by Jaimey Grant
He looked down at his companion with something akin to dislike. He would starve alone in the gutter before he’d marry such a spiteful cat as Lady Marigold, he swore to himself.
Then he almost laughed. If Lady Margaret lacked the fashion sense God gave a goat then Lady Marigold lacked the fashion sense God gave a flea. The delicate peach color of her gown was flattering, it was true, but she seemed to think that the more bows and flounces she could fit into the design the better.
“Perhaps I should give her a few tips,” his little blond companion murmured.
“How excessively kind of you, my lady, to think of those less fortunate than yourself. I am sure she would appreciate any help you would be willing to give.” Not bloody likely.
She giggled. Again. Could the girl make any other sound? And just when had she decided that giggling all the time would attract a husband? He remembered a time when she wasn’t nearly so insipid or stupid. Perhaps losing the illustrious title of Marchioness of Beverley had convinced her that she was going about this husband-attracting business all wrong.
“My lord Greville, have you forgotten me?”
He nearly groaned. “Of course not, my dear Miss Weatherby. How do you do?” Enter spiteful little cat number two....
He bowed over yet another hand while she informed him that she was excessively well.
“Lady Mari and I were just discussing the merits of certain London modistes,” he said, hoping to get the two ladies to chat and give him a chance to escape. Whose harebrained idea was it for him to find a bride anyway?
He seemed to recall Adam saying something to that effect.
“Indeed,” the newcomer drawled as she cast an experienced eye over Lady Marigold’s ensemble. “And who do you patronize, my lady? I want to be sure to avoid her.”
Since Miss Suzanne Weatherby frequented only the best of shops, her own gown of scarlet silk was the very height of fashion. Cut low over the bosom and high at the waist with a short enough skirt to show tantalizing glimpses of a well-turned ankle, it was forgivable that many gentlemen thought more of tumbling her into a bed than sliding a ring onto her finger.
Levi wanted neither. But the girl had a dowry of twenty thousand pounds. Her age declared her to be on the shelf. Why, she had to be at least four and twenty! Which accounted for her very un-débutante choices in dress colors and styles.
Lady Marigold frowned, mumbled something incoherent, and scurried away. Levi watched her exit with mixed feelings. He preferred his chosen brides in diluted company. Being alone with any one of them was a fairly accurate glimpse of hell, in his opinion.
“My lord, you are not attending,” said Miss Weatherby in her throaty voice. She laid one perfectly manicured hand on his arm and smiled up at him. “Would you like to find a place where we can be…private?”
Good God, no! “And deprive all these other gentlemen of your charming company? I could not be so selfish.” But I am more than willing to pawn you off on any of them.
And that’s what he did. He found Lord Acton stood quite near. Never having liked the stiff-rumped young man, the earl felt no qualms about leaving the hellcat on the lord’s arm.
Good, he thought as he walked away, now everyone’s happy and I can seek out my fairy princess.
“Hello, Lord Greville.”
He stopped, groaned silently and turned, affixing a social smile to his face. He bowed. “Good evening, Lady Regina.”
She did not hold out her hand. Levi liked her all the better for it. “How is your father?” he inquired politely.
“He is quite well, thank you.” There was an awkward pause. Then she looked away and sighed. “Have you met Miss Glendenning, my lord? I find her to be quite personable.”
“Indeed. I would have to agree although I have had little opportunity to converse with the young lady. Do you know her well?” Please don’t say she loves cats.
“I have only just met her this very evening. Lady Connor was kind enough to introduce us.”
“Indeed. And you found her to be quite likable?”
“Oh, yes. She was quite enchanted with the latest antic of my cat, Loki.”
No. Please. Don’t. Blast.
“Apparently,” Lady Regina said as she leaned closer, “my dear little Loki thought it would be great fun to present mama with a darling little gift. Mama took exception to being the recipient of a dead shrew.”
The Countess of Greenwood would take exception to a dead version of herself.
In for a penny… “So what did you do?” Throw the little beast into oncoming traffic?
The very lovely Lady Regina Trent shrugged one delicate shoulder. “I had Benning take care of it.” Then she grinned, a surprisingly charming expression lighting her features. “Loki took exception to that and shredded poor Benning’s leg.”
Poor bloke, indeed. “I think I see your mother gesturing to you,” Levi said then. He wasn’t lying. Lady Greenwood gestured in the general direction of her daughter. He was fairly certain, though, that the woman did not want Lady Regina to abandon the field to someone else.
It was a conundrum to Levi that he should be so sought after as a prospective husband. It wasn’t exactly a secret that he was punting the River Tick. He was the Earl of Greville, however, and as such owned what the ladies liked to call the most romantic of medieval castles in England. He didn’t reside at the castle but at an estate whose grounds were some of the most picturesque in the country. He also had various estates scattered around the whole of Europe—all entailed, all only making enough money to keep the estates afloat, all containing several indigent relatives, and all the most boring places on earth. But the castle alone would have been enough to tempt any young lady into matrimony with him.
How very lowering, the earl thought as he progressed ever closer to his marital dream, to be courted and fêted only for your title and properties. He was an inveterate gambler, a wastrel, and something of a womanizer—according to rumor. Nothing any properly reared lady of the ton could not change, the mothers would reason.
Bah! Everyone had nothing but air in their cocklofts.
It never occurred to him that in searching for an heiress to solve his money troubles, he was exactly the same.
*****
She knew he was coming before he was even halfway across the room.
He’d been waylaid by three different ladies. All three seemed to have some claim on the man. Even Lady Regina gazed after him longingly.
And who wouldn’t? Aurora couldn’t stop herself from looking for him, watching him, and desiring him and she knew where it all would invariably lead. No, thank you.
Having such fantasies about a man she’d met only that night made her wonder, for a moment, just what ailed her.
With a determination and strength of will that seemed at odds with her small stature, Miss Glendenning turned her attention back to little Miss Davis. They’d just been introduced and Aurora found she quite liked the painfully shy young woman. The girl was only seventeen, the daughter of a cit just recently risen to the ranks of the beau monde, and afraid of her own shadow. It was a mystery how the young woman’s father had managed an invite to the opening event of the Season. Perhaps the shy but pretty daughter and unassuming father were palatable enough to more or less be considered acceptable.
Aurora found it a novel thing to socialize with someone shorter. The girl was barely over five feet tall. Her hair was black, her eyes hazel, her very tiny body delicate, and her face was nothing short of pixie-like. She was adorable.
And very difficult to draw out.
Perhaps the earl would have better luck, she thought in resignation when he finally reached them.
“Ladies.” He bowed. “Miss Davis, you are enchanting tonight. How is Sir Henry?”
The girl curtsied awkwardly. “He is w-well, my l-lord,” she replied just above the softest of whispers. “Thank y-you.” And she curtsied again.
He looked at Aurora with a blank expression. “And your father?”
Aurora grinned. She couldn’t help it. “Dead, my lord, very dead.”
Miss Davis squeaked and fell into quite the most graceful swoon that either of her companions had ever seen. Lord Greville caught her before she fell and set her carefully on a nearby chair, partially hidden by some greenery.
“Oh, dear,” Aurora murmured. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that.” She covered her face with one small hand.
“Here now, Miss Glendenning, it’s nothing to cry about, I’m sure. She’ll be right as a trivet in no time. And this will guarantee the success of Lady Jersey’s rout, you know.”
Aurora’s hand fell and a tinkling laugh escaped. Levi grinned. Miss Felicity Davis moaned. The earl sat on one side of the girl supporting her. Aurora collapsed in a chair on her other side and giggled as she patted the girl’s hand.
Sir Henry Davis hurried forward and took charge of his daughter. It was a relief. The girl was sweet and very biddable, it was true, but she was so very small, and so very shy that holding a conversation with her could be physically painful.
Something more than a giggle escaped Aurora, effectively drawing the earl’s attention back to her.
“Miss Glendenning,” he said repressively, “you are making a scene.”
Aurora sobered. She sat up straight and folded her hands in her lap, eyes downcast. Then she frowned and shook her head as if she was displeased about something. Flicking open her fan in one deft movement, she glared haughtily over the top at anyone daring enough to stare at her.
“Sprite, you enchant me,” her companion said, eyes and tone confirming the sincerity of his words.
She turned her haughty glare on him, a mischievous twinkle lighting her green-blue eyes.
“Lord Greville, that was inappropriate,” she admonished, her tone gentle.
“Was it?”
“Yes.” She folded her fan and dropped it back into her lap. “Why do you stare at me so?” she asked in exasperation. “Do I have a smut on my nose?”
The earl grinned. “No, I have just never seen a real sea sprite before.”
“Indeed? How…interesting. Where is Ellie? She should have been back long before now.” She made a great show of searching the ballroom with her eyes.
Levi chuckled. “Think you to escape me so easily, my sprite?”
Her little nose went up a notch. “I am not your anything, sir, and certainly not your sprite. Please refrain from such familiarity.”
He assumed a somber expression. “I do beg your pardon, Miss Glendenning,” he said in a credible imitation of Lord Acton’s pompous tones. “I am afraid the champagne has made me more free with my speech than is my wont. Do say you forgive me?”
Miss Glendenning snorted indelicately. “Gammon! I might consider it if I thought you were in earnest, but it is apparent to the greenest girl that you are nothing more than a flirt. Blaming it on the champagne is a cowardly excuse. And I do believe you are being more constrained in your speech than is your wont, sir.”
She turned her head just a bit to gauge his reaction. Lips curved into a devastating grin, Lord Levi knew full well what he did to her, vexing man. Her heart rate increased.
“You know me better than I do myself.” Levi took her hand and placed a kiss on the inside of her wrist. Her breath caught in her throat. “We are soul mates. Let us run away together, princess, and live happily ever after.”
Tugging her hand away from his grasp, she retorted, “What fustian you do speak, my lord. Soul mates, indeed.”
Levi’s smile disappeared to be replaced with a blank look. He stared at her so intently that she began to squirm. It was like he was trying to discover her innermost secrets, thoughts, and desires.
If he only knew.
“I do think I owe you an apology,” he finally said. With troubled dark eyes and a slight furrow between his brows, he appeared a different man from the jovial one she’d been flirting with moments ago.
“For what, my lord?” Aurora asked, unsure how to react to such seriousness.
“About your father. I did not know. I am sorry.”
She waved her hand dismissively, relieved it was something so trivial that concerned him. “Don’t be. How could you know? We have only just met this night.”
“True, but I am still sorry. For your loss.”
Aurora smiled thinly. “Don’t be,” she repeated. “I am not.” Inside, she cringed at her honest, albeit impolite, comment. Her face remained impassive and relief flowed through her when she saw Ellie approach.
“Here you are, Rory.” Miss Ellison bustled up to the couple and smiled at the earl. “Hello, again, my lord.”
They exchanged a few inane comments on the weather and the state of the government and then the earl excused himself to speak with some friends. Aurora watched him go, half relieved and half depressed.
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About the Author
Jaimey Grant, a pseudonym for Laura Miller, was born in Michigan in 1979. After a fun-filled childhood interlaced with moments of emotional trauma and an insatiable curiosity about the reasons people act the way they do, she became a writer.
Primarily a Regency romance author, Jaimey has also dabbled in fantasy of a non-romance variety. A comprehensive list of works and where to find them can be found on her website, www.jaimeygrant.com. There are more Regencies and fantasies in the works.
She currently lives in Michigan with her husband and two children.
To learn more about Jaimey and her work, visit any of the sites below.
Website: http://www.jaimeygrant.com
Blog: http://jaimeygrant.blogspot.com
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Email: [email protected]