. Her innocent words created an unbreachable gap between them. Try as he did, no matter how relentlessly he scoured his memory, he could recall no mother’s voice, no tender hand, nothing that provided incontrovertible proof that he had not one day simply appeared, hunger and rage and a tenacious, unreasonable desire to survive having pooled together in the workhouse corner to form him.
She’d known love. It had shaped her from her earliest years. Thus, she would always be unfathomable to him. How could it be otherwise, given his history?
“You are fortunate, Mrs. Wilder.” He bowed his head and left her.
“You’ll dance again, won’t you, Miss Sophia?” The red-coated officer was as smitten with her as a hummingbird with nectar. It really would be impossible to refuse him.
“All right, sir. Only give me five minutes’ rest before I join you.” Having sent him on his way, she looked about for Colonel Seward, preparing to amuse and captivate … and tease him a bit.
She’d no intention of letting go of her fascination for Colonel Seward. Fantasizing about him was enough to make her flush with discomfort. Her body ached with the yearnings roused by hot-handed young men in dark corners and despicable viscounts in other, more private places. Roused but never quite satisfied. She needed satisfaction.
She spied him sitting alone, one long leg casually tossed over the other, his arm outstretched along the back of the couch he occupied, the picture of desultory interest. Even his crippled hand had its perverse fascination, and his thighs stretching the tight fabric of his breeches looked hard and muscular. She started toward him when something in his expression arrested her.
Though his posture bespoke nonchalance, his eyes were riveted on some unseen target. His regard was so fixed he did not blink, so painful she could feel the tightness in his throat as if it were her own. With a sense of inevitability, Sophia edged through the crowd to see what held him rapt. She stopped.
All Through the Night Page 9