Heart 0f Desire (Handful 0f Hearts Book 2)

by Jenna Jaxon

  “I am truly sorry to have startled you, Miss Locke. Here.” He handed her a glass of lemonade, only two-thirds full. “Perhaps this will guard you from the shock.” His eyes glittered, and he bit his lips against a smile. “And here is yours, Letitia.” He passed his sister another glass and she took it gratefully, backing toward her corner.

  “Thank you, my lord.” Kate took a welcome sip. “I was telling Lady Letitia that my brother would be an excellent partner for a waltz.”

  Haversham’s brows shot up. “Indeed, Miss Locke. Ainsley is an accomplished dancer in many dances. If Letitia wishes, she may stand up with him for the next country dance.”

  “But not the waltz.” Kate puckered her lips and set her glass down on a nearby table. “It’s rather tart, I fear.”

  “Oh, what a pity.” Lord Haversham’s mouth twitched and his eyes shone with unspoken laughter. “Letitia, is your lemonade too tart?”

  “Why no, Marcus. It was fine.” Lady Letitia had drained her glass, but continued to clutch it.

  “Here, let me take that.” Haversham plucked the cup from her hands and set it beside Kate’s. “I see we all have different tastes, do we not, Miss Locke?”

  “Indeed we do, Lord Haversham.” Lord, but the man could set her teeth on edge quicker than anyone else of her acquaintance. Still, looking at his handsome profile in the soft candlelight as he watched the dancers, she had to admit she secretly enjoyed their spats of bantering. The man had a sharp wit that kept her forever on her toes. No other man she’d met had challenged her so often or so well.

  As if catching her thoughts, he leaned over to her. “I trust you are recovered sufficiently that you might dance again? Or shall I fetch your brother to escort you home?”

  Kate glared at him. “I am perfectly fine, my lord. A fleeting indisposition only.” But had it been fleeting? If he took her hand again, would her feverish symptoms return?

  “But you see now how incapacitating a simple dance can be.” Haversham shook his head, his eyes gleaming with mirth. “Only think how much worse a waltz would have been for your indisposition?”

  Kate rolled her eyes. Would the man never let that topic rest? “I would hardly call The Eightsome Reel a simple dance. However, I assure you, I am quite ready to dance again.”

  “Excellent. Then I would request the honor of partnering you for the supper dance, Miss Locke.”

  Kate blinked several times. Had she heard him correctly? “I…I…” She’d left that dance open for Lord Finley. Where the devil was the man? She’d seen him once or twice from a distance, but hadn’t spoken to him tonight. Her faintness, or whatever had come over her, had made her lose track of the charming viscount.

  “Yes, Miss Locke. You.” Haversham chuckled, his eyebrows quirked at her as though she were an idiot.

  Kate rallied, stepping back from him and snapping her fan open. “I do not think that would be wise, my lord. We would have danced three times, and people would talk.” She especially did not wish to find out if that peculiar heat would return if he touched her. A disturbing sensation she could still imagine she felt.

  “Since it would only be our second dance this evening, I do not think we will draw undue comment.” His smug face had begun to irritate her more each second.

  “I don’t—”

  “Kate!” Lady Celinda pushed her way through a knot of chattering ladies and grabbed Kate by the arm, pulling her away from the aggravating earl. “I beg your pardon, my lady. My lord.” She dropped a curtsy first to Letitia then to Haversham. “Please excuse me, but I must speak with Miss Locke directly. It’s a matter of utmost urgency.”

  “By all means—”

  Without pausing for Haversham to answer, Celinda propelled Kate down the crowded room, dodging guests as best she could. When they came to a relatively secluded space of wall, Kate slowed her pace and swung her cousin around to face her.

  “All right, Celinda. Stop, for goodness sake. You will tear my gown with this incessant pulling.” Kate straightened herself and glanced back down the ballroom, but the crush of people obscured her sight of Lord Haversham. What must he think of that abrupt departure? She shouldn’t have cared, but somehow she did.

  “Oh, Kate. I simply had to tell you. You will never believe it.” Her usually sedate, cool-headed cousin was almost jumping up and down in her little pink slippers.

  “Celinda, what has gotten into you?” A quick look around told her no one marked them; however, that could change at any moment. Such a public display of emotion could get a lady talked about.

  “Lord Finley.”

  Kate’s heart gave a huge thump. While she’d been sparring with Lord Haversham, the object of her true interest had been whisked away. She’d not even had a chance to impress the dashing viscount and now Celinda had probably already secured his affections.

  “Has he proposed to you?” She tried to sound enthusiastic, although the unfairness of the situation rankled sorely. Such a declaration would be unusual on this short an acquaintance, yet not completely unprecedented. What else would make her cousin as twitchy as a worm in hot ashes?

  “What? Oh, no. But I so wish he had!” Celinda beamed, pink spots blooming on both cheeks.

  Kate released a silent sigh. All might not yet be lost.

  “Papa could not help but accept his suit,” Celinda prattled on, the dreamy look in her eyes rather alarming. Her cousin seemed a fair way toward being totally in alt over the man.

  “So if not a proposal, what did Lord Finley do?” There was little else that could cause such an expression on Celinda’s face except— “Celinda! You didn’t let him kiss you?”

  Dear Lord, if someone had seen them, her cousin would be snared for life, forced to marry the gentleman no matter if he later turned out to be neither suitable nor a gentleman.

  “Why, Kate. No, of course not.” The dreamy quality in Celinda’s eyes vanished, replaced by shock. “I would never have let him do that.”

  Good. At least her cousin hadn’t lost her sense of propriety. Kate glanced about, looking for eavesdroppers. They could not be too careful.

  “Although, I certainly would not have minded had he tried.”

  “Celinda,” Kate hissed, smiling at Lady Constance Farrow, who had cut her eyes toward them as she passed by. Once the lady had continued on, she returned her attention to Celinda. “You had best behave yourself.” The evening was turning into more of a disaster than she’d ever believed. “Now tell me exactly what Lord Finley did.”

  “He asked me for the first waltz then he asked for the supper dance as well.” Celinda rose up on her toes, and for a stricken moment, Kate feared she’d perform a full pirouette. Instead, she snapped open her fan and waved it so vigorously Kate could feel the breeze.

  Thank goodness it was no worse than a supper dance. The supper dance she had hoped Lord Finley would ask her for. Dismay washed through her, dimming the luster of the evening. Although Finley had merely asked for a dance from her cousin, to have requested it so early in the festivities and on such short acquaintance with Celinda spoke eloquently about his regard for her. He certainly hadn’t sought Kate out tonight. Perhaps he had seen her dancing with Lord Haversham and misconstrued it. Hoist with her own petard. The Bard’s phrase rang eerily true for her.

  “Isn’t that wonderful, Kate?” Celinda peering into her face brought her out of her thoughts.

  “Yes, of course it is.” She must try to be happy for her cousin, but her body suddenly weighed her down, as though she’d sink to the floor and not rise again.

  “I danced the opening quadrille with Lord Camford, and when he left me with Mamma, Lord Finley was there asking for the waltz and the supper dance.” Celinda nattered on about her list of partners. Kate stared at the dancing figures on the floor, her mind in a whirl.

  What was she to do now? Every option she came up with was grim. Lord Finley had been a brief hope, but now she must put him beyond the pale. Celinda had made her preference clear and Kate would not
likely change the man’s mind. Her cousin was younger, more vivacious, more popular, and possessed a title. The viscount would be a fool not to offer for her when the time came.

  But Celinda’s situation made clear her own plight, direr than simply finding dance partners. If a man wouldn’t stand up with her, he certainly wouldn’t offer for her. And she simply could not wait and pray for new gentlemen to appear. A fourth Season would be too humiliating to endure. So at the end of this Season, she would be at Nathan’s mercy. He couldn’t force her to wed, but the ton was quite unforgiving in its criticism of women who did not marry.

  Neither could she hope to regain the good opinions of the gentlemen with whom she had quarreled. Those bridges were piles of ash she could not reconstruct, even if she desired to do so. She’d argued with them and treated them with thinly veiled contempt for a reason. That left her with few options. She could choose to remain single, but the reality of that decision was discouraging. Her brother would wed soon enough. Whoever the lady turned out to be, Kate would hate living in a house she had to share with another woman.

  She could always encourage Bertie Symmons. It would take little more than agreeing to a supper dance and a carriage ride for him to consider himself engaged to her. Kate shivered, as though a goose had walked over her grave. That alternative held less appeal than remaining single. Bertie was an old, annoying friend, not someone she could ever envision being married to.

  The same could be said for Lord Somersby, although he was simply too wild for words, with a malicious streak she did not care to see turned toward her.

  Or there was Lord Haversham. Although irritating beyond reason, at least the man would provide lively conversation. And he was attractive, which couldn’t in all honesty be said of Bertie. Marriage to Haversham would not be dull. They might try to kill one another, but they would not die of boredom. Many successful ton marriages were based on less.

  “Kate? Kate.” Celinda’s shrill voice sounded faint, as though coming from another room.

  She blinked, and the sounds of the ballroom became loud once more.

  “Did you not hear a word I said?” Celinda beat her fan into her palm and glared at her.

  “I beg your pardon, Celinda.” Time to pay the piper. “Wait here a moment, and you can tell me all about the perfections of Lord Finley.” She stared into Celinda’s wary blue eyes and squeezed her hand. “I have a bit of unfinished business I need to attend to.” Before she lost her nerve, she picked up her skirts and threaded her way back through the tightly packed patrons to the corner where Lady Letitia still stood, looking more frightened than a cornered rabbit. Perhaps that was something she’d also be able to remedy in time.

  “Lord Haversham.” She curtsied then met his wary brown eyes. “I am so sorry to have left you with no answer for so long. I fear my cousin required my immediate attention.”

  “Of course, Miss Locke.” That sardonic eyebrow rose. “And now you have an answer for me?”

  What she had for him was the rough side of her tongue, but she would refrain from that for now. Later, however, might be a completely different matter. If she hadn’t scared Haversham off yet, she likely wouldn’t need to change her demeanor.

  “I do, my lord.” She forced a smile she hoped was nearly pleasant. “I would deem it an honor to accept your company for the supper dance.”

  * * * *

  It took all of Marcus’s training not to show his shock at Miss Locke’s acceptance of his request. He’d been sure she’d take her cousin’s interruption as a way to avoid an outright rejection of him, and she still looked none too pleased, despite her strained smile. He wouldn’t have believed it possible for a woman to smile and still look as though she were being choked. If she didn’t want to dance and dine with him, why the devil had she accepted? “I am honored, Miss Locke.”

  There ensued a silence nearly as painful as her acceptance.

  What was he to do with her now? He couldn’t ask her to dance again, and he’d already gotten her a refreshment. Why wasn’t she out on the ballroom floor dancing with someone else? He gazed around the room, but spied no one who seemed to be looking for her. “May I escort you to your brother? Your next partner is likely searching for you.”

  A stricken looked flashed across her face, her cheeks flushed, and she looked away. “I believe I see my brother there. I will expect you for the supper dance, my lord.” She dipped a curtsy so quickly he would’ve missed it had he blinked then whirled around and strode off toward Ainsley, who stood talking to Miss Waters.

  Marcus frowned. What had he said now? The woman was pricklier than a hedgehog. He turned to Letitia, determined to have a good time despite the circumstances. “Are you enjoying yourself, my dear?”

  “Of course not, Marcus.” His sister might seem shy to others, however, she would speak her mind to him.

  “Why would you say that?” He peered into her woebegone face.

  “Because I don’t wish to dance and everyone else does.” She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “I have had to refuse two gentlemen already.”

  Marcus sighed and grasped her hand. He’d hoped by this point in the Season his sister would be more at ease, more confident. “That is a pity. You must learn to dance with gentlemen other than your family. They will not be mean to you. Quite the opposite, in fact. Dancing should be a pleasure.”

  “Well, it does not seem so to me.” She nodded toward the vanishing figure of Miss Locke. “Nor to Miss Locke either, save when she is with you.” Letitia played with the ribs of her fan, opening and closing the pretty painted silk over and over.

  “Why would you say that, Letitia? Miss Locke is quite a popular lady.” Marcus scanned the dance floor for his erstwhile partner to illustrate his point, but she seemed to be missing. He tried looking about the crowd and finally spied her chatting with Ainsley. Hadn’t she been engaged for this country dance?

  “I’ve only seen her stand up with you, Marcus.” Letitia nodded toward Miss Locke. “I’ve been watching her to see how she acted around gentlemen, but she only talks to her brother.”

  “Perhaps she has refused offers from other potential partners?” Such an action would have been frowned upon, to be sure. Still, he’d put nothing past Miss. Locke. It would be flattering to think she only wished to dance with him, but that was a conceit even he could not countenance.

  “No. So far this evening, no one has approached her. No young gentlemen, that is. She seems to be conversing mostly with her brother and the delightful lady in pink.”

  Her cousin, Lady Celinda Graham, that would be. Surely Miss Locke had spoken to someone else or danced with another gentleman? But if Letitia had not seen anyone approach her… Gentlemen were, while not plentiful, at least available in sufficient numbers. Had none of them offered to dance with her? That stricken look on her face might be the key. Would no one partner Miss Locke? It would explain why she had accepted his request for the supper dance. Better him than be a wallflower.

  He’d not noticed before—he’d wanted to avoid her more than have her take notice of him—but come to think of it, Ainsley had mentioned she was in her third Season. Was she as desperate as Marcus himself? And would this circumstance make it easier to pursue his suit with her or more difficult? How she’d react when she found out he was marrying her to pay off a wager didn’t bear thinking about.

  Memory of that stricken look, however, sent a pang of sympathy straight to his heart. If he was going to marry Kate Locke, he needed to learn to care for her and make her care for him if they were to have any sort of life together that didn’t include misery for them both. Marcus nodded, his resolve like granite. Perhaps Ainsley, suspecting his sister would not find a suitor this Season either, had put the payment of the wager forward with this purpose in mind. The whole family was devious.

  Marcus dismissed that. He’d focus on wooing Miss Locke in earnest and making her fall in love with him, even if it killed him.

  Chapter 8

  “The
se just arrived for you, miss.” Parker held a huge cut-crystal vase filled with lovely pink and cream roses, interspersed with tiny, delicate daisies.

  Kate, just coming to sit down to breakfast, frowned even as she leaned forward to sniff the fragrant blossoms. Beautiful flowers, but who had sent them? “Is there a card?” She’d danced only the two dances with Lord Haversham last evening. There had been a brief conversation with Lord Finley at supper as he waited on Celinda. Much as she’d like to believe the bouquet was from him, she wasn’t about to try to fool herself. Which made the arrival of the flowers even more intriguing. She searched over the blooms and finally plucked the card from amongst the greenery and opened it.

  With my heartfelt gratitude and admiration for my excellent partner last evening. May I call upon you this afternoon?

  Lord Haversham

  She jerked back from the blooms as if stung. Her cheeks heated a second later. Lord Haversham. Why the devil did he wish to call upon her? They had shared the supper dance without incident, although she’d noticed his lordship talked much less wittily and more, well, conventionally. Topics like the weather and the decoration on his sister’s gown were the high points of the conversation.

  Now this morning he sent flowers and wanted to call?

  “Put them in the foyer, please, Parker.” She tapped the card against her fingers. What did he mean by this request? Had he thought her granting him the supper dance meant something? It did, but certainly not what it meant to him.

  She’d stood beside Celinda and watched all her social aspirations disappear like a thin mist at dawn. No one would ask to dance with her. Young Mr. Pine had cast looks at her briefly—until his brother, Lord Seaford, with whom she’d argued two years ago, had whispered vehemently in his ear. They had then decamped into the rest of the house. From the corner of her eye, she’d spied Lord Eastland speaking earnestly to another young gentleman, gesturing toward her and shaking his head. Somehow, when she wasn’t looking, she’d become the pariah of the ton.