They returned to Lady Aldershot’s house as late as Selina had expected. She took the prudent step of going up to her bedroom before she sought out her sisters. One glance in the mirror confirmed her suspicions that she had some work to do to restore her appearance to its usual standard.
It would not do to enter Lady Aldershot’s drawing room looking like a woman who had been thoroughly, expertly and passionately kissed.
When her hair was back in order, her cheeks less flushed, and the secret smile banished from her lips, Selina went to Aunt Ursula’s chambers only to find them empty of both invalid and sisters. A brief search located them all in the drawing room, where Aunt Ursula was propped up on the sofa by many cushions, and Isobel was playing a lively jig on the piano. Anthea had taken Lady Aldershot’s hands and was enticing her through the steps of a dance. George was leaning on the mantelpiece and talking to Malcolm, though his eyes kept darting across the room to rest lovingly on his lively wife. Malcolm, for his part, turned as Selina entered and let his eyes flash their pleasure as they took her in.
“My goodness, Lady Isobel!” Lady Aldershot protested, through her laughter. “You are playing much too fast for me!” She gasped for breath and clung to Anthea for balance. “Oh, Lady Selina, do come and rescue me! I was foolish enough to ask your sisters to show me the latest dances from the London ballrooms. I cannot keep up at all!”
Selina shook her head in mock disapproval. “Anthea, Isobel, really! I was gone less than an hour, and in that time, you have dragged our aunt from her bed and run poor Lady Aldershot off her feet!”
Anthea looked boldly from Selina to Malcolm. “I think you were gone longer than that, Selina, since you mention it.”
Pretending she had not heard, Selina went to Aunt Ursula and kissed her cheek. “Auntie, I am glad to see you up, but are you really well enough?”
“Enough of that!” Aunt Ursula exclaimed. “I will grow old before my time if I am confined to my bed all day! Isobel, play a waltz for Lady Aldershot. It would be a shame to waste these two handsome gentlemen.”
“A waltz!” Lady Aldershot fanned herself with her hand. “In my day, we never dreamed of dancing the waltz!”
As Isobel obliged at the piano, Malcolm stepped forwards and made Lady Aldershot a low bow. “If you can bear the scandal, my lady,” he said, in a roguish murmur. Lady Aldershot giggled like one of her own granddaughters. She looked from one side to the other, as though checking for approval, and took Malcolm’s outstretched hand. Isobel slowed the music considerately as Malcolm led Lady Aldershot through the first steps of a waltz, holding her at a respectful distance.
“Come, Selina!” said Anthea, rushing forward and catching her hand. “You must not leave me with nobody to dance with but my own husband!”
Selina laughed, shaking her head as Anthea led her to the centre of the room. “Poor George will have no partner of his own!”
“Poor George is very happy to sit and watch until Lady Ursula is ready to dance with me,” George chimed in, pulling up a chair beside Aunt Ursula’s sofa. She rewarded his wink with a rap on the knuckles.
“Careful now, young man. I am not as susceptible to flattery as my poor niece.”
Anthea took Selina’s hand and brought it firmly down to her own waist, then placed her left hand on Selina’s shoulder so that they were ready to waltz, with Selina in the man’s position. “You were always better than our dancing master,” she declared, as Selina gave in and began to lead her in the dance. “I am sure that if you ever did dance with a gentleman, he would have no choice but to fall in love with you.”
“Which is precisely why she turns them all down,” said Isobel, speaking just loud enough for her sisters to hear as they swirled past the piano. She began to increase the pace of the music, little by little, until Selina and Anthea were whirling about the room and Lady Aldershot had come to a complete halt.
“Oh, Your Grace!” she cried, leaning on Malcolm’s arm. “I am all left feet and elbows!” She pressed a hand to her chest and beamed. “But what a thrill! Such a pity that waltzing was not permitted when we were young, Ursula.”
Ursula shook her head disapprovingly. “We had enough scandals of our own without that sort of thing, in my opinion.”
Selina had noticed the way George’s adoring eyes followed Anthea’s every move. She steered her sister towards him, turning with the music, and let her go as George rose to his feet behind her. “Have some pity on the poor man, Anthea. He will die of jealousy if he has to sit and watch any longer.”
Anthea rolled her eyes and let George whirl her away. A familiar pride warmed Selina’s chest as she watched them together. Anyone could see why they were the toast of London – two newlyweds with easy manners, ample fortunes, and the soft light of love beautifying their faces.
She was so enraptured that she did not notice Malcolm standing at her side until he gently cleared his throat and extended his hand.
“My lady?”
He was asking her to dance. Again.
The music dimmed in Selina’s ears. She stared at Malcolm’s hand as if it might somehow be a trap. “You know better than to ask me to dance, Caversham. Think of your wounded pride.”
“And yet,” he said, with a rueful smile, “I am asking you once more.”
No. It would be so easy to say. She had said it a hundred times before. A thousand.
Her lips moved around the word. But, instead of saying it, she put her hand in his.
Malcolm’s lips parted, too, as though he were about to ask her whether she was certain. She stopped his words with her wide, frightened eyes. Instead of speaking, he took her hand and placed it on his shoulder, the mirror of Anthea’s gesture moments earlier. He placed his own hand on her waist. Their free hands found each other without the need of eyes to guide them, and clasped.
Malcolm smiled in a way Selina had never seen before. It was not the self-satisfied smirk that was familiar to all the ton. Nor was it the flirtatious grin that he never used if not to his own advantage.
She realised that she had never before seen Malcolm look happy. Amused, yes. Triumphant, most certainly. But neither of those were half as pure, as simple, as honest, as happiness.
And there was no mistaking that he was happy now. His face was like the sun on a clear July morning.
They took a step forward, both together, and stumbled. Selina gasped.
“I – I only know the man’s part!” She stared at him in consternation. “I have only ever waltzed with my sisters.”
He shook his head, still smiling. “I should have guessed. Here. You must learn to let someone else lead, for once.” He guided her to step backwards with a gentle pressure on her waist. Selina understood how Lady Aldershot had felt. All of her limbs, too, had turned to left feet and elbows.
Apparently, that was simply the effect Malcolm had on sensible women.
“I’ll make a fool of myself,” she hissed, but he was not deterred.
“And if you do? Better here than a crowded ballroom. This won’t be the last time I dance with you.” They stumbled again, but he was prepared this time, and he righted her quickly. “You almost have it.”
“I don’t.”
“Well, you will have it once you stop trying to lead.”
She glared. “Following is not in my nature.”
Malcolm chuckled, soft and low, and kept up his gentle pressure on her waist, guiding her backwards, left, around. They completed a turn. Then another.
Selina gradually shifted her attention from her uncertain feet to the other new sensations she was experiencing. The way Malcolm’s hand felt there, just above the flare of her hip. The closeness of him, from head to toe, shoulder and chest and dancing eyes and lithe legs moving through the waltz with ease. The way his fingers wrapped over hers.
Aunt Ursula was right. Waltzing was not something to be embarked upon lightly.
“There,” Malcolm said, barely breathing the word. “Now. This.”
He was
right. She was dancing. As easily as though she had never given it up.
She caught a glimpse of Anthea’s eyes, round with astonishment, as Malcolm led her past the newlyweds. She heard Isobel play a single, uncharacteristic wrong note, and recover from it smoothly. She felt the warmth of the fire as they spun past it, and the cool breeze from the dying day as they crossed to the window.
All of this she saw, and heard, and felt, but did not truly take in, because she was so full of Malcolm. His strong arms, the square edges of his jaw, the light catch of breath in his throat, the rich scent of him, the lips that had kissed her earlier.
Perhaps she had not refrained from dancing to save gentlemen from falling in love with her. Perhaps she had done it so that she, herself, would not fall in love.
Or perhaps it would have been impossible to fall for anyone other than Malcolm. Not the Duke of Caversham. Not His Gorgeous Grace.
The boy who had risked his neck to impress his father in the woods. The man who saved injured dogs and danced with elderly dowagers. The duke who was so determined to win on his own merit and nothing else that he had invited his rival to listen in on the plotting Twynham voters, so that they would both receive the same advantage.
All of these were the things that Malcolm was, these and much more that she was yet to discover. Why, then, was he content to settle for merely being the shadow of his father? Why be the ghost of the Lion Duke when he could be Malcolm Locke?
And did she really want to let herself fall for a man who knew himself so little?
The music stopped. Selina breathed for the first time in what felt like an hour.
Malcolm did not let her go, as she expected. He held her still, in waltz position, his eyes locked on hers.
“Shall… shall I play again?” asked Isobel, her uncertain voice breaking the spell.
Malcolm dropped Selina’s hand and bowed. “I would dearly love to hear one of your own compositions, Lady Isobel. I have not been able to forget the tune you played the night I dined with your family.”
Isobel lowered her hands to the keys once more, her eyebrows slightly raised. “Is that the part of the evening you could not forget, Your Grace? I am surprised to hear it.”
A look passed between her and Malcolm that reminded Selina of the way the Balfour sisters all teased their brother.
“As it happens,” said Malcolm, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his cuff, “I have an excellent ear.”
As if to underline his point, a loud sneeze sounded from the hallway. Isobel cut off her playing as all eyes turned to the door. A footman entered, too bright-eyed and clear-voiced to be the sneezer.
“Sir Roderick March,” he announced.
“My goodness,” said Lady Aldershot. “I haven’t had so many visitors in months! Do show him in.”
“He will be here to see me, on business,” said Malcolm, taking a stride towards the door. George moved still more swiftly to intercept him and stopped his forward progress with a friendly hand on the shoulder.
“Let the man come into the warmth, Caversham. I’m sure he’s had a long journey.” George met Selina’s eyes behind Malcolm’s back, just long enough to impart a warning.
Sir Roderick entered the room with a handkerchief pressed to his nose. “Good evening, good evening,” he said, his voice a hoarse rasp. It was quite different to his usual tones.
And yet, all the same, it was horribly familiar.
Sir Roderick sniffled and withdrew his handkerchief. “I am sorry to intrude upon you, Lady Aldershot, especially since, as you see, I am not at all well.” He stopped to cough. “I have an urgent matter to discuss with the Duke of Caversham.”
“Roddy,” said Malcolm, with such false joviality that everyone in the room turned to him in astonishment, “don’t be a bore. I’m sure nothing can be urgent enough to tear me away from such pleasant company.”
Sir Roderick coughed again. “I’m afraid it is, Caversham. You must return to London with me at once.”
Malcolm glanced over his shoulder at Selina. Any hope that she had not immediately recognised Sir Roderick as the man behind the Twynham bribes died as he saw her face.
“Well,” he said. His throat sounded dry as a bone. “I see there’s no hope for it.” He tore his eyes from Selina with what appeared to be some difficulty, but by the time he reached Lady Aldershot he had regained his composure. “My lady. I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality.”
“Oh, Your Grace! It has been such a pleasure.” Dear Lady Aldershot, utterly oblivious to any tension in the air, set about summoning her servants to fetch a hot flask of something and a stack of blankets to warm the duke and his friend on their way back to London. Selina stood in perfect, frozen stillness as he bid goodbye to her aunt, her puzzled sisters, to George who shook his hand with an expression that clearly said, You’ve torn it now, Caversham.
Then he was in front of her, hat in hand, face calm save for the tick of tension in his jaw.
“Lady Selina.”
It was not that he had lied to her. Lies were only to be expected, after all; the political arena was never bloodless. He had never spoken of anything between them but mutual advantage. Political expediency. A fair exchange, a match beneficial to them both, and perhaps a little, fleeting physical pleasure.
She had filled in the rest for herself. She had known all along that Malcolm’s heart was not on offer, and yet she had foolishly indulged herself in fantasies of his good character that he had not earned.
Well. She was a match for him, true enough, in politics as much as the marriage mart. Her heart was not his for the taking, either.
“About that question you wanted to ask my brother, Your Grace,” she said. “I will save you a thankless visit. I am quite sure the answer will be no.”
She held out her hand. Malcolm pressed it a second too long, staring down at the way his strong fingers covered hers.
“It was a pleasure to see you here, my lady,” he said. “I shall never regret the damage to my phaeton.”
He set his hat on his head, nodded to the ladies one last time, and followed Sir Roderick out.
14
Since Roddy had not had the sense to keep away, Malcolm hoped that at least he would be generous enough to spread the noxious infection that had him continually coughing into his handkerchief, so that Malcolm might endeavour to die from it.
This wish, too, went ungranted. The long journey back to London in Sir Roderick’s uncomfortable carriage passed without Malcolm feeling so much as a tickle at the back of his throat. Sir Roderick was fastidious about keeping his phlegm to himself.
If only the same had gone for his political ambitions, he would have saved Malcolm a great deal of trouble.
“I cannot tell you enough how little I care about whatever has caused you to fall out with Lord Louis,” he said, as Sir Roderick attempted to explain himself for the third time. “For heaven’s sake, Roddy, close your mouth before you do your voice permanent damage. You will never be able to cast votes for me in the Commons if you cannot talk.”
Sir Roderick cleared his throat with an unpleasant gurgling sound. “We have arrived.”
Malcolm glanced out of the carriage window, noting the drizzle of rain with a shudder. “I can see that. We’re at my own house, after all.”
“Lord Louis will be waiting for us. He said he would wait in your doorway, if necessary, until he could speak with you.”
Malcolm restrained himself from rolling his eyes. “I am sure the servants had the wits to at least show him inside. Here, Roddy. Take my umbrella. You are in no state to go out in the rain.”
Sir Roderick took it gratefully. Malcolm turned up his coat collar and hurried past him into the house, kicking up a splash from a puddle that soaked him to the knees.
“English weather,” he snarled, glaring up at the sky from the safety of his own porch. As though the lowering clouds had anything to do with the painful bruises forming around his heart.
They fou
nd Louis sitting in Malcolm’s drawing room, which was a study in bachelor comforts, all dark wood and leather furnishings. Louis had been provided with a glass of brandy and a cup of tea which both sat untouched on the table, a worrying sign. His legs were clamped tightly together, an odd sight in a man whose limbs were thick as tree trunks, and his eyes were unusually bright. “Caversham!” he said, rising to his feet and knocking the table with the tea and brandy as he did so. “Caversham, thank goodness you’ve come! I have terrible news.” He raised a finger and jutted it accusingly at Sir Roderick. “It concerns this blackguard here!”
“Strong words, Louis.” Malcolm could not remember the last time he had been in such need of a drink. He went to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a strong helping of brandy. “Drink, Roddy? Or shall I send for something hot?”
“Don’t think of it!” said Louis, his voice rising to a squeak. “He doesn’t deserve it!”
Malcolm set his drink aside regretfully. Louis was the sort of man so unused to upset that he would require a steady hand to soothe him. “Come now. We’re all friends here. Sit down again, Louis. I can see you’ve had a shock.”
“You will understand why when I tell you what I have discovered!” said Louis, his round face trembling with outrage. Malcolm leaned against the wall, arms folded, eyes flickering from his scandalised friend to his coughing, treacherous one.
“There’s no need to tell me. It’s plain what has happened. One of the Twynham voters was not as crooked as Roddy supposed. Someone has told you that the Duke of Caversham’s man is buying votes.”
Louis deflated like a punctured balloon. “Oh, Caversham, no. Tell me you did not know about this. Tell me you don’t condone it!”
“Know, yes. Condone, certainly not.” Malcolm took up the glass and raised it ironically to Sir Roderick, who was now coughing from outrage as much as illness. “I overheard Roddy myself at the Whitbys’ ball.”
“And you have not withdrawn your support for him?” Louis’s eyes bulged. “Caversham, the insult to your reputation –”
Malcolm summoned every reserve of ducal severity he had in him. “Yes. I am quite aware of it.”
No Dukes Need Apply (The Impossible Balfours Book 4) Page 12