by Deb Marlowe
“I believe so. Does it matter?”
“It does.” She smiled up at him. “Yes. I believe I can make that work.”
“Good. Tomorrow, then.” He bowed again over her hand—but did not kiss it.
A good thing, she thought, pushing her disappointment away. She wasn’t sure her trembling knees could have withstood it.
Chapter 4
Society is thinner right now, with so many gone to enjoy the festivities of the Hadleigh fair . . .
—Whispers from Lady X
A novel sensation, actually looking forward to a night at a ton event. But Tensford couldn’t deny his eagerness as he followed the Earl of Kincade’s servant to a formal parlor just off the entry hall.
“I will inform Lady Hope of your arrival,” the footman said with a bow. He left the parlor door open as he left.
Coming from a family heavy with females, Tensford was more than passing familiar with the sounds of a household readying its women to go out. Doors opened and shut above, feet scurried up stairs and down passages. Whispers and hurried orders drifted downward—and so did one exchange clearly not meant for him.
“This is the outside of enough!” It sounded like the countess—and her hiss echoed in the two-story hall. “First you insult poor Bardham, and now you entertain the pretensions of such a man! One whose horrid nicknames live in the scandal sheets!”
“Lord Bardham has a nickname, too, did you know?” Lady Hope answered calmly. “Boredom, that’s was what he was called at school, I have learned.” Her tone firmed. “He would be known by quite a different designation, however, if it was more widely known how he treats young ladies. Lord Tensford, on the other hand, has treated me with respect and kindness.”
“And why do you think? It’s well known that he hasn’t two shillings to rub together.”
“And once again, Lord Tensford comes out ahead, Catherine. For while everyone whispers that he has no money, I’ve never heard a hint that he owes a sum to any man. Now move aside, please. The earl is waiting and I’ve no wish to be late.”
Lady Kincade’s virulent complaints continued for a moment, but Tensford didn’t hear it. He was quite occupied with another novel sensation—a warm buzz of amazement and gratitude. Lady Hope Brightley was defending him. Him. Lord Terror. Lord Tender.
It was entirely new. And surprisingly . . . touching. It kindled a small, warm flame in his chest, in the dark, echoing chamber where he usually stored his stoic indifference and stubborn determination.
“ . . . and you didn’t even have the wits to ask for your brother’s escort tonight!” The countess was still complaining. Her voice sounded closer now, though. They must be coming downstairs. “Who knows if a man like that can even afford a carriage to get you there and back?”
He’d heard enough. In a breach of manners he couldn’t give a damn about, he stood and strode out into the hall.
And completely forgot his ire for a moment.
Damnation, Lady Hope was lovely. Her gown, dark pink with an embroidered white overlay, made her skin gleam. Against the pale expanse her hair looked like dark, rich silk. She looked expensive and elegant—and entirely too good for him.
But then she spotted him—and her smile lit up the hall like a beacon.
Too good for him? The whisper came from somewhere deep. The hell with that.
“Good evening,” she called, rounding the last landing. “I apologize if I’ve kept you waiting.”
Behind her, her sister-in-law pursed her lips shut.
“Not at all,” he replied. “But we should be going. You’ll be pleased to hear, Lady Kincade, that Miss Nichols and her mother are waiting in the carriage outside. Although I can well afford to transport Lady Hope about London, tonight I can save a few shillings. I’ll be sure to rub them together in your honor.”
The countess’s mouth snapped open, then closed again. Lady Hope was trying not to grin as she let the footman help her into her cloak.
Tensford took her arm, nodded to the countess, and strode for the door. Yes, indeed. It was a good start to what he hoped would be a better night.
The receiving line at Lady Westmore’s snaked, unexpectedly long, through the fine London townhouse. Hope didn’t mind. Miss Nichols and her mama, just ahead, were occupied greeting their many friends and acquaintances. She, on the other hand, was quite occupied admiring her escort.
So tall and erect, he stood. Stern. Unmistakably assured. And everyone stared. They tried and tried to knock him down with their whispers, raised brows and sly glances, but he refused to be cowed. It had the opposite effect, in fact. He looked like a sleek cat set amongst the pigeons, too proud to be interested in such, dull, uninspiring prey.
How annoying they must find him.
How alluring she found him.
But now was not the time for that. Only a tigress could tame the tiger. She had to be smart and stealthy.
“I’m sorry if you were uncomfortable in the carriage,” she told him. “I didn’t expect Mrs. Nichols to warn you off her daughter so bluntly.”
He shot her a wry grin. “It was unexpected, but actually I found it refreshing. She stated the situation plainly and now we all know where we stand. I think we’ll all get along the better for it.” Looking ahead, he lowered his voice a little. “I did find it surprising that Miss Nichols has no intention of marrying soon. Is not the firing off of daughters the whole idea of the Season—and quickly, with the least expense?”
Hope glanced fondly at her friend. “Not for that family. She is an only child and her parents quite dote on her. Miss Nichols is quite the favorite this Season and I believe all three of them are having a grand time. It’s no wonder they would wish to repeat it next Season.”
“What of you?” he asked. “I gather your sister-in-law wishes you to marry. This is your first Season, I believe? What do you wish out of it?”
“Catherine wants me out of her house, it’s true, but she only wishes me to consider her candidate.”
“Bardham,” he said with disgust.
“Yes. He’s vile—and persistent.”
She hadn’t thought it possible for him to grow more intense, but he stiffened and every plane on his face sharpened. “He’s bothered you again?”
“Not bothered, precisely. But he does seem to pop up everywhere when I am out. The park, the shops, the lending library. Suddenly, I’ll look up—and there he is.”
“I’ll warn him off.” His tone had gone tighter, too.
“Thank you, but I don’t think it will be necessary. Truly, I believe he’s flabbergasted. I’m not sure anyone has ever refused him anything, before.”
Tensford frowned. “He never liked to lose, or be denied anything. Only so much fuss a gentleman can make about either, but he did always skirt the boundaries.”
She shrugged. “Something will distract him soon enough. In any case, to answer your question—I came to Town just hoping to enjoy myself,” she said wistfully.
“Your first Season was delayed—and your parents are gone. I gather those two are related?” he asked with sympathy.
“Yes. Papa died unexpectedly and swiftly.” She tried to keep her tone brisk and matter of fact. “Mama’s illness began just after we left off mourning—and it lingered.”
In the most horrid manner, it had gone on, sapping the strength and everything else from her gentle mother. For so long, Hope’s world had consisted of darkened rooms and long nights and endless attempts to tempt her mother’s nonexistent appetite or distract her from her ever-present pain. When she had finally emerged from her second mourning, she had wanted only freedom, light, air and laughter. “I want art and music and dancing and to visit all of the sights in London. I want the freedom to breathe and to play and to plan and to think about the ways I can be productive and useful in my life.”
“And what of the marriage mart?” he asked, indicating the crowd around them. “Is a husband not part of that future life?”
“Of course,” she said a
little irritably. “Neither my younger sister nor I will be able to avoid marriage. But I will choose—and not a man like Bardham.”
“No,” he agreed firmly.
“I’ve earned that much,” she said, feeling righteous and a little belligerent. “And my brother will not sway me. I’ll make my own choice, and when I find the right man I will move heaven and earth to get him.”
Quite unexpectedly, he stepped closer. He stared down at her with those bright blue eyes and it happened again. The air between them fairly danced, it was so charged. “I believe you will,” he rasped.
“Lady Hope? Ahem.” Someone cleared a throat.
She started. It was their turn. They’d reached their hosts in the line. Lord and Lady Westmore welcomed her warmly, and though they appeared a little surprised to find Tensford with her, they welcomed him, as well.
They moved quickly through the rest of the family and emerged at the end of the line to find Miss Nichols and her mama waiting. Tensford stood, looking about at the parlors set with dining tables on either side of the passage and the doors ahead of them, standing open to the ballroom.
“What do you think of the Westmore’s home?” he asked her.
Surprised at the question, she looked around. “It looks very fine tonight.” She frowned at the ice blue wallpaper featured in both parlors and the many glass and china accents. “I wonder if it might not feel . . . cold, perhaps, when it is not filled with guests.”
“I wondered the same thing.”
“Come along, you two!” Mrs. Nichols called. “Reserve a dance with the ladies while you may, Lord Tensford,” she ordered. “I predict these two will be kept very busy tonight.”
“Of course.” He received the promise of a quadrille with Miss Nichols and then turned to Hope.
“I’ll be so bold as to grant you the supper dance, my lord,” she said, sparkling up at him. “I confess, I’ll be very curious to hear all of your . . . observations of the evening.”
“It will be a pleasure.” Making his bow, he shot her a grin and moved off into the crowd.
She watched him go, the tiger once more, lithe and fluid, searching amongst the wildebeests for his prey.
“Shoulders back, girls.” Mrs. Nichols snapped open her fan. “The gentlemen approach.”
It was true, Tensford had wished nothing more than to strangle a couple of the lordlings who had so mocked him, but he knew the manly importance of being able to take a joke. His forbearance had done him good, it seemed. A few of his contemporaries had approached him to commiserate.
“Young idiots,” Lord Montbarrow said with a roll of his eyes. “They’ll find some other poor sod to torture, in good time.”
It sounded similar to what Lady Hope had said of Bardham. He could see her from their corner of the ballroom. She looked flushed and lovely as she went through the rigorous steps of a country-dance.
“Eh, Tensford?”
He started. “I’m sorry?”
The viscount pursed his lips as he looked Tensford over. “I don’t suppose it’s true that you locked your aunt away in the attics on bread and water?”
“Worse,” Tensford replied, deadpan. “I put an end to her outrageous household expenses.” He looked to the heavens. “She was buying new livery to suit every season and when I refused to build her a conservatory, she hired an army of gardeners to keep fires going in the orchard, in an attempt to grow palm trees larger than the ones in her neighbor’s hothouse.”
“What puts these maggots in their heads?” one of the other gentlemen asked. “My mother keeps ten dogs and two small pageboys to follow the lot of them around all day. The boys carry bones and biscuits for the dogs and extra shawls and quills and gloves for my mother, so that she never has to run and fetch the smallest thing.” He shook his head. “I wish I could cut her expenses.”
“Oh, I did worse,” Tensford confessed. “I closed up the estate house where my aunt was living to save the expense, and forced her to move into the dower house with my mother.”
Someone sucked in a breath. “You might as well have stuck her in the attics.”
They all laughed.
“Yes. The damned house has twenty rooms, but apparently that’s not close to enough for the two of them.”
“It wouldn’t be enough for me either, had I to live with my mother,” Montbarrow said with a shiver.
They compared familial horror stories for a while, then moved on to discuss the latest crop of debutantes.
“A smallish group this year.”
“Yes, and more than one who is a bit . . . rambunctious,” Montbarrow remarked. “There are a couple who should take care before they end up on the wrong side of Lady X’s pen, like poor Tensford, here.”
“Yes,” someone said, low and snide. “And none more than the youngest of our host.”
“Not the young Lady Margaret?” Tensford strove to sound surprised.
“Yes, her. She looks coltish and innocent, but I hear she has a temper—and a defiant streak.”
“Lady X may write what she wants of the girl, but it will never get published. Not even if it has more substance than Tensford’s supposed sins,” Mr. Neville, a younger son of the Baron Longley, said with a raised brow.
“Why not?” Montbarrow asked, indignant on Tensford’s behalf.
“Perhaps she is Lady X,” Tensford threw out.
“No, it’s because Westmore is great friends with the man who prints the paper, Childers. Boyhood chums. His family will never feel the sting of Lady X’s sharp wit.”
“Chit’s too young to be Lady X, in any case,” Montbarrow said thoughtfully. “Her scandal rag has been printed for years.”
“And people have been trying to ferret her out for just as long.” Neville emptied his glass. “We’ll never know.”
“Perhaps she is a he,” Tensford said, just to keep the conversation going.
“Now there is a thought I hadn’t entertained.” Montbarrow looked much struck.
“No—couldn’t be. She shows far too much interest in fashion,” Neville laughed. “And I mean the ribbons and furbelows, not in how easily they might come off!”
The laughter was lower and more conspiratorial this time—as was the conversation that followed, about much different sorts of women.
Tensford didn’t listen. Disappointment tasted bitter in the back of his throat. But this was just his first attempt. He sighed. There would be other ideas—perhaps the printer—and this night held promise to be the first he might actually enjoy in London. He’d gained a modicum of acceptance from his peers—and he still had his dance with Lady Hope to look forward to.
He watched her throughout the evening, so clearly enjoying herself, just as she’d wished, and he realized her mere presence made him feel more at ease. And that it made him happy to see her happy. But it also made him . . . impatient.
The more time he spent with her, the more he was drawn to her. He liked her smile. He liked the way she could listen with sympathy and not pity. Hell, he liked the way she actually listened, truly hearing what he said, without merely waiting for her turn to speak, to lecture, or to ask for things he couldn’t give.
He liked the way her hair shone in the candlelight and how she looked both curvy and elegant in that dress.
Two thousand pounds.
A handsome sum, but it lost in the balance against the sheer number of leaking roofs and crumbling barns at Greystone, not to mention the tenants in need of steady work.
So he curbed his impatience. He talked with the gentlemen and even danced twice. And he squashed the eagerness and anticipation he felt when the time came for the supper dance and he could approach her at last. He kept his smile relaxed and he kept a rein on the tightening in his nether regions—all in spite of the way her low bodice hugged her curves and the rich color of her gown enhanced the flush of her skin.
He bowed before her. “I believe this is our dance.”
His hand held steady, his manner elegantly detached.
/>
He convinced himself that he could do this.
And then the first strains of the music began.
A waltz.
A cursed waltz, where he was going to have to touch her, hold her, feel her hands on him.
Damn.
Chapter 5
Have we, as a Society, given thanks for the waltz? Oh, but we must. To feel your partner move beneath your touch, to feel his arms around you . . . surely it is the most romantic dance of all time . . .
—Whispers from Lady X
Her heart pounded when the supper dance arrived—at last. Her excitement was partially due to her daring plan, of course, but that was not the full of it.
Why did it feel like relief when Lord Tensford approached? Gladness and relief, as if it had been a trial to spend the evening away from his side?
Breathing deeply, she managed to stay calm when he bowed over her hand—an effort that grew easier when the music sounded the first few strains of a waltz—and he looked horrified.
She laughed. “Do relax, my lord. I promise not to step on your toes.”
The stoic mask dropped back into place. “I wish I could promise the same, but it’s been some time since I waltzed.”
“You are safe with me. Should you miss a step, I vow not to show a sign of it.”
His mouth quirked. “Very well.” He held out a hand. “Let’s muddle through, shall we?”
He led her out and eased them into the dance. The music swelled. Their eyes met—and the world went blurry at the edges. No need for her to dissemble, despite his worries. Effortlessly they moved together while the dancers, musicians, and all the rest of the ball disappeared in a colorful haze, melted by the heat of his hand at her waist. She shivered suddenly, as the warmth began to spread, chasing cold and doubt and fear away.
Time slowed. She drifted, weightless, in his arms. Even the music had faded inside the bubble they’d slipped into. A place where they were connected in a way she had never imagined.