by Lora Darling
“Jillian’s true parentage should concern you, Adrien, because with that bit of knowledge I’ve just handed you the leverage you need if Sam decides to expose you.”
“Do you believe he would stoop so low?”
Cyril shook his head while reaching for the sliver of toast. “I will speak to him, but no, I do not believe the threat holds any weight. As you said, Sam in many things, but he is not stupid. He cannot afford a scandal of any kind, not if he hopes to launch Jillian next year.”
“I do hope you are right about your cousin, Cyril. I really do.” Not just for his own sake, but for Lady Rowe-Weston’s. Cyril had not seen the look in Sam’s eyes when the lady’s name came up. There had been a level of darkness that lent a rather sinister cast to Sam’s desperation to wed the woman. She would need to be warned.
Chapter Seven
Adrien stood toward the back of Lady Palmer’s ballroom, sipping champagne while covertly awaiting Lady Rowe-Weston’s arrival. Her message had instructed him to wait for her in the gallery, but he thought it best they be seen together beforehand. It was always good to stir the pot before serving the feast.
Good lord, had anyone ever said such an idiotic thing?
Shaking his head, he focused on the warm champagne in his hand.
“Benoit.” Henry Westhaven cut a path through the growing crowd to join Adrien at his chosen pillar. He, too, carried a flute of champagne. “Why are you hiding back here?” Planting a shoulder against the pillar, Westhaven surveyed the guests, no doubt on the hunt for a certain Miss Parish.
“How are things progressing with Miss Parish?”
Henry flicked his brown gaze toward Adrien. “The woman is more stubborn than a thirty year old mule.”
Adrien smiled into his champagne. Clearly, Miss Parish had not accepted Westhaven’s overtures toward her, assuming the lad had made any. Westhaven was not what one would call aggressive when it came to courting Miss Parish. Hell, the woman likely did not even know Westhaven fancied her.
“You keep staring toward the stairs,” Westhaven remarked. “Who are you waiting for?”
“Must I be waiting for anyone?”
“Yes.”
Damn Westhaven and his uncanny instincts. “If I tell you, you must not breathe a word to anyone, not even Kilby.”
Henry’s eyes flashed with curiosity. “And if I do?”
“I will see that Miss Parish knows the difference between an English and a French kiss.”
Henry’s gaze narrowed. “Touch her and die, Benoit.”
Adrien saluted with his champagne flute. “Good. We have an understanding then. I am waiting for Lady Rowe-Weston.” As he said the words, the footman at the top of the stairs announced the lady’s arrival. All heads swiveled, his and Henry’s included.
She was a vision.
“My God, that is Lady Rowe-Weston?”
“Oui.” Adrien answered without taking his eyes off her. Hell, Napoleon could have strolled into the ballroom, and he still would not have been able to tear his gaze away. She wore gold. Like a goddess. Her dark auburn hair was swept up in an intricate display of coils and curls. The arrangement looked heavy, but one would never know it by the confident angle of the lady’s chin. As if she dared those staring at her to find fault. How could anyone?
Her gown was flawless. A pale gold sheath accented across the bodice, sleeves, and hem with deep, rich gold embroidery. The cut was much more modest than some worn by the other female guests, hiding more bosom than it exposed, but he still stared. On the two occasions he had been in the lady’s presence, her gowns had been sensible and lacking in any feature that might awaken a man’s lust. Funny how a bit of bosom could throw a match on one’s libido.
Jesu, if looking at her set him ablaze, touching her would likely incinerate him.
“She is breathtaking in a rather nontraditional way,” Westhaven commented. “Are those freckles?”
Adrien did not answer. He shoved his champagne flute into Henry’s empty hand, then stalked off without excusing himself. The crowd, distracted by Lady Rowe-Weston’s arrival and likely her nontraditional beauty, shifted out of his way as if controlled by an unseen force. None of them seemed to notice him until he had mounted the stairs and offered his arm.
Lady Rowe-Weston stared at his crooked arm, then at his face. “This was not the plan.”
“Some plans require slight alterations, my lady.”
She continued to hesitate. The crowd began to murmur.
“Do you mean to cause two scenes this evening, my lady?”
“Of course not.” She coiled her gloved fingers around his elbow.
****
Eirene attempted not to grip Benoit’s arm too tightly lest he ascertain the depths of her discomfort. Not that she would admit it, but her relief over his appearance at her side had nearly dropped her to her knees. She had not anticipated how it would feel to have hundreds of eyes staring at her. Nor had she planned for the self-doubt those gazes had provoked. She had been questioning everything—her gown, her hairstyle, the decision not to powder her freckles. But then Benoit had appeared to offer his arm and a seductive smile.
Her initial scold had been a way to disguise her true reaction. She had not allowed herself to imagine him in evening wear, and the reality stole her breath. Had he any idea how glorious he looked with his pale hair loose, its tips brushing the shoulders of his black evening coat? It appeared not a drop of pomade had been applied to those waves. They begged to be touched.
She curled the fingers of her free hand into a fist. Petting Monsieur Benoit was not part of her plan for the evening.
“I will escort you to Lady Palmer, then take my leave.”
Eirene glanced up at Benoit’s profile, paying no mind to those who attempted to press close for an introduction. “I imagine I could have managed to locate the woman on my own.”
He shook his head without looking at her. “As I said, it is better for us to be seen together, to add fuel to the fire laid by the gossips.”
Ah, yes, the gossips. The piece in the morning paper had turned her breakfast to dust upon her tongue. How dare Benoit and Petley argue over her, as if she were some sort of buried treasure to be awarded to the first man to find the X.
“Do you imagine Petley is in attendance?” Not knowing what the man looked like, she had no way of ascertaining the answer for herself.
“I have not seen him.” Benoit suddenly halted and turned to face Eirene. “There is something you should know in regards to Petley, my lady.” He kept his voice low, prompting the guests nearest them to crane closer.
Overly aware of being the center of attention, Eirene averted her gaze from Benoit. “Not now.” Then she pitched her voice higher than necessary. “I thank you for your escort, my lord.” She slipped her hand free of his elbow, leaving him with no choice but to bow graciously over her knuckles.
His gaze met hers through the sweep of his lashes. “It has been my pleasure, my lady.” Releasing her, he strolled away to be swallowed by the crowd. God willing, he would make his way to the gallery and she would soon join him. The sooner the night ended, the better.
Lady Palmer could barely contain her excitement as Eirene stood before her. “Imagine my surprise when you accepted my invite, my lady.” Clad in peacock blue with a feathered hairpiece to match, Lady Palmer was a sight to behold. She cooed over Eirene’s gown, complimented the arrangement of her glorious hair and even remarked upon the lack of face powder.
“More ladies should embrace their God-given attributes as you have chosen to do this evening, my lady.” Never mind the visible layers of powder adorning Lady Palmer’s face, neck, and bosom. “I once employed a scullery maid who possessed such a wealth of freckles I took to calling her, Brown Molly.” The woman cackled in self-inflicted humor, blind to Eirene’s clenched jaw. “I had to order a new uniform for her in black, because she simply vanished when attired in drab. Not that one wishes to see a scullery maid, mind…” She waved her closed
fan in the air and cackled some more.
At a loss for words, Eirene nodded once and attempted to take her leave. Lady Palmer would have none of it.
“You must dance with my son.” Feathers swooped and bobbed as Lady Palmer’s head pivoted back and forth. “Where is that rascal?” Her watery, blue eyes locked upon Eirene. “Did I mention he will inherit ten thousand a year, not that you need the money.”
She had to escape. Now.
“It has been a pleasure to meet you, my lady, but if you will excuse me.” Eirene left without waiting for Lady Palmer’s reply. A moment longer in the woman’s company and she might have screamed. Though it occurred to her as she darted through the press of guests, she should have lingered long enough to receive directions to the gallery. Hamish’s sources had suggested the gallery as the perfect rendezvous location but had provided nothing further.
Reaching the wall designated for chaperones and spinsters, Eirene took a moment to collect her thoughts and strategize. She could always ask one of the guests. She eyed the women queued along the wall. A few of them eyed her as well though none seemed inclined to speak. She could not blame them, in all honesty. Her presence at the ball would not be joyfully received by anyone hoping to successfully launch a young lady who might be in possession of meager funds. The dowagers, great aunts, and older sisters glaring at her from their locale alongside the potted plants likely believed Eirene had come to join the husband hunt, that she meant to steal prospects away from the charges of these women.
She met the gaze of the woman who sat nearest. An older woman. Perhaps a great aunt? The woman narrowed her eyes, then jutted her chin in the air, but she did not look away. One simply did not give the cut direct to a woman of Eirene’s wealth, no matter what one thought of her.
Eirene smiled. The woman did not. Well, so much for that attempt at kindness. Turning her back on the woman, she gathered her skirts and stepped out onto the terrace, a lovely stone getaway well within sight and sound of the crow-like chaperones. Eirene moved all the way to the railing and braced her hands upon the smooth stone. The garden below was not large, but it glowed beautifully in the moonless night as a result of the dozens upon dozens of lanterns scattered about. A few couples moved in and out of the illumination.
Watching the couples meander, as if they possessed not a care in the world, she sighed.
“It seems a bit early in the evening to already possess regrets about your first foray into Society.”
Eirene kept her hands atop the rail but turned her head in the direction of the masculine voice. A man stood cloaked in the shadows caused by the overhang of a small balcony. The burning end of his cigar allowed her to find him.
“I did not come out here to engage in conversation, sir, especially with a man who chooses to hide from a lady.”
He tossed his cigar aside, then stepped out from under the balcony and into the light that spilled from within the ballroom. “Will you converse now that I no longer hide?”
“I will not.” Eirene turned away, casting her attention out over the garden and away from the tall, dark, and handsome scoundrel to her right. “We have not been introduced, sir.”
“Technically,” he drawled, coming closer, “you were the first to breach social etiquette, my lady.”
Eirene whipped her head back around. “Pardon me? I did no such thing, sir. I merely chose to step out onto this terrace to find a bit of fresh—”
“You invited me to a private meeting in your home.”
She snapped her mouth closed. Odd, while in the midst of planning for this evening, she had not once considered encountering any of the other candidates. Her thoughts had been entirely focused upon Benoit and whether or not he would actually do what he had promised. It was not like her to be so unprepared or to overlook something so very obvious. Of course, the other candidates would attend Lady Palmer’s ball. Such an event offered endless opportunities for such men to misbehave. Looking at the man before her, she attempted to ascertain which of the candidates he might be based upon his looks and what she had read about each man.
Tall. Dark. Handsome in a boyish, eager spaniel sort of way. Fine form. Excellent tailoring. A taste for fine cigars. Ah, yes. Westhaven. Proud to have not lost her facility for deduction, she managed a tight smile. “A gentleman would never remark upon such a thing, Mister Westhaven.”
His brown eyes widened. “Color me impressed and a tad envious, my lady, that you would know me on sight, but I never would have guessed you were the reclusive Lady Rowe-Weston.”
“You are written about rather extensively, Mister Westhaven. One need only pay attention to gain the information needed to recognize you in person.”
“So I am, in the flesh, precisely how they paint me to be in the papers?”
She refused to react to his cheeky choice of words. “Yes.”
It was true. The gossips had done a much better job describing Mister Westhaven than they had Benoit. She need not worry about any surprising discoveries, such as eyes that changed from deep pewter to molten silver or a voice like honey that carried a faint flavor of France or a collarbone tempting enough to recall the sight of while trying to sleep.
No. Mister Westhaven was precisely how she imagined him to be. And he would have made a horrible choice. Looks and charm, notwithstanding.
“Might I ask you a personal question, my lady?”
“That depends.”
He smiled in a way that slowly spread his wide, sensual lips, crinkled the bridge of his nose, and narrowed his eyes. It was a wonder there were not debutantes attached to the man’s silk-clad ankles. Benoit’s tidbit of information about Westhaven filtered into her thoughts. The man was madly in love, according to Benoit. Was that his reason for hiding in the shadows? Was the object of his affection due to arrive, or worse, enjoying herself with another?
“You may ask one personal question, Mister Westhaven, if I can do the same.”
He arched a brow, then nodded. “Very well. I have nothing to hide.”
Eirene turned to prop a hip against the rail and cross her arms. “Go on then.”
He eyed her stance with an openly amused gaze. “Why did you invite me into your home for a private meeting?”
She should have anticipated that would be the question. And yet, she had not and was therefore unprepared. Again. “The matter has been attended—”
“By Benoit, I presume?”
“Well, after a fashion, yes.”
“The man could not keep his eyes off you when you entered the ballroom. I do not imagine I am the only one to notice.”
His words should have concerned her, but instead, she felt nothing but a slow, rising heat. It began low in her belly then spread outward. “I cannot control Benoit’s actions.”
“Do you wish to?”
“That is two questions, Mister Westhaven, and you only asked permission to voice one. It is my turn.” He conceded with a nod. “Why were you hiding in the shadows? And do not claim you were not. We are two intelligent adults well versed on the definition of hiding.”
“I was sulking.”
“Sulking?” Hardly the activity she would expect a gentleman rogue to admit to.
“Yes. Moments before deciding to duck out here and hide, I learned a certain young lady will not be present this evening.”
“Ah.” Eirene nodded. The object of his affection had changed her mind. “I have no experience with unrequited love, Mister Westhaven, but I can easily imagine how uncomfortable it must be. Not to mention fraught with disappointments and empty expectations. I hope you do not allow this young lady to steal the best years of your life away while you wait upon a return of affection she might never offer.”
He stared at her, as if she had sprouted a forked tongue and fangs. “Forgive me, my lady, but you speak as though privy to details you have no knowledge of.”
“Benoit mentioned you were madly in love.”
“Did he?” Westhaven drew back, then shot an angry glance out acr
oss the garden. “Benoit should learn to hold his tongue.”
“He meant no harm, and truth be told, I rather forced him to tell me.”
Westhaven returned his gaze to her. “Dare I ask?”
“Of course. As part of my meeting with him, I asked that he give his opinion of the other candidates’ suitability, and he rendered you unsuitable based on the fact you are madly in love.”
“Suitable for what?”
She stared at him until he seemed to realize she would not answer. “Benoit did not mention the young lady’s name if that helps put your mind at ease.”
“How generous of him.”
“Yes, well, at any rate. It has been lovely meeting you, Mister Westhaven. I wish you great success in your pursuits and bid you good evening.” She gathered her skirts to step away from the railing, but Westhaven moved to block her retreat.
“You are a most unusual woman, my lady.”
“Is that meant to be a compliment?”
He shook his head. “Perceive it more as a warning.”
A chill washed over her skin, extinguishing any lingering heat from his earlier mention of Benoit. “A warning? I fear you have lost me, Mister Westhaven.”
“When I received your cancellation message, I experienced only a brief moment of dismay, followed by mild curiosity, followed by amusement. There are others who might not have reacted the same. Surely, you read this morning’s paper?”
“You speak of the near fisticuffs between Benoit and Petley. As I said, I cannot control Benoit—”
“It is not Benoit you should worry about.” He looked over his shoulder as the sound of approaching voices drifted toward them. In moments, their false privacy would be shattered. He met her gaze while bowing over her knuckles. “It has been a pleasure, my lady.” He lingered over the gesture. “Do be careful now that you have joined Society. Not all gentlemen deserve the moniker.”
Eirene stared after Westhaven as he stalked across the terrace to descend the stairs, which led to a lower terrace and eventually the garden. His parting words echoed in her mind, leaving her with a new urgency to see the evening finished and her carriages packed for a return to the country. She had no desire to risk a meeting with Lord Petley. Her best strategy against that particular gentleman’s unwanted attentions was avoidance, meaning she would do best not to return to the ballroom. Surely, the garden would offer another way into the mansion.