The Skeffington ball was to be a glittering, grand occasion, and in spite of herself Lucy was nervous about attending. She had to bathe and dress extra carefully, but her heart wasn’t in it. She tried to remain patient while her maid fussed around, lacing up her stays, coiffing her hair, a white gardenia caught up in the ribbons among the crown of glossy black ringlets piled high on her head and artful tendrils caressing her cheeks. A simple gown of ivory silk, its skirt frosted with intricate silver lace, was slipped over her petticoats. The bodice was cut far lower than she considered decent, with full, puffed sleeves set well off her shoulders. By the time she was ready she was weary of the preparations.
Her hands were clad in long white gloves. The silk gown rustled softly as she made a slow progress down the stairs, where Mr Barrington draped an ermine-lined cloak over her shoulders, his hands brushing her bare flesh and lingering longer than was necessary. Attired in purple satin knee breeches and matching jacket and white silk stockings, with a frilled shirt it was Lucy’s opinion that he looked overdressed, an opinion that she kept to herself.
‘You look quite charming, Lucy,’ Sofia said, resplendently dressed in saffron spangled gauze, her hair arranged in high and elaborate curls. ‘But come along now. We must hurry. We’re late as it is.’
* * *
They arrived at Skeffington House to find an unending line of carriages stretched all the way down the street. When Lucy stepped down from the carriage, never had she looked so fine and never had she felt so wretched. She looked like a lovely gilded statue and no man watching her could fail to admire her, but there was something at once remote and detached in the dazzling young woman herself. How they would laugh, she thought bitterly, if they could but know how miserable she was and how heavy her heart, which lay in her breast as silent and dead as a lump of rock.
They arrived late, hoping to avoid the early influx of guests, but there was still a crush of an elegantly dressed assembly in the hall. The smell was a unique mixture of powder, perfume and sweat that always heralded a society event. After being received by their hosts—Mr Barrington making a point of introducing Lucy as his betrothed—they moved on, mingling with other guests. How she would have liked to tell them all that he was a liar, that he was nothing to her, but thrust into the midst of this glittering event stuffed with English elite, the last thing she wanted was to cause a scene and make herself the centre of attention.
Some of the guests Sofia knew already and lost no time in introducing Mr Barrington and Lucy to them. Lucy hated it, hated the way in which they manipulated her every move. She felt their control all around her. Mr Barrington moved to stand beside her.
‘Come, my dear. Let us proceed to the ballroom.’
Giving Sofia a nod which implied she must follow, he held out his arm, leaving Lucy no recourse but to take it. Their progress up the stairs was slow since there were so many people all heading for the ballroom. Music and flowers filled the house. She noticed how the eyes of the ladies lingered on her tall, impressive escort. Then suddenly, as if a barrier had come down between them, they stopped. The man who stood before them was none other than Christopher Wilding. His gaze abruptly snapped to her face, registering not only her presence for the first time, but her worried eyes and wan smile as well. A brief impersonal smile touched the corner of his mouth before he glanced at her escort.
Lucy’s attention was riveted suddenly on this man whose head rose above those of the crowd of guests. For a moment she thought she must be seeing things, suffering from a delusion brought about by some wish of her own to see him. But those handsome features—that fine-boned face and bronzed skin, those deep-set silver-grey eyes, that crooked smile at once impudent and gay—could not belong to any other man that she knew. Her heart gave a joyful leap and she almost said his name out loud, but, remembering the embarrassment of their last encounter, she lowered her eyes. As she moved past him, her eyes were drawn of their own volition to his figure in a plain but perfectly cut black coat, the darkness alleviated by the pristine whiteness of his cravat and silver waistcoat that matched his eyes.
Then, without a word, Barrington swerved away, just as if the incident had never happened. But Lucy had sensed a change in her escort. She had felt the muscles of his arm tense under her hand. Clearly aggravated by the encounter with Captain Wilding, he cursed softly, but his voice remained quite normal when he said, ‘They are playing a waltz. Let’s dance.’
‘Are you acquainted with that particular gentleman, Lucy?’ Sofia enquired, having closely observed her stepdaughter’s reaction to the encounter.
‘Yes, I am. We met at Broughton Fair, on the day you arrived at the academy.’
‘What do you know about him?’
‘Very little, only that he is a sea captain with his own vessel.’
‘Well—at least he isn’t a common sailor—though why any man would want to spend his life at sea when he could be on dry land is beyond me.’
‘I imagine he likes the sea best or he would not do what he does,’ Lucy replied coolly.
Sofia shot her a frosty stare. ‘Be that is it may, if he should ask you to dance you must refuse him.’
* * *
Unbeknown to Lucy, tonight Christopher had taken his first privileged step into the realms of nobility as Viscount Rockley, attending the ball to represent his grandfather. His grandfather no longer attended society affairs so Christopher’s presence tonight was bound to stir excitement in the curious.
He was unable to ignore the tide of black anger that consumed him on encountering Mark Barrington, or the contempt in which he was held. It would have been far preferable if the meeting appeared as nothing more than a chance encounter. But who would have thought Barrington, the man who had ruined his sister, had hurt her so much that she had tried taking her own life, would turn up here in London?
Mark Barrington was the son of a gambler and—like father like son—cared for nothing beyond the gaming tables. He had managed to make his money in the West Indies and New Orleans, only to lose it again. He was a social climbing individual who was well beneath the notice of London society. He was also a detestable character, but he was clever. If he had come all this way with the intention of wedding Miss Walsh, then there had to be something sinister behind it.
He had no illusions with regard to the character of the man he hated above all others. He was dangerous. They had a past. Christopher wouldn’t put it past Barrington to put a bullet or a blade in his back.
He now believed Miss Walsh to be in grave danger. Had he known that Barrington was her intended when she came to call on him, he would not have made light of the issue and considered how best to protect her. Mark Barrington would not willingly allow her to slip from his grasp. Men like him were used to taking what they wanted and would use force if necessary. He could not allow her to reside in that house for much longer.
Barrington was capable of forcing her into marriage by ruining her. What did he intend for her afterwards? There had to be more to this. What was in it for him—and what part did Miss Walsh’s own father play in this? He recalled her telling him that Barrington was a ranch owner himself. Christopher knew this to be a blatant lie.
Standing on the sidelines, he continued to watch her. He regarded the elegant older woman who hovered protectively at her side, ready to steer her young charge through the set of rules of society with smooth efficiency. He assumed the woman to be Miss Walsh’s stepmother. Miss Walsh had a delicate loveliness, a bright, strong spirit, which he felt would never be cast down. Just why he was drawn to her was something that eluded him.
He told himself that it was because he didn’t want Barrington panting after her, but it was more than that. Her smile warmed his heart and her most innocent look sent desire raging through his veins. There was a provocative sensuality about her, a natural, unaffected sophistication that drew him to her. Even surrounded by London’s most famous beauties, s
he managed to shine with an innocent kind of splendour that would draw the attention of any gentleman.
Feeling compelled and at liberty to look his fill, he felt his heart contract, not having grasped the full reality of her beauty until that moment. Her dark hair set off by the white gardenia gleamed in the light of the chandeliers, her face so elegantly carved that it appeared to be a magnificent work of art, yet it was pale and there was a strained look about her. He recalled their first meeting at the fair, the deep glow of admiration in her warm eyes as she had listened to him relate tales of his travels and derring-do with such rapt attention.
* * *
Lucy did her duty and danced two dances with Mr Barrington, and in between acknowledged the good wishes of those who came to congratulate them on their betrothal. Lucy would have liked to shout from the rafters that she had no intention of marrying him, but considered it prudent to keep quiet for the time being. He was not the best of dancers and she welcomed the dances she had with some of the younger set. She had her first taste of champagne, which she liked well enough, but she would drink it sparingly. Miss Brody was of the opinion that it weakened one’s inhibitions and she wanted to remain in full control of her wits. The ladies, some who flirted outrageously, fascinated her. She observed the ones who used fans and eyelashes to their advantage.
From a distance she noticed how Captain Wilding moved with ease among the crowd. There was a restless energy about him. He seemed to shine with a potent, relentless force that demanded unwavering attention. He wore his magnetism with casual disdain, taking it for granted that any woman he encountered would succumb at the snap of his fingers. She imagined that most of them did. She wanted to believe it was surprise that was causing her heart to leap and her body to tingle with excitement, but that would not explain why her gaze lingered on his tall figure that was shown to advantage by the black and white clothes he wore, or why she was wishing he would seek her out and ask her to dance.
Mr Barrington watched her constantly through heavy lidded eyes—until the draw of the card room proved too tempting for his addictive nature to resist, leaving Lucy to sip her champagne with no one but Sofia for company. It was when Sofia took to the dance floor with an elderly gentleman that Captain Wilding suddenly appeared, as if he had been awaiting the moment when she would be alone. She had surreptitiously glanced in his direction, caught up in her private impressions of his elegance and noting that he danced with no one. Now he bowed his head while holding her gaze, his expression both sombre and tender, a smile curving his lips.
‘Miss Walsh! I had hoped to have the pleasure of seeing you again, but I did not think to find you here.’
‘No, I don’t suppose you did. For myself, your presence has also taken me by surprise.’
‘You are so beautiful tonight,’ he said with a husky undertone. ‘Your cheeks are pink. Your eyes are gleaming. You look radiant. I am happy to see you are still smiling at me.’
‘How could I not? You have done nothing wrong. The fact that you could not help me—I understand perfectly and do not hold it against you. It was wrong of me to approach you. It was extremely stupid of me. I certainly should not have asked you to take me to France. It was presumptuous of me.’
‘No, it wasn’t. I deeply regret I could not be of help and I am sorry,’ he said, his voice edged with harsh remorse. ‘I’m relieved to get you alone at last. You are a popular young lady among the young set. You have no shortage of partners.’
‘Will you not ask me to dance?’ she said as the lilting notes of the waltz floated around her. ‘And quickly before my stepmother comes back.’
‘I would be honoured.’
Completely disregarding what Sofia had said to her earlier that she was not to dance with Captain Wilding and taking immense satisfaction in disobeying her, she smiled and allowed him to lead her on to the dancefloor. She walked into his arms and felt his arm slide around her waist, bringing her close against the solid strength of his body. His free hand closed around her fingers and suddenly she was being whirled gently around the floor.
For a man who had spent most of his adult life at sea he was a superb dancer with an amazing sense of timing. His step was light. He took charge of the dance and she went where she was led. It was like dancing on air. For several moments they did not speak. Lucy enjoyed the wonderful sensation of being twirled around as though they both had wings, their bodies moving with perfect rhythm. Beneath her gloved hand she felt the strength of his shoulder and the arm encircling her waist like a band of steel was holding her much closer than was proper. She should have felt overpowered, but she felt safe and protected instead. The dance seemed to free her from the weight of her body. If only her mind could be freed of its burdens as easily.
‘You dance divinely,’ Captain Wilding breathed softly, a slow, admiring smile sweeping across his features.
‘I love the waltz,’ she said, feeling a little giddy and reckless and wonderful, wishing the dance would never end. ‘Although Miss Brody is of the opinion that it is not proper for young ladies to dance the waltz.’
‘They do in France. All the time.’
‘Sadly, this is not France. How I wish it were, then I could find my godmother—Aunt Caroline.’
‘Is she really your aunt?’
‘No. She is my godmother and was my mother’s closest friend. She insisted I addressed her as Aunt Caroline when I was very young.’
He twirled her round once more before capturing her eyes, a lazy smile sweeping across his face. ‘Are you pleased to see me?’
‘I hadn’t expected to.’
‘Surprises are pleasant, don’t you agree?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘I am sure your escort would not be pleased to see you dancing with me. He should know better than to leave you to the mercy of all these unattended young men.’
‘I am of the opinion that we are not as fragile as some would try to pretend.’
‘Do you believe that?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, tilting her head to his, laughter in her soft brown eyes. ‘It’s a masculine idea—meant to show the superiority of the male sex.’
‘And do you believe that also?’
‘Believe what?’
‘In the superiority of the man.’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘So you are saying men are inferior, then.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘No, but that is what you meant.’
‘Not at all.’
‘That is gracious of you.’
‘Not really. It’s common sense. I believe the sexes should be equal, that men and women should complement each other.’
He grinned. ‘That’s some school you went to. I’m sure it is written somewhere that there are occasions where a woman’s role is subservient.’
‘Probably written by arrogant males who find females a temptation they can’t resist,’ she quipped. He held her so close she could feel the warmth of his body and smell the spicy scent of his cologne. She was suddenly conscious of his close proximity. His eyes, with their lowered lids, had never left her face. She had never realised before how seductive those eyes were making her feel—so female and fragile.
Her cheeks flushed and she seemed to be having trouble breathing. Her breasts strained against their silken prison and her nipples were strangely taut, feeling the gaze of his lazy, indolent eyes like a subtle caress.
‘So, they transfer the blame for that on the women rather than their own weakness.’
Looking up at him as he twirled her round again, Lucy saw the indolence in his eyes had been replaced by a mischievous twinkle and laughed. ‘Stop teasing me and enjoy the dance before you have to return me to my stepmother.’
After a moment, on a more serious note, he said, ‘You are betrothed to Mark Barrington. Why didn’t you tell me?’
Her face f
ell, the carefree feelings of a moment before melting away. ‘First, I am not betrothed to anyone—especially not to Mr Barrington, however much he likes to think so—and second, I saw no reason to tell you his name. It didn’t seem to be important and it never occurred to me that you would know him.’
‘He is still intent on marrying you. Indeed, he has introduced you as his betrothed to anyone who will listen.’
‘I know. There is nothing I can do about that without causing a scene. But be assured, I have no intention of marrying him. I would rather kill myself.’
Captain Wilding averted his gaze, but not before Lucy had seen the sudden pain that entered his eyes. It was as if her words had resurrected a time and an image he did not want to be reminded of.
‘The more I resist,’ Lucy went on, ‘Sofia is very quick to remind me of my duty and obligation to my father. But the more I have come to know them, the more certain I am that my father doesn’t want this. But what am I to do? I am quite alone and at their mercy. I am fearful of the future, which is as yet uncertain.’
‘Had I known I would have whisked you away to a place of safety to avoid his clutches.’
‘You know him, don’t you? You recognised him. I suspected as much when he reacted to your encounter when we arrived.’
The sound he made, half-laugh, half-curse, made him turn from her. ‘Dear God in heaven! Do I know him? I wish I’d never set eyes on the blackguard. Yes, I know him. We know each other from way back. He is a man of questionable suitability for the young and innocent. Are you quite certain that your father consented to your marriage to Barrington?’
‘No—no, I’m not. I have reason to have strong doubts about it now. This is all very difficult for me. Sofia is beautiful and clever enough to have captured my ageing and lonely father—and young enough to find herself a lover. That is what Mr Barrington and Sofia are—lovers.’
A Viscount to Save Her Reputation Page 6