Thunder & Roses

by Mary Jo Putney

  She gave him a teasing glance. "Does he not bother to invite unmarried girls since they aren't allowed to come?"

  "Rafe has no interest in well-bred virgins," Nicholas said dryly. Gesturing to the woman standing by the host, he added, "That's Lady Welcott, his current mistress, according to Lucien."

  "A married woman?"

  Nicholas nodded. "The only kind of female Rafe has any interest in. They know the rules and don't cause trouble by falling in love with him."

  Sounding very much like a preacher's daughter, Clare said, "Is adultery a way of life in fashionable society?"

  He shrugged. "Since many aristocratic marriages are made for reasons of family and property, it's hardly surprising when people look elsewhere for pleasure."

  Was that why Nicholas had been unfaithful to his wife?

  Even Clare's glorious gown didn't give her the courage to ask that question. Instead, she said, "Surely the duke is in a position to marry a woman of his choice rather than for dynastic reasons."

  "He came close once—fell head over heels for a girl when he was just down from Oxford. I never met her, since I was still at university, but he wrote me some incoherent drivel to the effect that she was a goddess come to earth and they would become officially betrothed when the Season was over. It was the only time I've ever known Rafe to sound unbalanced."

  "Did the girl die and he's never met another woman who was her equal?" Clare asked sympathetically.

  A hard glitter in his eyes, Nicholas replied, "No, she betrayed him. Isn't that what love means?"

  Clare felt as if all the air had been knocked out of her lungs. Then she sputtered, "That is, without a doubt, the most cynical remark I have ever heard in my life."

  "Is it? My experience says otherwise. Everyone who has ever claimed to love me—" His voice cut off abruptly.

  Realizing that he had accidentally exposed one of the painful truths that made him what he was, she took his unresponsive hand in hers. "I suppose that some people claim to love when the real motive is neediness, or a desire for control, or something equally selfish," she said thoughtfully. "Yet there are also people like Owen and Marged Morris, and Emily and Robert Holcroft. Do you think their love involves betrayal?"

  His hand slowly tightened on hers. "No, I suppose not. Perhaps honest love is a talent, or simply luck, that some people have and others don't."

  "I've sometimes thought that myself," Clare said wistfully. "If you don't believe in love, what do you believe in?"

  After another pause, he said, "Friendship, I suppose."

  "One can do worse than believing in friendship," she said, "but deep friendship is also a kind of love."

  "I suppose so." He gave a self-mocking smile. "But since the stakes are much lower, betrayal is less likely, which makes friendship much safer."

  They reached the head of the receiving line, and Clare got her first clear look at the Duke of Candover as he talked to the couple ahead of them. The duke was tall, handsome, and almost as dark as Nicholas, with an aristocratic air that she guessed was as natural to him as breathing. Polite, pleasant, controlled—the very picture of a proper English gentleman.

  The previous guests moved on and the duke turned to them. His face immediately lit up. "Nicholas! I'm glad you were able to come." He shook hands with real enthusiasm. "We probably won't have much time to talk tonight, so I hope you'll join me for luncheon at White's tomorrow."

  Just as Clare had approved of Lucien for fighting beside an outnumbered schoolboy, she now liked the duke for his obvious pleasure in the reunion. Though Nicholas had a low opinion of love, he obviously had the gift of making friends.

  Drawing Clare forward, he said, "Rafe, this is my friend Miss Morgan."

  Their talk had given her a new appreciation of what it meant that he introduced her as a friend. Smiling, she said, "It's a great pleasure, Your Grace."

  He bowed elegantly. "The pleasure is mine, Miss Morgan." Unlike Nicholas, his eyes were a very English gray, and she saw both curiosity and masculine approval in the cool depths. Completing the introductions, he said, "Lady Welcott, the Earl of Aberdare and Miss Morgan."

  The duke's mistress was several years older than he, perhaps forty. She was a handsome, fair-haired woman with a worldly air; not the sort to fall hysterically in love with a man who had no taste for untidy emotions. Clare thought of the "goddess come to earth" who had brought Rafe to this, and repressed a sigh. Poor duke. So many people wanted love, yet there never seemed to be enough to go around.

  Lady Welcott gave Clare a perfunctory nod, but her eyes brightened when she turned to Nicholas. "Lord Aberdare," she said warmly, extending a hand. "You may not remember, but we met when you were Viscount Tregar. At Blenheim, I believe."

  He bowed over her hand. "Of course I remember. I never forget an attractive woman."

  Lady Welcott was too sophisticated to simper, though in Clare's jaundiced opinion it was a near thing. Fluttering her fan gracefully, her ladyship said, "Now that you've returned to Britain, I hope we'll be seeing more of you in London."

  "Very likely you will." His smile was charming; his smiles always were.

  Though the duke seemed mildly amused by the interaction, Clare had to repress a desire to kick either Nicholas or her ladyship in the ankle. Nicholas slanted an amused glance at her, and Clare was sure he could read her thoughts. Smoothly he said, "We're holding up the line. If we don't have a chance to talk tonight, Rafe, I'll see you at White's tomorrow."

  He took Clare's arm and led her into the enormous entry hall, then turned left toward the ballroom. "To succeed in society, Clare, you must learn to control your expression. I was afraid you were going to bite Lady Welcott."

  "I've no desire for social success," she said acidly. "And surely it was rude of her aging ladyship to drool over you in front of me."

  He grinned. "Do I detect a hint of jealousy? I thought it was one of the seven deadly sins."

  "Jealousy isn't, but envy is, along with covetousness, lust, anger, gluttony, pride, and sloth," she retorted.

  "I know the list well." His eyes were dancing. "Everyone needs ideals to aspire to."

  She had to laugh. "You're disgraceful."

  "I try," he said modestly.

  They stepped through an arch of scarlet flowers into a large ballroom, where beautifully dressed men and women drifted about between dances. Yet even though it was Clare's first grand society event, what drew her astonished attention was not the people but the decor.

  The walls and high ceiling had been painted black, which absorbed much of the light from the chandeliers and gave the room a mysterious, shadowy atmosphere. The blackness also made a spectacular backdrop for the well-lit marble statues that stood on pedestals around the edges of the room.

  All of the sculptures were of life-sized females clad in wispy classical draperies that bared large parts of their bodies. Clare remarked, "The Greeks and Romans were a fast lot, weren't they?"

  Nicholas grinned. "Watch the statues for a while."

  She did as he suggested, then gasped when one of the figures changed position. "Merciful heavens, they're alive!"

  "Rafe likes his balls to be memorable." Nicholas indicated another "sculpture," where a soulful man was leaning against the pedestal and talking to the handsome female figure above him. "They are probably ladies of the evening who are being paid handsomely to cover themselves with white lead and powder, then stand still for the evening. I imagine that fellow is trying to make a private arrangement with his favorite nymph."

  "The duke won't mind?"

  "Well, he wouldn't like it if his statue went off into an alcove with the fellow, but I imagine that they can do as they please when the ball is over."

  Clare watched the false sculpture close a whitened eyelid in a slow wink for the gentleman who was stroking her feet. Her clothing was so minimal that it was clear that her remarkable figure owed nothing to artifice. "I'm beginning to understand why people wouldn't bring their innocent daughter
s here," she said rather faintly.

  Musicians in the gallery struck up a tune and dance sets started forming, with men and women lining up opposite each other. Clare found her foot tapping to the music.

  "Would you like to dance?" Nicholas asked.

  "I don't know how," she said, not quite able to keep regret out of her voice.

  "Mmm, I'd forgotten that dancing is un-Methodist." He glanced down at her tapping foot. As she tucked her slipper under her hem, he said, "This is a rather simple country dance. If you watch once, you should be able to participate when another is played, if your conscience permits."

  After consideration, she said, "My conscience has been numb with shock for weeks. Dancing can hardly make it worse."

  The first country dance was followed by a similar one, and Clare and Nicholas joined in. It was delightful, and she only tripped over her feet once, luckily when he was close enough to catch her. Guilt firmly suppressed, she enjoyed herself greatly.

  The next dance was a waltz, so they withdrew to the side of the ballroom. Nicholas said, "Does the wicked waltz look like it will bring about the fall of Western civilization?"

  "Probably not." She studied the gliding couples. "It seems as if it would be very nice with a partner one liked a great deal, and rather nasty with a partner one didn't like."

  "If you're interested, I can get a dancing master to teach you. It's a bit complicated to try without instruction."

  A tempting offer, but her conscience proved to have a little life left in it. "Thank you, but I can't imagine that I will have any opportunity to waltz in the future."

  "We'll see," he said cryptically.

  A voluptuous redhead suddenly swept up to Nicholas. Completely ignoring Clare, she hugged Nicholas and squealed, "Darling Old Nick, you've come home. You must call on me. Number 12 Hill Street. My current protector won't mind."

  He calmly peeled her off his chest. "That's what you said last time, Ileana, and I ended up fighting a duel at Chalk Farms. Fortunately your man of the moment was a damned bad shot, since I could hardly deny the justice of his complaint."

  "Henry wasn't good at much of anything—that's why I invited you over that time." Unrepentant, she rapped his wrist with a folded ivory fan. "When can you come?"

  "Sorry, I'm otherwise occupied." His gaze went to Clare's rigid face. "Besides, I never make the same mistake twice."

  The redhead's coquettishness turned to a pout. "I was only being polite for old times' sake, you know." She opened her fan and wielded it rapidly. "It's not as if I need you. My current protector is six foot four, with everything in proportion."

  Instead of being insulted, Nicholas gave a shout of laughter. "Quite right, Ileana, you shouldn't waste your time on a paltry fellow like me."

  The redhead's rouged lips tugged into a reluctant smile, and for the first time she looked at Clare. "Enjoy yourself while it lasts, duckie. There's no one like Nicholas, in or out of bed."

  As Ileana undulated away, Clare said waspishly, "Are the females here divided between those you've bedded in the past, and those who hope to bed you in the future?"

  His mouth quirked up. "It's probably a waste of breath for me to tell you not to be upset, but notice that I didn't take her up on her offer. Though I'm guilty of attempted seduction, the destruction of your reputation, and numerous lesser charges, one thing I will not do is humiliate you in front of other people."

  He put his hand on the nape of her neck and slowly massaged. Her tension began to ease. Ruefully she realized how well he understood her. Though she was innocent of most of the deadly sins, she was certainly guilty of pride, and it would have been unbearable if Nicholas had publically favored that coarse tart over herself. "I thought you said the courtesans would be more discreet than the ladies."

  "Every rule has exceptions."

  A familiar voice broke in. "Good evening, Nicholas, Miss Morgan." Lord Strathmore ambled up to them. "I think I saw Michael heading for the card room, though I wasn't close enough to be sure it was him."

  "Perhaps I can run him to earth," Nicholas replied. "Will you stay with Clare until I return?"

  "Of course."

  As Nicholas cut through the crowd, Strathmore said reflectively, "There goes living proof of the value of crossbreeding."

  Startled, Clare said, "What do you mean?"

  Strathmore nodded toward Nicholas's retreating back. "Compare him to the rest of these overbred aristocrats."

  She laughed, understanding immediately; there wasn't a man in the ballroom who had Nicholas's magnetic vitality. "I see what you mean. Next to him, everyone else seems half-alive." She glanced mischievously at her companion. "Are you overbred?"

  "Of course. The founder of the noble house of Strathmore was a lusty robber baron, but the blood has thinned over the centuries. Marrying a Gypsy or two might improve the stock." He gave her an angelic smile. "Since I have never been known to let my passions run away with me, Nicholas knew it would be safe to leave you in my care."

  "I should think that lack of passion would be a failing in a rake."

  "I'm not a rake, except by association." He smiled. "But I am widely assumed to have dark, mysterious secrets."

  Lightly she said, "So you're a spy master, not a rake?"

  Strathmore's frivolous manner dropped away and he said sharply, "Did Nicholas tell you about...?" He halted, then made a face. "I think I just said too much."

  Though Clare's comment had been mostly banter, Strathmore's reaction led her to a quick deduction. "Nicholas mentioned once that his travels on the Continent included a bit of information gathering and courier work for an old friend. Since you work in Whitehall, it's not a bad guess that he meant you."

  "You have the mind of an intelligence officer yourself." Lucien's smile made him look younger and much less world-weary. "While I admit that I'm not quite as useless as I pretend, I'd appreciate it if you kept your deductions to yourself."

  "This conversation has been so oblique that I can't imagine mentioning it to anyone, Lord Strathmore."

  "A brain and discretion." He gave an elaborate sigh. "Why don't I ever meet females like you? I'll have to settle for asking you to call me Lucien, as my friends do. Then I can call you Clare, if you don't object."

  "I'd like that, Lucien."

  He offered his arm. "Now that we're officially friends, shall we find a glass of punch? It's rather warm in here."

  With a smile, she tucked her hand in his elbow and they made their way across the ballroom to an alcove where wine punch cascaded into a crystal pool from a jar held by a naked mermaid. This time it was a real statue, though if live mermaids were available, Clare was sure that the duke would have hired one.

  Strathmore held a glass under the stream of punch for Clare, then filled one for himself. "Are you enjoying your first ball?"

  "Yes, but I hope it's not obvious that I don't belong."

  "You look composed and very much at home," he assured her. "No one would guess that you are a schoolmistress from Wales who is being dragged willy-nilly into an alien world."

  He escorted Clare back to the ballroom so they could watch the dancers. "Nicholas deserves a good beating for what he's doing to you, yet I can understand his impulse."

  "I'll hope that's a compliment."

  "It is." His levity dropped away. "You don't need me to tell you that Nicholas is far more complicated than he pretends. He always was, and after that disastrous business four years ago, God only knows what's going on below the surface of his whimsical Gypsy mind. He needs something or someone, and you're the best hope in sight. Though you have every reason to resent what he's doing to your life, I hope you will be patient with him."

  "In fairness, I have to say that the situation is as much of my making as his. I didn't have to ask for his help in the first place, nor did I have to take him up on his ridiculous challenge." Clare thought about the rest of what Lucien had said. "But I'm of no real importance in his life, except to the extent that I've involved him in
Penreith." She grinned. "I've sometimes thought that Nicholas doesn't know whether to treat me as a mistress or a pet."

  Lucien smiled appreciatively, but shook his head. "You are more than either of those things to him, though I doubt that he himself really understands what."

  Lucien's comments were interesting, but Clare didn't believe them. As she sipped her punch, she decided that the very cool, allegedly overbred Lord Strathmore was secretly a romantic.

  It was easier to believe that than to believe she was important to Nicholas.

  Chapter 17

  Half the guests at the ball wanted to stop Nicholas to welcome him home. Besides friendly greetings, he also received three blatant propositions and five broad hints; a good thing he had left Clare with Lucien. Not that he minded her jealousy; he found it rather endearing. Every day Clare was becoming more less and less the virtuous schoolmistress, and more and more a woman.

  By the time Nicholas reached the card room, Michael Kenyon was long gone, if indeed he had ever been there. Nicholas asked several men if they'd seen Lord Michael, but no one seemed sure. Finally, in frustration, he went back to find Clare and Lucien.

  As he passed through the entry hall, he saw a man covered with travel dust admitted and hasten over to the Duke of Candover, who was still receiving latecomers. On hearing the message, Rafe gave a whoop, then turned and raced up the stairs two at a time. Nicholas tried to guess what could have aroused such a reaction in a man whose legendary calm rivaled Lucien's, but imagination failed him. With a shrug, he went into the ballroom, where a quadrille was in progress.

  It took several minutes to locate Clare, but Lucien's height and bright hair made a good beacon. As Nicholas approached them, the music abruptly stopped in the middle of a measure. In the sudden silence, Rafe's voice boomed out over the ballroom. "My friends, I have wonderful news."

  Nicholas looked up and saw that the duke was standing in the gallery with the small orchestra. In a voice pulsing with excitement, Rafe announced, "I've just received word that Napoleon has abdicated. The war is officially over."