The Virgin Who Humbled Lord Haslemere by Anna Bradley

Chapter Four

Benedict sprawled on the silk settee in Lady Wylde’s dressing room, one leg balanced on his knee and his arm flung over the back, watching as she dabbed powder on her décolletage.

Her eyes found his in the looking glass, and she cast him a flirtatious glance, eyelashes batting over her sleepy dark eyes. “Such an intense gaze, my lord. Do you see something that pleases you?”

She shifted, turning toward him, and the lace sleeve of her dressing gown slipped obligingly off her shoulder, exposing her smooth, creamy skin. Benedict’s gaze roved over her, lingering on the luscious curves of her breasts. “Quite fetching indeed, my lady.”

She was fetching. No doubt she’d invited him to her boudoir hoping he’d fall upon her like a ravaging animal, but despite all that lovely skin she was flaunting, he couldn’t conjure even a twitch of interest from his nether regions.

“If I’m so fetching, then come here, my lord, and lay claim to me.” Lady Wylde’s red lips curved as she beckoned to him with one delicate finger, the other trailing from the hollow of her throat down to the bare skin between her breasts.

Benedict stifled a sigh. It was a damnable time for his cock to be so stubborn, but it did tend to be right about these sorts of things. “There’s no time, I’m afraid. Your guests have arrived and await your presence in the ballroom.”

But Lady Wylde wasn’t one to easily relinquish her prey. “My guests?” She threw her head back in a throaty laugh. “Let them wait.”

Benedict arched an eyebrow as she rose from her chair. She sauntered toward the settee, pushed his leg aside, and sank down onto his lap.

No. Still nary a twitch.

Lady Wylde wasn’t the first woman who’d attempted to ensnare him with her seductive wiles. Benedict had been chased many times, and it had never dampened his arousal before. Quite the opposite. He was an indolent creature, and he’d always been rather grateful to his paramours for saving him the effort of a pursuit.

She wriggled her round bottom against him, her warm breath caressing his cheek. His hand landed her thigh, more from habit than anything else. He gave it a hopeful squeeze—he was a man, after all—and eyed the pale, full globes of her breasts spilling from her bodice.

Nothing. His cock was staging a rebellion.

He couldn’t make sense of it. He hadn’t come to London for a dalliance with Lady Wylde, but he’d been eager enough to bed her last season. At the moment, however, he couldn’t recall why she’d caught his attention in the first place.

Troubling, really. He hadn’t bedded a woman in months. Now here he was with an obliging lady perched on his lap, and she was just the sort of lush, dark beauty he favored. If his cock refused to stand for a siren like Lady Wylde, he might as well give up on being a wicked rake and return to Surrey now—take up angling, or bird watching, or whatever it was gentlemen did when they declined into their dotage.

“May I offer you more wine, my lord?”

Benedict turned his attention to his wine glass, which had remained untouched since he’d arrived. “Later, perhaps.”

“You’re somber this evening. Is there nothing I can do to cheer you?” Lady Wylde’s red lips curved in an inviting smile, and one slim hand landed on his knee. “There must be something that will restore you to your customary good humor.”

Her hand inched up Benedict’s thigh. Given how determined she was to lift his, er…spirits, she’d take a refusal on his part as a grievous insult, indeed, but he couldn’t make himself give a damn.

“No, thank you, my lady.” Benedict caught her wrist and removed her hand from his thigh. “I believe I’ll make an appearance in the ballroom, and leave you to complete your toilette. Perhaps you’ll favor me with your first dance tonight?”

Lady Wylde wasn’t accustomed to being rejected. Her cheeks reddened with anger, and her full, pouting lips pressed into a tight line. “No, I’m afraid not. I’ve promised my first dance to Lord Harrington.”

She tossed her head, but she didn’t relinquish her place on his lap. Instead she clung to him like a burr, as if she were expecting him to leap to his feet in a fit of jealous rage at the mention of Lord Harrington.

Benedict remained where he was. The idea of such a scene exhausted him, and before he knew what he was doing, he raised his fingers to his mouth to hide a yawn.

“Am I boring you, Lord Haslemere?” Lady Wylde had been toying with his hair, but now she sank her claws into the back of his neck.

“Ouch! Er, I mean, no, of course not.” He winced as he traced a finger over the long, deep scratch she’d carved into his flesh. “You’re uniformly charming—”

But it was too late to soothe her ruffled feelings. She leapt free of his lap and flounced back to her dressing table. Her face was mottled with fury, and the eyes that met his in the glass glittered with temper.

Well, that was it, then. Benedict got to his feet with far less regret than he should have felt at being doomed to God knew how many more weeks of celibacy. He turned toward the door, reasoning that the least he could do was save her the trouble of tossing him out of her dressing room, but before he could escape, she stopped him.

“Will your sister, the Duchess of Kenilworth, be attending my ball this evening, my lord?”

Benedict turned back to her with a shrug. “I’ve no idea. If you recall, I’ve just arrived in London. I haven’t yet spoken to my sister, but as I’m sure you’re aware, the duchess doesn’t attend many entertainments during the season.”

Particularly not any entertainment hosted by Lady Wylde. The ton might receive her ladyship without batting an eye, but the Duke of Kenilworth was a high stickler, and he was particularly protective of his wife. Benedict doubted he’d consider Lady Wylde a proper companion for Jane.

Lady Wylde went back to her toilette with a shrug, but there was a spiteful glimmer in her eyes. “Oh, I understand completely, my lord. I don’t blame the duchess at all for wishing to avoid company just now, but her favorite is meant to attend tonight, and I thought perhaps she longed to see him.”

“Her favorite?” Benedict’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t care for Lady Wylde’s tone, or her insinuation. “I don’t have the pleasure of understanding you, madam.”

“Oh, I’m certain it’s just idle gossip. You know how the ton is, my lord. There’s likely not a grain of truth to it.” Lady Wylde’s crimson lips curled in a smirk. “Still, perhaps it’s not so surprising the duke won’t let her out of his sight.”

Benedict took up the coat he’d draped over the back of the settee and offered Lady Wylde a polite bow. Whatever the latest rumor was, he’d be damned if he’d give her the satisfaction of telling it to him. “I’m certain the duke isn’t so foolish as to credit whatever damnable lie is on the tip of London’s wagging tongues this time. I wish you a pleasant evening, my lady.”

But Lady Wylde had no intention of letting him go without spilling her secret. “Oh, but how silly of me! Of course, you wouldn’t have heard of it, rusticating in Surrey as you’ve been. I beg you’ll forgive me for repeating something so ugly, my lord, but the gossip has it the duchess and Lord Draven are engaged in a scandalous affair.”

Benedict paused halfway to the door. Jane, having an affair with Draven?

How imaginative. He’d give the gossips that much. Utter bollocks still, of course. Jane had married the Duke of Kenilworth less than six years ago, and the union was a happy one. Even if she was disappointed in her marriage, why should she choose the Earl of Draven as her paramour? The man was practically a hermit—

“You look skeptical, my lord. It might interest you to know Her Grace was spotted leaving Lord Draven’s townhouse one night this week, alone. But I’m sure it’s all perfectly innocent.”

Lady Wylde’s voice rang with malice, and Benedict let out a weary sigh. Perhaps he should have remained in Surrey. It was as dull as a bloody tomb there, but at least he was spared this sort of foolishness.

“Now, if you’ll forgive me, Lord Haslemere, I must dress. Do enjoy the ball tonight, won’t you? It’s rumored Lord Draven will come out of hiding to attend. Perhaps you should ask him yourself if the rumors about his affair with your sister are true.”

Benedict left Lady Wylde’s bedchamber without bothering to give her the satisfaction of an answer. Her mocking laugh followed him through her private sitting room, persisting even after he’d escaped into the hallway, but he hardly registered it as he made his way down the stairs to the first floor.

The doors between the large and small drawing rooms and the music room had been thrown open to serve as a ballroom. He came to an abrupt halt as he neared, knocked back a step by the deafening din of music and footsteps pounding across the dance floor.

Good Lord, what a crush. The acrid scent of sweat and the heat were so stifling he might have been standing at the very gates of hell. Half of London’s upper ten thousand were stuffed inside cheek to jowl, and ready to burst from the seams, much like Lady Wylde’s breasts from her corset. Even if Draven was here, it would be a devil of a business to find him in this crowd.

Benedict stifled another sigh as he took in the familiar sight of London’s fashionable set, their jewels flashing and faces flushed with heat and champagne. Didn’t anyone new ever come to London? These were all the same people who’d been here last season, except for—

Benedict paused, his gaze catching and holding on a tall lady in a bronze-colored gown and masque. She was some distance away from him, tucked into a far corner of the ballroom, removed from the rest of the crush.

Wasn’t that…that is, she looked just like—

No, it couldn’t be. It was ridiculous, impossible. This was the last place in the world he’d ever expect to find her.

No, he’d mistaken another lady for her. Yes, he must have done. There was no way Georgiana Harley, with her scolding tongue and prim gowns, her manners so stiff and proper she put him in mind of a marionette whose strings had been pulled too tight, could be here, at Lady Wylde’s masque ball.

He peered over the sea of bobbing heads with far more interest than he cared to explain to himself, trying to catch another glimpse of the tall, graceful lady in the dark silk gown.

Ah, just there.

Hell and damnation. There was no mistake. He knew it as soon as his eyes lighted on her once again. She didn’t look anything like he’d ever seen her before, but for good or ill, he couldn’t forget her face. Georgiana Harley lingered like a bad taste in his mouth, or a stinging slap to his cheek.

It was her. There was no confusing her with any other lady in London.

The drab hat and stiff brown cloak were nowhere to be found. Her gown wasn’t nearly revealing enough to catch the lascivious gazes of the rakes who frequented this sort of entertainment, but now he’d spotted her, Benedict found it difficult to take his eyes off her.

Her gown and masque were a deep, rich brown. They were both plain, severe even, her only adornment a bronze and black striped ribbon tied around her waist. There wasn’t a single feather or frill to be seen, but the ensemble suited her somehow. Her thick, chestnut hair was gathered into a simple knot at the back of her neck, and a length of the same striped ribbon that made up her sash was wound throughout the thick locks.

He gaped at her, struck dumb, feeling as if he were staring at a ghost. A ghost of a different Georgiana Harley, from another place and time—a ghost of a lady who, despite her obvious efforts to avoid notice and blend into the scenery, outshone the gaudier birds that fluttered around her, with her sleek, rich feathers.

Benedict didn’t make any move to enter the ballroom, but lingered in the doorway, watching her. What the devil was she doing here? Had she come here alone? No, surely not. He turned his gaze toward her companions, expecting to find Lady Clifford, but instead it was Darlington who was standing beside Miss Harley, and on his other side, her hand on his arm, was Lady Darlington.

That was even stranger still. They were meant to be on their way to Darlington Castle in Kent by now. Even when he was in London, Darlington rarely went into company. If he did venture out, it certainly wasn’t to attend this sort of chaotic entertainment.

Benedict pulled his masque from his coat pocket, slipped it over his face, and began to push his way through the crush. As Darlington’s closest friend, it was his duty to discover if something was amiss. If that meant crossing swords with Miss Harley again, well, it was bad luck, but it wasn’t his fault. He had an obligation to Darlington, that was all. If he did feel a hint of anticipation about dueling with her again, it was only because he was bored, and it was good fun, ruffling her feathers.

He circled around the long way, keeping to the outer edges of the crowd to avoid any acquaintances who might recognize him. He had no patience for meaningless chatter at the moment.

He kept his gaze fixed on Georgiana Harley as he neared her corner of the ballroom. As he got closer, he noticed her jaw was tight, and her shoulders rigid. She hadn’t come here for her own pleasure, then. She didn’t want to be here, yet there she was, in all her ballroom finery, doing her best to go unnoticed.

She seemed distracted as well. Her gaze was moving over the crowd as if she were searching for someone. Who, though? The ballroom was crowded with ton, along with a generous sprinkling of scoundrels, rakes, courtesans, and other dubious members of the demimonde who made up Lady Wylde’s circle. Miss Harley didn’t know a soul here beyond Darlington and his wife.

No matter. He’d have an answer soon enough, even if he had to tease it out of her—

“Lord Darlington!”

Every head turned, the chatter grew louder, and then the crowd parted and Lady Wylde herself appeared, clad in a daring gown of scarlet silk. Lady Tilbury was with her, and Lord Harrington, the fool, was dangling on her arm like a shiny bauble.

The last person Benedict wished to confront at this moment was Lady Wylde, so he ducked behind a boisterous knot of people standing near Miss Harley and did his best not to call attention to himself.

“Lady Darlington!” Lady Wylde, who was well aware the Marquess and Marchioness of Darlington didn’t attend many London entertainments, couldn’t quite hide her satisfaction that they’d made her masque ball an exception. “Why, how wonderful to see you both here. I confess I didn’t expect it.”

“My lady.” Darlington bowed over Lady Wylde’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you.”

“Oh no, my lord, the pleasure is all mine, I assure you,” Lady Wylde gushed in her usual dramatic fashion, simpering over Darlington, flattering Lady Darlington, and relishing having every eye upon her.

Every eye, that is, but Benedict’s.

He kept his attention on Georgiana Harley, and he saw her reach out and lay a hand on Lady Darlington’s arm. She whispered something to her, and Lady Darlington responded by turning to Lady Tilbury with a smile. “Lady Tilbury, and Lord Harrington. How do you do? May I present Miss Georgiana Harley?”

“Lady Wylde, Lord Harrington, Lady Tilbury.” Miss Harley curtsied to each in turn, but Lady Tilbury seemed to be of particular interest to her, and soon enough she’d coaxed her a little apart from the others. At first, they seemed to be exchanging the usual pleasantries. All very dull and ordinary, but for one thing.

Their conversation went on, and on, and on…

For two ladies who’d never met before, Miss Harley and Lady Tilbury seemed to have a great deal to discuss, and judging by Miss Harley’s eager expression and the rapidity with which her lips were moving, whatever they were discussing was of some importance to her.

Benedict edged closer to them, taking care to keep his head down and his movements unobtrusive. Closer, then closer still, until he was close enough to overhear Lady Tilbury murmur, “…tell you what I told Lord Draven, Miss Harley.”

Draven, again? Benedict frowned. Draven’s name seemed to be on everyone’s lips tonight. Curious, for a man who rarely set foot outside his townhouse.

“…appreciate any information you might give me, Lady Tilbury.”

“Despite my friendship with Clara’s late mother, I’m afraid I only know what all of London knows, Miss Harley. Clara was last seen at a Christmas ball at Lord Draven’s country estate in Oxfordshire. The previous Lord Draven, that is, the current earl’s father.”

“The estate is near High Wycombe, I believe?”

“Yes. The Beauchamps lived in the same neighborhood as Lord and Lady Draven, and the two families were friends.” Lady Tilbury sighed. “Poor, dear Clara hasn’t been seen since that night.”

Miss Harley raised an eyebrow. “Are you certain? An acquaintance of hers swore to me she saw Miss Beauchamp sitting in a carriage outside your home less than a week ago.”

“No, no. I think I would know it if I’d seen Clara after all these years. Her family searched all over England for her without any success. Goodness, it is warm in here.” Lady Tilbury murmured, with a vigorous flutter of her fan.

“Miss Beauchamp’s tale is a strange one, isn’t it? Unless one believes in vanishings.” Miss Harley gave Lady Tilbury an appraising look. “Which I don’t.”

“Quite strange, yes. Mrs. Beauchamp was a great intimate of mine, but she didn’t talk to me much about Clara. She couldn’t bear to mention Clara’s name after she went missing.” Lady Tilbury shook her head. “She died within a year of Clara’s disappearance, and I don’t mind telling you, Miss Harley, I’ve always thought she died of a broken heart.”

Lady Wylde overheard her, and having finished flattering Darlington, turned her attention to Lady Tilbury. “I recall hearing at one time that Clara Beauchamp had married a viscount, though I never did believe it to be true.”

Miss Harley frowned. “Why shouldn’t you believe it?”

Lady Wylde swept a disparaging glance over Miss Harley, and despite himself, Benedict’s lips twitched. Miss Harley wouldn’t get far with her ladyship with that forthright tone. As far as Lady Wylde was concerned Miss Harley, in her plain gown and simple ribbons, was hardly worth a second glance. She might not wish to insult the Marquess and Marchioness of Darlington by snubbing their friend, but Lady Wylde’s graciousness would only extend so far.

“From what I’ve heard, Clara Beauchamp was a sweet little thing, but rather insipid, and of course, her family was in trade. She wasn’t the sort of young lady to attract the notice of an aristocrat.” Lady Wylde gave Miss Harley a condescending smile. “She had a tidy little fortune, but not enough to make up for the deficiencies in her pedigree, you understand.”

Miss Harley gave her a blank stare. “Not really, no.”

Lady Wylde settled her ruffles with a disdainful sniff. “It’s the way of things, my dear. Miss Beauchamp didn’t, to my knowledge, ever become a viscountess. She disappeared soon after that rumor started, and there hasn’t been a whisper about her since.”

Miss Harley didn’t seem to realize a lady of inferior rank such as herself was meant to plead humbly for Lady Wylde’s exalted attention. “People don’t simply vanish into the air like so much mist, Lady Wylde. Someone must have seen something.”

“Of course, someone knows something about it, but I shouldn’t hold my breath waiting for them to speak up. They’ve remained quiet for this long, haven’t they? Clara Beauchamp is likely dead by now. But that’s what comes of young ladies getting above themselves.” Lady Wylde’s lip curled. “The Beauchamps were common, and Lord and Lady Draven are among the most elegant members of London society.”

“Ah, well, what’s a kidnapping in comparison to aristocratic patronage?” Miss Harley’s voice was bright, but her face had gone hard. “As long as Miss Beauchamp was fortunate enough to enjoy the attentions of the most elegant members of London society, I suppose she has nothing to complain of, does she?”

Darlington stifled a cough, and Lady Darlington raised a hand to her mouth to hide a smirk, but Lady Wylde only replied without a shred of irony, “Indeed, she doesn’t. But I must say, I don’t understand this sudden fuss over Clara Beauchamp. Lord Draven, of all people was asking about her just the other day.”

“That is curious,” Lord Harrington drawled. “But as we learned this week, Draven has a great many secrets. The Duchess of Kenilworth, for one.”

Harrington’s sneering tone made Benedict’s fists clench. Bloody traitor. He had half a mind to call Harrington out—

“The Duchess of Kenilworth?” Miss Harley repeated. “What does the duchess have to do with Lord Draven?”

“My dear Miss Harley, what doesn’t she have to do with him?” Harrington smirked. “If the gossips are to be believed, the duchess and Lord Draven are…intimate friends.”

Miss Harley looked Harrington up and down as if he were a bit of muck she’d found on the sole of her slippers. “Are gossips ever to be believed, Lord Harrington?”

Harrington’s face reddened, but he glared down his nose at her. “You’re not out much in society, are you, Miss Harley? If you were, you’d know this isn’t the first rumor that’s circulated about Draven and the duchess.”

Lady Wylde tittered. “Indeed. Given their past escapades, it’s not so surprising the duchess and Lord Draven should have fallen into each other’s arms again.”

“When did they fall into each other’s arms the first—”

“Forgive me, but I must see to my other guests. I beg you will excuse me, Lord and Lady Darlington.” Lady Wylde offered them each a curtsy, then swept off in a whirl of scarlet skirts without another glance at Miss Harley.

Benedict had heard enough. He backed into the hallway, leaving the ballroom behind. Once he’d rounded the corner, he tore the masque from his face, an uneasy knot in his stomach. He felt rather foolish, creeping about like a spy, but secrets led to spying, and it was beginning to dawn on him his sister might have more secrets that he’d ever suspected.

What did Lady Wylde mean by past escapades?

Jane had been acting peculiar lately. She’d spent far more time at his country estate this past winter than usual. Benedict had wondered at it, but he’d assumed Jane would confide in him if something was amiss. At eight years her senior, he’d been as much a parent as a brother to Jane. She’d been hardly more than a child when their mother passed, and they’d only grown closer since their father’s death three years earlier.

So he hadn’t pressed her for an explanation. He’d let it go and simply enjoyed hers and his nephew Freddy’s company. But Jane’s silence had continued. As the season drew near, she’d grown unaccountably anxious about Benedict’s return to London, and encouraged him to remain in Surrey without offering any explanation why.

But an affair, with Lord Draven? Impossible. Jane would never betray her husband. It simply wasn’t in her character to do something so low and dishonest.

As for this Clara Beauchamp, Benedict had never heard her name before, but she was somehow connected to Lord Draven’s family, and Lord Draven was, according to the gossips, somehow connected to Jane.

The whole business was as murky as the Thames, but all hope wasn’t yet lost. Draven hadn’t put in an appearance, but there was one other person who’d come here tonight to stick her pert little nose into this mysterious business.

Of course, there was no reason to think Miss Harley had turned up here, in the last place one would expect her to be, because of the rumors about Jane and Draven. She might be after something else entirely. God knew there were enough sinners gathered in this ballroom tonight to keep Lady Clifford busy for an eternity.

But Darlington hadn’t come tonight because he’d had a sudden yearning for Lady Wylde’s company. No, he and Lady Darlington had come as a favor to Miss Harley. Benedict was certain of it. If she was here to poke about in Jane’s business, who’d put her up to it?

Draven, perhaps, or the Duke of Kenilworth?

There was only one way to find out.

Benedict stuffed his masque into his pocket and made his way to the entrance hall. He collected his hat and walking stick from Lady Wylde’s butler and strolled out into the night. A moment later his carriage appeared, and he climbed inside.

“The Clifford School, Grigg,” Benedict ordered his coachman as he pulled the door closed behind him. “No. 26 Maddox Street.”

It was time he paid a visit to Georgiana Harley.