by Carrie Lomax
“Your lordship,” Antonia chased him down before Malcolm could make his escape. The light touch of her fingers on his sleeve stopped him in his tracks. “It’s only for a few weeks. I promise.”
“You hand out promises so easily, Miss Lowry. I wonder how many of them you intend to keep.” His stinging rebuke lingered in the air behind him, too soft for Margaret to hear. Antonia’s hand fell to her side. Malcolm was still his father’s son, cutting words and all.
* * *
“Unbelievable,” Margaret whispered. Antonia flinched as her friend’s gloved hand manacled her wrist. She followed the direction of Margaret’s gaze and applied her fan with vigor against the wave of heat that surged across her cheeks.
“Quite,” Antonia said in her best imitation of her newly adopted home country. It wasn’t as though she ever intended to return to America—not that she was yet convinced to make her home here. There was the pesky matter of her light-fingered means of self-support.
“I cannot believe that he, of all people, obtained a voucher,” Margaret marveled.
“Why shouldn’t he?” Antonia asked. It was a question she had wanted to ask for ages. What made this man such an anathema to society?
“Oh, his family is the blackest branch of dukes in all England,” Margaret muttered from behind her fan. Havencrest spotted them and made his way through the crowd like a bull. Ladies in fine gowns darted aside like bowling pins, until a sprightly woman in violet taffeta with brown curls dangling against her bright cheeks interceded. Margaret continued breathlessly, “The Havencrest dukedom was created after supposedly killing a sworn enemy of King George I’s, although it is rumored that the first Havencrest son was actually the king’s own bastard.”
“I had heard whispers of his connection to Queen Charlotte.” Antonia interjected.
Margaret shrugged, checked their pursuer’s progress and continued her tale sotto voce. “I believe that one is false, but the entire Havencrest line is made up of thorough rakes. The house’s fate was sealed when the late Duchess of Havencrest died by her own hand.” Margaret’s eyes shone with excitement as she whispered. Antonia was reminded of her companion’s comparative youth—nearly a decade younger than herself—in that blazing moment.
“Promise me something, Maggie,” Antonia drawled as Havencrest disentangled himself from Princess Esterhazy’s grasp. “Do not fall in love with Havencrest.”
Margaret laughed. “I don’t believe there is any risk of that happening.”
Antonia didn’t feel quite so certain. An unfamiliar sensation hollowed out her stomach.
The sound of his Hessian boots rang on the scarred wood dance floor. Margaret glanced at him, then up at Antonia, and giggled. Antonia patted her hand where it was still curled around her forearm and grinned.
Havencrest came to an abrupt stop at several feet distance. Antonia half-expected him to paw the floor with one boot like an angry bull. She smothered a laugh, but it bubbled out in a brief guffaw. They were laughing at him, and Havencrest knew it.
Their shared humor at his expense brought a dark shadow into his eyes. Antonia’s laughter evaporated. The hurt she carried with her recognized the pain in him and snuffed out her amusement in an instant. Only Margaret was left giggling to herself, as the poor innocent girl failed to pick up on the quick change in atmosphere. A beat too late, she mastered herself and dropped a curtsey.
“Your Grace,” she mumbled.
Antonia bobbed as well—too quickly. Her knees nearly buckled, then locked when she came up. The volume of the room fell to a hush. A thousand eyes regarded them. Her pulse as she forced herself to look up. The searing heat in his eyes nearly felled her. Antonia’s breath caught and her vision hazed at the edges.
Havencrest pulled his gaze from hers, and stuffy air filled her lungs. Her range of vision expanded. Antonia applied her fan and glanced around, quirking one eyebrow at the cluster of ladies who looked on with a mixture of curiosity and menace. Now that she could breathe again, Margaret had things well in hand.
“I am honored,” Margaret accepted the duke’s outstretched hand and, with a backward glance at Antonia, abandoned her for the dance floor. She remained rooted in place, bereft.
Antonia ought to take her own advice. Don’t fall in love with Havencrest. Though, if this was love, Antonia wanted nothing further to do with it. Fortunately for her, her heart, if she had one, was not susceptible to the attentions of large, lying, wealthy men. No matter how handsome they were.
A shimmer of silver caught her eye and Antonia snapped her fan closed. Her rose pink gown fluttered behind her as she turned on her heel to follow the Dowager Duchess of Summervale into the card room. Here was a chance to observe the old bat in her chosen environment. Antonia settled herself at an empty table just out of view of the duchess. Idly she flipped through the cards, shuffling them, laying them out, then scooping them up again. Feeling how the stock shifted in her lambskin gloves gave Antonia ideas. So did the way the duchess dealt out hands of whist. Tin tokens flashed as the old woman’s hands moved over the printed rectangles. Her eyes reflected the chips’ flinty gleam.
The duchess was not a happy woman, Antonia observed.
A woman in a turban hat and flowing robes settled into place opposite the table. Fine lines creased the corners of her mouth and eyes. The two women squared off, outwardly pleasant, but with beady eyes and sharp talons, they reminded Antonia of two roosters fluffing their feathers up before a fight. Cards flicked and snapped. Tokens slid across inlaid wood. She lost count of the cards as the women rapidly scooped up tricks. All of Antonia’s experience at cards came from street corners in cities where fair play was a figment of imagination. This was akin to viewing sword fight after witnessing a knife brawl. Had she known how to play cards she could have spent the past several months fleecing the ton legitimately instead of risking her neck at theft.
“I see you have found my grandmother.” Havencrest spoke in her ear. Lighting jolted her innards, though Antonia took care to mask her reaction. Frozen to her seat, it required several seconds for her to regain her composure.
“It is best if we are not seen together, Your Grace,” Antonia mumbled out of the side of her mouth. Margaret dropped into the seat beside her.
“My eternal gratitude for helping me find her, Lord Havencrest, I had no idea Miss Lowry would be here in the card room. I thought you hardly knew how to play?” Margaret speared her with a speaking glare, then simpered up at Havencrest with a gleeful spark in her eye. This was the sort of habitual effusiveness that made wittier ladies of the ton roll their eyes at Margaret.
“I don’t,” snapped Antonia.
The duchess glanced over and dismissed them with a turn of her head. Her gaze snagged on the large man hovering between Antonia and Margaret. Antonia tried to ignore him as she tucked her knees and elbows against her body in an attempt to appear smaller and unnoticeable. Antonia wished she could disappear into the floor. Did the man have any idea of subtlety? Of observation? If not…how the devil had he caught her? Lady Summervale studied Antonia for what felt like an eternity, though it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. Then, the old lady raised her chin, leveraged herself out of her chair with scant elegance but great dignity, and thumped out of the room.
“Good evening, Lord Havencrest,” said the turbaned woman. “I see you’ve made good of your voucher. I confess myself astonished to see you here.”
“Lady Jersey.” He bent over her wrist. “I would not miss an evening of gaiety to save my life.”
For a moment, Lady Jersey looked as though she had swallowed a hive full of bees. Her laughter burst forward in gusts. “Hahahaha.” She clasped both hands over her bosom as if to physically restrain herself. “You cannot mean it. Not after the last time you set foot in this room.”
Last time?
“I find myself again of a mind to take a wife, my lady.” Havencrest’s mouth quirked up in a sardonic smirk. Antonia found herself riveted on that tiny gestu
re. Had she ever seen him smile?
“You, of all people, ought to know better,” Lady Jersey batted her fan against his arm. Havencrest’s discomfort made the muscles in her neck bunch into tight knots. Antonia might not have all the details, but she was intimately familiar with the When had she become protective of him?
With hindsight, Antonia could name the precise moment. It had been when Havencrest had jumped into a leaky boat and chased her out onto a freezing river. She had known the moment she’d cast off that this might be the final impulse that killed her. She never liked to admit fear, even to herself. Havencrest had cared whether she lived or died when no one else had. She…liked him. The man, not the duke. Havencrest was the most arrogant person she had ever met. But in the moments when he let down his guard and stopped trying to control her, Antonia also found him compelling.
She picked her gaze up from examining the hem of Lady Jersey’s gown long enough to cast a glance at her friend, but Margaret’s face had acquired a permanent beam of good humor.
“Miss Lowry. Do you care to dance?”
Antonia’s attention jerked upward. She swallowed. “Your Grace, I must decline.”
Wasn’t she the very picture of demure, shy womanhood? If only Lady Jersey and her friends knew what a viper they had invited to their midst, they’d be calling for smelling salts.
Havencrest hesitated, as if he were genuinely crushed by her reluctance. But that couldn’t be.
“Why?” he asked, with a note of genuine surprise.
“Because I hardly know how,” Antonia murmured.
“Then I shall teach you.”
Havencrest’s confidence made Antonia want to smack him.
“Must I remind you we are here for another purpose entirely?” she demanded under her breath. Margaret waved. She waved back, feeling as insipid as the young ladies. Thank goodness Darby and his paramour were not in attendance. Antonia didn’t think she could bear the scorn of having nearly cost an innocent woman her life.
“What better place for a private discussion than on the dance floor?” Havencrest insisted.
“In front of all these people?” she asked. He was not going to let this drop. Raw embarrassment surged through her. She had made it through six months of near-constant socializing without participating in more than a handful of dances. Country dances, ones she could stumble through while laughing at her own ignorance as a foreigner.
“A waltz is the most secluded place in the room,” he declared, taking her firmly by the hand. There was no avoiding it now. Antonia tried to remember the steps. One-two-three, one-two-three…it couldn’t be that difficult.
The third time she trod on his toes, however, Havencrest remarked, “You are without a doubt the worst dancer ever to grace a ballroom.”
“Yes, well, some of us were busy fending for themselves while you lot were fooling about with fancy instructors,” Antonia muttered, counting again. One-two-three, one-two-three. She could do this.
“Antonia.”
His use of her given name made her stumble. He brought her up short and lifted her chin with one hand. “Look me in the eye, like this.” His left arm encircled her waist, drawing her close to the solid wall of his chest. At his neck glinted a ruby stick pin that might net her a decent trade once she found a new fence for her wares. “I said, look at me.”
Thoughts of thievery fled.
“Follow my lead,” he commanded. They were in motion again. One-two-three. He tossed her about like a tiny ship. Antonia struggled to keep up, partly because she kept shying away from meeting his gaze full-on. Instead she fixated on the curve of his lower lip. It plumped in the center in a way that would have been feminine on any other man. But not him. No, Havencrest was hard muscle and long bones. Being encased in his hold made her stomach flip. It had nothing to do with her rising anxiety over drawing so much attention. They were supposed to be enemies, but right now, they looked far too cozy for dislike. She stumbled, dug her gloved fingers into his arm, and gasped when Havencrest righted her. They whirled, and her head spun.
“Stop trying to lead, Antonia.” His jaw tensed.
She snapped her gaze to his. “You may lead on the dance floor. I lead when we are off of it.” He did something to make her stumble. Antonia tripped and fell into his arms. “You are making a laughingstock of me.”
“You have accomplished that for yourself.” The sardonic half-grin was back. “Did you never think to acquire the rudiments of social polish to make your presence among the ton more convincing?”
No, of course, she hadn’t. Antonia’s plans were rarely more than a vague outline of where she wanted to go. An arrow pointing in the direction of a single goal: wealth. Money meant security. It was the chance to stop running from her past and catch her breath. For now, all she possessed was a set of clothes in a secret rented room, for example. A sheaf of forged documents in a name not her own. She had learned to write by tracing the letters from discarded newspapers and broadsides. After she had left Mrs. Beckwith’s, Antonia had clawed her way into literacy. Mimicry was her best and possibly only talent.
“When would I have had the time to do that?” she wheezed as he turned her away from another couple. A heady scent of perfume whisked past her nose. They had nearly collided with the other dancers.” Why do you hate your grandmother so much?”
Havencrest missed one sure step and caught himself. His smirk faded. Antonia’s stomach turned warm with satisfaction. “You’re trying to lead again.”
“Lady Summervale dislikes you,” Antonia guessed. Now, she met his eyes. They glittered hard like the fancy blue diamonds prized by French aristocrats. More cursed jewels. It was practically an epidemic. She stopped fighting and let Havencrest guide her along blindly. Antonia didn’t bother trying to match his steps.
“It was my father she couldn’t stand,” he said. “Not when my mother eloped with him, and especially not after he took a mistress and broke my mother’s heart. That is the woman from whom you obtained the lower half of the Heart’s Cry.”
“Ah.” Antonia didn’t know what to say to this. Wealthy aristocrats were not supposed to be people who experienced pain and struggle—they were marks to be relieved of their ill-gotten wealth. Even the purported self-made men flowing out of America on a tide of riches had more much luck than intelligence or kindness. They profited from the work of many, in Antonia’s view, and no amount of philanthropy could make up for the fact that they had built that wealth by exploiting people like her. “Is this why the Havencrest men are called rakes?”
He dropped his hold on Antonia’s waist and gloved hand. The song had ended. They stood at the edge of the dance floor, staring one another down.
“I am not my father,” Havencrest declared with tightly leashed emotion. He bowed and left her there.
Even Antonia comprehended the rudeness of being left alone at the edge of the dance floor. At the conclusion of a dance, he was supposed to return her to her companions. It was simply not done. Antonia watched Lady Jersey and Princess Esterhazy buttonhole him on either side.
“Is he as awful as everyone claims?” asked an auburn-haired woman who appeared at her side. Antonia started. The familiar drawl of the American south curled around soft syllables and elongated vowels. Annabelle Kilpatrick’s green eyes bored into hers.
“Havencrest? Worse,” Antonia muttered as she permitted the woman whose friendship she had once callously exploited to guide her away from the dancers.
“Come and tell us all about it.”
Antonia had used them, yet here were three women, welcoming her into their embrace. For once, she did not have the heart to turn away friendship. Havencrest had broken through her defenses. Tonight, Antonia welcomed any solace she could find amongst strangers—even in the arms of a man she could not trust.
Chapter 9
“You need dancing lessons.”
Antonia examined the chandelier as though she had never seen a more compelling confection of glass, wire, and candles
ticks. A few had winked out. It must be a terrible pain to keep them lit and the wicks properly trimmed. The fiddle and the cello frayed her last nerve ever thinner until, with merciful abruptness, the players laid down their instruments for a break.
“I could provide you with instruction,” he added after a long silence. Beside him, Margaret chatted with her brother and sister-in-law, filling the gap with an incessant stream of words.
Stop talking, Antonia mentally commanded. Margaret talked when she was nervous, and Havencrest’s presence had the poor girl jumping out of her skin. It had been all right when they had been alone in the Evendaw’s parlor, plotting imaginary crimes. But now, out in public, his looming physical presence brooding over Margaret’s petite form had turned into the too-real possibility of a marriage which Margaret did not want.
She owed a debt to Margaret. Many debts, in fact—not that Antonia intended to repay them.
Antonia glimpsed a woman’s gold necklace within easy reach. All it would take to clip the light bauble free was an unobtrusive snip. When the woman moved, the chain would snake into her grasp. Simple. Almost as easy as bumping a lady on the shoulder and simultaneously sliding a bangle down her wrist. Distract and—
“I can guess what you’re thinking, Antonia.”
This time, she inclined her chin and glared sidelong at the duke. His brows puckered in a disapproving frown. “Is that so?”
“You think you can make off that woman’s bracelet as easily as a sliding a—” Havencrest broke off. His jaw worked. Antonia’s mind supplied the words he could not possibly have been thinking. Hard cock into a welcoming pussy. Her low belly clenched with need as inappropriate images of his erect body moving within hers blotted out the world. Antonia gasped and broke their gaze.
“I could, if I wanted to,” she said lazily. I could have you. You’d hate me for it, but I could do it. Antonia forced herself to breathe. Her vision cleared. A different woman’s white-gloved wrist dangled loosely right before them.