by Anna Bradley
Chapter Five
“Lord Barrett hasn’t left Flora’s side all night.”
“Hmmm?” Samuel was distracted by the couples twirling around Lady Swinton’s ballroom. Lord Dunn had taken Lady Emma to the floor, and Samuel couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from her.
His heart quickened each time he caught a glimpse of her creamy skin peeking from the delicate lace sleeves of her gown, so perfect against the vibrant green.
Not blue tonight, but green.
The color of her gown made no difference. She was tempting, no matter what she wore.
No doubt she was even more tempting out of it.
Silk or satin, lace or linen, her fair hair half-hidden under a deep hood, or with ribbons woven through the golden strands as they were tonight—Lady Emma was as enticing as a bit of sweet, ripe fruit drowning in fresh cream, the juice lingering on his tongue.
Samuel stifled a groan. Just the thought of it made his heart pound, sending a hot rush of blood to some very inconvenient places.
Damn her.
“Are you listening to me, Lymington?” Lovell let out a fretful sigh. “They’ve danced together twice already. Before that, she danced twice with Dunn, and twice with Tarrington before that. I’m surprised she hasn’t worn holes in her slippers by now.”
Lady Emma wasn’t wearing the pale green favored by the other young ladies this season. No, hers was a deeper, more vibrant green—a green that complemented the mass of thick, golden curls gathered at the back of her neck. The ends of her green ribbons fluttered madly as Dunn swept her across the floor, mocking Samuel with their wild abandon.
“Flora may do as she pleases, of course. Perhaps I’ll dance with Lady Jane Townsley instead. Lady Jane has such lovely eyes. Have I mentioned, Lymington, that I prefer blue eyes to dark now? Blue eyes, and fair hair.”
Samuel had hardly been able to take his eyes off that damned green ribbon all night—
“Another thing, Lymington. Flora and Barrett may announce their betrothal, and welcome. Why, I’ll be the first to wish them joy. It’s no longer my concern what Flora does, though I will say I credited her with better taste.”
Samuel dragged his attention from the green ribbons to his cousin, who was glowering at the dance floor, his expression lost somewhere between anger and despair. “Who’s betrothed?”
“Flora and Barrett, of course! Who else?” Lovell turned such a fierce frown on Lord Barrett it was a wonder the man didn’t burst into flames on the spot.
“Betrothed? For God’s sake, Lovell. Flora’s only just met Barrett this season. She isn’t the sort to enter into a betrothal on so short an acquaintance as that.” Still, a pang of apprehension jolted him as Lady Flora laughed at some nonsense of Barrett’s, her dark eyes bright as she gazed up at him.
Lovell cursed. “She’s in love with him, Lymington! Why, anyone can see she’s fallen madly in love with him. With Barrett, for God’s sake. It’s bad enough she sneaked off to London for the season without saying a word about it to me, but if she’s so determined to fall in love, she might have chosen better than Barrett.”
“Lady Flora is not in love with Lord Barrett. She’s simply being polite.” Then again, a man couldn’t be too careful when it came to the lady he loved. “Still, I don’t know why you’re yielding the field to Barrett, Lovell. If you want Lady Flora’s attention, go and engage her for the next two dances instead of standing here pining hopelessly after her.”
“Pining! You’re mad, Lymington. I’m not pining for Flora. It makes no difference to me if she flirts with every lord in London. I’m merely noting that Barrett is as dull as a church sermon.”
Samuel said nothing, but waited while Lovell huffed and muttered to himself.
Any moment now—
“Even if I did want to dance with her—and I’m not saying I do—Flora hasn’t looked at me once this entire evening, Lymington. She seems to have forgotten all about me.”
“I doubt that, Lovell.” Samuel had kept a close eye on Flora, and he’d seen her cast more than one furtive glance in his cousin’s direction. Samuel was far from being a romantic, but he couldn’t make himself believe Lady Flora’s feelings for Lovell had faded so quickly.
Lovell grunted, his gaze following Barrett as the dance ended, and he led Lady Flora back to her grandmother.
“Lady Flora can’t refuse to dance with you, Lovell. Not after she’s danced twice with Barrett.” Samuel nodded toward the other side of the ballroom, where Lord Barrett still stood with Flora, the two of them laughing over something.
“A courtesy dance, Lymington?” Lovell huffed. “You want me to gain Flora’s hand for a dance on a rule of propriety?”
Samuel shrugged. “I suppose you could stand about and scowl while some other gentleman steals your lady right out from under your nose instead.”
And steal her he would. Barrett had wasted no time indicating his interest in Flora. His attentions were marked enough that the ton had noticed, and they were already whispering about a match. There was no time for Lovell to stand about agonizing over it.
“She isn’t my lady, Lymington.” Lovell’s pique had vanished, and in its place was a hopelessness Samuel had never heard in his cousin’s voice before. It was the voice of a man who’d realized the bliss he longed for had been in front of his eyes all along and had reached out to seize it, only to watch it disintegrate into dust in his hands.
“She can still be yours, Lovell.” Samuel braced a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “But you’ll have to fight for her this time.”
Lovell gave him an uncertain look. “Do you really think so, Lymington?”
“I do.” Samuel nodded toward Lady Flora. “Go and claim her.”
Lovell pressed his lips into a determined line, and marched off toward the other side of the ballroom without another word. Quite a number of female heads turned to watch his progress with hopeful smiles, but Lovell didn’t seem to notice them.
Lady Flora hesitated when he held his hand out to her, her pretty lips turned down in a frown, but as Samuel had predicted, she was too polite to refuse him. An instant later she accepted Lovell’s hand and let him lead her to the floor.
There, that was one problem solved. Now for the other.
Lady Emma and her grandmother were propped on the gilt chairs lined up at the edges of the ballroom, Lord Dunn with them. Samuel narrowed his eyes, his gaze once again caught by that damnable green ribbon peeking through the locks of her hair.
Dunn remained to exchange pleasantries, keeping the half-dozen swains who were waiting to pounce on her at bay, each of them more determined than the last to write his name on her dance card the moment Dunn was gone.
But none of them were more determined than Samuel.
He might have gone to her then, to finish the business they’d begun at the Royal Academy this afternoon. He might have marched across the ballroom as Lovell had done, scattering the swains surrounding her, all of them giving way by instinct to the fiercest competitor.
He’d been biding his time all evening, waiting for the right moment to approach her, but this wasn’t it. No, he’d need privacy for his next skirmish with Lady Emma.
Or was it an ambush?
Samuel tried to ignore a thrill of anticipation as he made his way across the ballroom, and bowed before Lady Mary Worthington.
Soon, but not yet.
* * * *
“As you can imagine, Lady Emma, I’m quite relieved to be back in London at last, after such a prolonged absence.”
Emma nodded politely to Lord Dunn, one half of her attention on his conversation, and the other half on Lord Lymington, whom she was peeking at over Lord Dunn’s shoulder.
“I do prefer the town to the country, don’t you?”
Emma pasted a bright smile on her lips. “Yes, indeed. Do you spend a great deal of tim
e in, ah…in Cumbria?”
“Cornwall,” Lady Crosby hissed in Emma’s ear, under cover of her fluttering fan.
“Er, Cornwall, that is.”
Had he truly said Cornwall? She would have sworn it was Cumbria. It was a place that began with a “C,” at any rate.
In truth, she couldn’t recall more than a half dozen words. She was being driven to distraction trying to keep an eye on Lord Lovell and Lord Lymington at once. They’d been hovering on the other side of the ballroom for the past half hour, looking as thick as two thieves conspiring to commit a crime, with Lord Lovell glaring at Lord Barrett while Lord Lymington muttered earnestly to him.
Lord Dunn smiled down at her. “Cornwall, yes. I returned to London in late March, just before the start of the season.”
There would be another confrontation with Lord Lymington tonight—it was simply a matter of when. He’d been watching her all evening, like a predator circling its prey. Every time she turned around his glittering dark eyes were upon her.
Emma had been awaiting his approach for hours, practicing her denials and disdainful sniffs, her frowns and haughty head tosses, and cursing Lord Lymington all the while for being the only aristocratic gentleman in London she couldn’t charm.
But there was a problem, an unforeseen complication.
For all his glowering, Lord Lymington hadn’t approached her all evening.
Emma had danced her two dances with Lord Lovell as she’d promised she would, all the while expecting Lord Lymington to march into the middle of the ballroom and wrench his innocent cousin free of her sinister clutches.
But he hadn’t. Instead, he’d kept his distance.
It was maddening, like a tormenting itch that was just out of reach. He was the most infuriating, vexing man alive—
“My sister, the Countess of Addington, rarely leaves her estate there,” Lord Dunn was saying. “I make the journey every other year and remain for some months.”
Emma jerked her attention guiltily back to him. “How lovely, my lord. I daresay it’s very pleasant there.”
“Not at all, Lady Emma. It’s as dull as a tomb.”
Lady Crosby laughed. “Somerset is much the same, I’m afraid. Isn’t it, Emma?”
She nudged Emma, who belatedly returned Lord Dunn’s smile. “Yes, indeed.”
“It’s not as dull as it might be, however, as I have three young nephews in Cornwall who keep me entertained.”
Emma stifled a sigh. Lord Dunn was such a charming, easygoing gentleman. Why couldn’t he be Lord Lovell’s cousin? But no, she must be cursed with Lord Lymington, who was about as charming as a block of ice—
“…so you see, all is not lost, Lady Emma.”
“I daresay Lady Addington was distraught to lose you to the London season,” Emma said quickly, doing her best to look interested.
“Not at all. She ordered me gone, and bade me not to return until I’d found a wife.” Lord Dunn’s deep, smooth voice lingered on the last word, his eyebrows raised over pale blue eyes.
Emma stared dumbly back at him until Lady Crosby’s sharp elbow to her ribs recalled her to the fact she was meant to be on the hunt for a husband, and that any reasonable young lady would be thrilled to receive such a hint from a wealthy, handsome gentleman like Lord Dunn.
But Lord Dunn seemed a decent fellow, at least as far as aristocrats went, and Emma didn’t like to give him false hopes. “Nonsense. I can’t think why you’d want such a troublesome thing as a wife, my lord.”
Lady Crosby made a choking sound, and Lord Dunn gaped at her for a moment before throwing his head back in a laugh. “You astound me, Lady Emma.”
Oh, dear. That had been the wrong thing to say, then. For a lady whose masque was usually so firmly in place, she’d made a number of alarming missteps recently. She couldn’t quite work out why she’d become so scattered, but she was certain it was all Lord Lymington’s fault.
“You’re uniformly charming, Lady Emma.” Lord Dunn swept her an elegant bow. “I’ll endeavor not to expire of a broken heart as I’m forced to watch every other gentleman here tonight partner you.”
“There’s a good bit of the rogue in you, Lord Dunn.” Emma gave him an admonishing tap on the arm with her fan, but her attention had already wandered to Lord Lovell, who’d just claimed Lady Flora for a dance.
Meanwhile, Lord Lymington was still hovering at the edges of the ballroom, considering her with cool calculation, as if she were a thorny maths problem he hadn’t yet solved.
Emma laid a hand on her stomach, over the tight green silk of her bodice, and drew in a long, slow breath. Her heart took up a nervous fluttering as Lord Dunn departed, clearing the way for Lord Lymington to approach.
Surely, he’d come now—
But no. The blasted man turned away. Again.
A moment later he bowed to Lady Mary Worthington, and led her to the floor.
“Dear me, Lord Lymington is making himself elusive this evening, is he not?” Lady Crosby peered at him over the top of her fan. “My dear Emma, you could charm a bird from a tree, but Lord Lymington doesn’t seem the sort to be much moved by charm.”
“Not in the least, no.” Not charm, or flirtation, or teasing, or any of Emma’s other tricks. She’d never come across a man less inclined to beguilement than Lord Lymington. “He glares at me as if I’m a servant sneaking from his house with a pocketful of silver spoons.”
Lady Crosby laughed. “He is rather stern, isn’t he? He doesn’t have his cousin’s pretty manners. There’s a similarity in their features, of course, but I’ve never seen two gentlemen less alike. I find Lord Lymington rather handsome, though perhaps not in the conventional way.” Lady Crosby cast her a sidelong glance. “Do you think he’s handsome, Emma?”
“Lord Lymington, handsome!” Emma couldn’t imagine why Lady Crosby would ask her such a question, when it must be obvious that she didn’t find him handsome or alluring in the least.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
Lady Crosby chuckled. “You didn’t answer my question, dear.”
Emma sniffed. “I find him arrogant and presumptuous, my lady. He’s quite the most ill-tempered gentleman I’ve ever met.”
“Indeed. Well, at least Lady Flora is having a pleasant evening. She looks pretty tonight. That shade of pink flatters her, doesn’t it?”
Lady Crosby tilted her fan toward the dance floor. Emma followed the gesture, brightening at mention of Lady Flora. She hadn’t dared hope she’d make a friend this season, but Lady Flora’s heart was every bit as sweet as her face, and Emma grew fonder of her every day.
But Emma’s smile faded as she peered into the sea of pink silk gowns. “Where is she? I don’t see her.”
“That’s odd. She was just there a moment ago, dancing with Lord Lovell.”
Emma searched the ballroom, but she didn’t see either Lady Flora or Lord Lovell. “Do you suppose she’s gone to the ladies’ retiring room?”
Lady Crosby frowned. “Perhaps you’d better check, Emma, dear.”
Emma was already on her feet. “Yes, I think so.”
But the ladies’ retiring room was deserted, and the tiny knot of worry lodged in Emma’s stomach pulled tighter.
She hesitated in the hallway, unsure whether to return to the ballroom or wander further, but then she heard a soft echo of footsteps at the opposite end of the corridor. Emma hurried after the sound, down the dimly lit corridor. It ended in a pair of glass doors, the darkness swallowing whatever was on the other side of them.
A cool breeze drifted down the hallway, raising goosebumps on Emma’s arms. Moonlight glinted on the glass, and just beyond it, Emma caught a flash of pale pink skirts before a gentleman in dark evening dress closed the door behind him. He was turned away from her, so Emma couldn’t see his face, but she’d recognize those pretty dark curls anywhere.
<
br /> Lord Lovell.
She hurried after them, anxiety quickening her steps.
Surely, Lord Lovell would never dream of harming Lady Flora? Even if he was the villain Caroline Francis accused him of being, Flora herself had told Emma she and Lord Lovell were dear friends, as close as a brother and sister. And they were at a ball, steps away from a gathering of a hundred or more guests. No villain, no matter how bold, how vicious, would dare to harm a young lady here.
But it was dark, so dark and quiet.…
Emma flew down the corridor to the door, wrenched it open, and ran outside, heedless of the open door behind her, and stepped out onto a narrow stone terrace. There was just enough light for her to see that it let out into a small but lush garden with a series of gravel pathways that seemed to converge at an enormous tree in the center, its leafy, flowing branches dark against the moonlit sky.
Under those spreading branches were a dozen hiding places for a pair of lovers, a rake intent on seduction, or another kind of rake entirely, a rake turned villain, his intent unspeakable, unthinkable.…
Further, a little further and she’d find them—
A faint sound met Emma’s ear, a whisper in the darkness. She froze, listening, then crept forward, peering ahead of her into the gloom. A man’s voice, was it? Low and familiar, and his shadow, nearly invisible, just an outline of a man, but there was enough light for Emma to see him raise his arm, his hand moving toward Flora’s face—
Emma stifled a gasp. Her stomach dropped, and she tensed to run, to leap on his back, and—
Lord Lovell cradled Flora’s cheek, his touch infinitely gentle as he murmured earnestly to her, his tone pleading.
Oh. Not brother and sister, then.
His voice was too low for Emma to hear his words, and she drew closer, the invisible fist around her throat easing its grip when she saw the tender expression on his face.
All of Lord Lovell’s legendary charm had deserted him. There was nothing of the rake about him, nothing of the practiced flirt. His handsome face was somber, the hand on Flora’s cheek trembling slightly. He hadn’t brought Flora out here to harm her, or even to steal a few forbidden kisses in a moonlit garden.