The Scoundrel’s Daughter by Anne Gracie
Chapter Five
Alice paused in the doorway of the Charlton House reception rooms. They’d arrived late on purpose. As she explained to Lucy, it was easier to enter a room full of people than to be standing awkwardly, waiting for everyone else to arrive. Besides, it was fashionable to be a little late.
“Don’t be nervous, it’s just a small family party,” Alice murmured.
“I’m not nervous.” Lucy gazed around the room curiously.
No, if anyone was nervous, it was Alice. She’d attended very few social events since Thaddeus’s death—none at all during her year of mourning, and very few since she’d gone into half mourning. She hadn’t enjoyed them.
At each event, some so-called gentleman had sidled up to her and, after some token conversation, had made her an improper proposition. How could they imagine she’d be interested? She’d given them no reason to think so—she didn’t even flirt!—but it was apparently a widespread belief that a widow must be desperately missing her husband’s marital attentions.
Alice was relieved to be spared them.
But tonight she was here en chaperone. All she had to worry about was Lucy, because surely, at a family party—her late husband’s family at that—nobody would approach her with indecent suggestions.
That was why she’d allowed her maid, Mary, to persuade her into the new dress that Miss Chance had made her. The design of the dress was perfectly respectable and the color quite comme il faut for a widow of eighteen months, and yet it felt like a gorgeously frivolous froth of a dress, a gleaming smoky cloud of lilac silk and taffeta—too pretty, no doubt, for a small family party, but who cared? It had been ages since she’d worn anything new, and in this dress she felt somehow lighter, younger. Ready to go dancing, though there would be no dancing tonight. Almeria’s parties were invariably dull.
She knew, she just knew that Almeria would disapprove of the dress. If Almeria had her way, she’d have Alice wearing black widow’s weeds for the rest of her life. And just the thought of that put a smile on Alice’s face.
She glanced at Lucy, who was scanning the crowded room with a faint anticipatory smile on her face. She, too, was feeling the magic of a pretty new dress and the confidence that came with the knowledge that she was looking her best in pale gold muslin and a lacy cream shawl.
Alice could hardly believe the difference between the girl who stood beside her now and the one she’d first met—sullen and withdrawn in the unflattering, overly elaborate dress and the heavy, fussy lacquered mass of ringlets.
Mary had braided Lucy’s tawny hair in a simple coronet around the crown of her head and tucked in some tiny yellow faux rosebuds. The simple style showed off Lucy’s lovely complexion and bright eyes. Her face had the roundness of youth, and now that it wasn’t half drowned in a mass of fat corkscrew curls, you could see the cheekbones that would emerge as she matured. She wasn’t a beauty, but she was quite arresting.
As long as she behaved herself, Lucy couldn’t fail to make a good impression.
Alice glanced around, looking for her hostess. It was rather more crowded than she’d expected. Not quite the intimate little “at home” gathering Almeria had indicated. Alice knew about half the people there, and as for the others, some she’d seen before, though never met, and quite a few were complete strangers. Not as many young gentlemen as she’d expected, though, which surprised her. One would have thought a party to celebrate a young man’s birth would have attracted more men of his age.
Alice found her sister-in-law, resplendent in puce silk and gold lace, and greeted her cordially. “Almeria, what a very pleasant gathering. Thank you for inviting us.” Strictly speaking, Almeria hadn’t invited them at all. Gerald had.
Almeria’s mouth pinched as she eyed Alice’s dress. After a brusque greeting she pulled Alice aside and said in a low, angry voice, “I don’t want this nobody of yours setting her cap at my son. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly,” Alice said calmly. “If it’s any comfort, Almeria, my goddaughter has no designs on Gerald or any other titled gentleman.”
Almeria made a scornful sound. “You always were a fool, Alice. Just keep her away from him, all right?” She turned away to speak to her other guests.
* * *
James was restless. He should never have accepted Gerald’s invitation. A family party, as insipid as he had feared. As Thornton had warned him, the company was heavy on hopeful young unmarried misses and their mamas. He knew a few of the other gentlemen, some from the army and one or two acquaintances from school days, but there was nobody he particularly wanted to talk to.
He sipped the wine, which was inferior, made small talk and found he was surprisingly popular—until he realized that for some of these females he was as much a target as Thornton. Married ladies on the hunt for a lover, and unmarried ladies on the hunt for a title.
James had no interest in either. All that was behind him now. He’d had the best with Selina and had no interest in second best.
He was aware that his daughters might need a mother figure, so he’d sent for Nanny McCubbin, who was as motherly a figure as anyone could want. And as the girls grew older, a good governess could provide all the female guidance they would need.
He surreptitiously checked his fob watch. How soon could he make his escape?
He observed the hopeful young misses clustered in groups, following young Thornton with their eyes.
He’d met Thornton’s parents—they’d invited him for dinner before the party—and now he understood why Thornton seemed so restless and unsettled. They treated him like a schoolboy instead of a man who’d commanded troops—damned well, too, keeping a cool head under fire and showing a talent for tactics and strategy.
Musicians began setting up in the other room. Time to leave. He was a good dancer, but he wasn’t in the mood tonight, especially here, with the eyes of ambitious ladies on him.
He drained his glass, set it on a nearby side table and prepared to make a discreet exit. And halted.
She must have only just arrived: he would have noticed her earlier. Tall and slender, she was dressed in a soft lilac dress that clung in all the right places. As she walked forward to greet her hostess—with an unselfconscious grace that caused his mouth to dry—the dress seemed to caress her limbs, floating around her like a cloud.
“Who is that?” he breathed. But there was no one near to answer.
Her companion was a younger lady, a girl with light brown hair wearing a yellow dress. Her daughter?
The woman glanced around the room, saw someone she knew, gave a little wave and smiled. He swallowed. The sweetness in that smile lit up the room.
Her dark hair was arranged simply in a loose knot on her crown, revealing the graceful line of her neck. Her neck was bare—she was the only lady there who wasn’t draped in jewels—revealing smooth, creamy skin. He wasn’t close enough yet to tell the color of her eyes, but they were striking, framed by lashes that were long and dark.
And her mouth—dear lord, her mouth. Lush, soft, vulnerable. Rich, dark rose against the creamy pallor of her skin. A mouth made for kissing.
And why the hell was he thinking about kissing a woman he’d never even met, when not two minutes before he’d been telling himself that all that was behind him now? And believing it.
He couldn’t drag his eyes off her.
His gaze dropped to her left hand, but of course she was wearing evening gloves. Was she married?
She had to be. A woman like that would never be left on the shelf. And she wasn’t in black, and though lavender was considered by some to be a color for half mourning, that dress was very far from being widow’s weeds. So, not a widow. Damn. He didn’t dally with married women.
From the corner of his eye, he spotted Thornton and his mother passing—his mother gripping her son’s arm like an arresting sergeant and towing him determinedly along. Going by Thornton’s resigned expression, their destination was some young lady his mother particularly favored.
“Thornton.” His arm shot out, and Thornton came to a grateful halt. James indicated the tall lady on the other side of the room. “Who is that lady?”
Thornton followed his gaze. His eyes narrowed. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “She looks vaguely familiar, but . . .” He shook his head. “Mother”—he turned to his mother, who hadn’t relinquished her grip on his sleeve—“who is that young lady with Aunt Alice? The one in yellow.”
His mother snorted. “Some nobody that Alice has befriended. She claims the gel is her goddaughter, but I’ve never heard of her. Ignore her, Gerald—she’s not worth your time or attention. She comes from I know not where, I don’t know her people, she has no fortune that I can ascertain, and she’s no beauty. I’m very cross with Alice for bringing her along, but of course, you know Alice—she lives to vex me. Now come along. I want you to meet Lady Ledbury’s daughter, Lally.” She tugged on her son’s sleeve.
Thornton didn’t move. He stared, his expression intent. “I’m sure I’ve seen that girl before.”
“You can’t have,” his mother said impatiently. “She’s a complete nobody and new in town. Now come along, Gerald.” They moved off.
So, his tall dark lady was Thornton’s aunt Alice. James couldn’t take his eyes off her. If he’d had any expectations of an aunt of Thornton’s, particularly one who was a dowager countess, it would have been an older lady, a kindly old gray-haired dear.
Not . . . her.
* * *
Alice moved through the room with Lucy, nodding to this person and that, and offering brief greetings, but not really engaging in conversation. Alice knew many people here; Lucy knew no one. Then she noticed a small group of young ladies, some of whom she knew slightly. She led Lucy toward them. Lucy needed to make some friends her own age.
“Good evening.” A tall, grave-faced gentleman stepped into their path. Dressed in severe dark evening dress, the same as every other man in the room, there was, nevertheless, something about him. Perhaps it was his height or his broad shoulders, or maybe it was his unconscious air of command. Among the soft, pampered company, he stood out like an eagle among pigeons.
Alice didn’t know what to say. She was aware of thick dark hair cropped short; a bold, aristocratic nose, which looked as if it had been broken at least once; a firm chin and piercing gray eyes that bored into her. They were almost hypnotic.
His skin was tanned, as if he’d lived an outdoor life. It wasn’t at all a fashionable look. It made him look tough. Hard. Ungentlemanly.
And yet she found him disturbingly attractive.
She felt a blush rising. It stiffened her spine. She didn’t know this man, had never been introduced and didn’t like the way his eyes met hers without a trace of self-consciousness. She’d had enough of arrogant men to last a lifetime. She lifted her chin and met his gaze full on. She would not be intimidated.
His mouth quirked. His eyes darkened.
“Excuse me, please.” She waited for him to step aside.
He didn’t move, just watched her with a faint smile playing around his firm, well-shaped mouth.
She gave him a cold look and stepped pointedly around him. She was aware, as she walked away, of those gray eyes following her shamelessly. It was like a warm, unsettling touch.
She presented him with a straight spine in return.
“Who was that?” Lucy whispered.
“No idea. Whoever he is, he needs a lesson in manners.” She felt cross and ridiculously flustered. Those bold glances, that air of assurance, as if he had every right to accost her when they’d never even been introduced.
All these years she’d been invisible to men. Now, because she was widowed . . . Or was it the dress? Was it too revealing after all? She glanced down. It wasn’t. The neckline was restrained and discreet.
But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she should have worn her old dove-gray gown. Or one of her dusty blacks.
“He seemed to know you.”
“Well, I don’t know him.” She’d never seen him before in her life; she was sure of it. He was not the sort of man one forgot.
“Perhaps, but he obviously wants to know you.” Lucy glanced back, eyeing him curiously. “How is it that a man can be—well, he’s rugged more than handsome, and yet somehow he’s more attractive than the really handsome men here. He makes them look, I don’t know, pretty. And a bit useless.”
Alice gave her a sharp glance. Was Lucy interested in him? Young girls did often look to older men for a husband.
“A pity he’s so old,” Lucy finished.
“Old? He can’t be above forty,” Alice said crossly.
“Yes, as I said, ‘old.’ ” Lucy gave her a mischievous look. “Besides, he’s interested in you, not me.”
“Me? Nonsense!” Alice said briskly. “Now, let me introduce you to these girls.”
The girls were clustered together near the window, talking and laughing hilariously. Lord, had she ever been so young and carefree? And why were there so many young ladies at a supposedly small family party. Only two of the six were in any way related to the family, and they were both distant—second or third cousins.
Alice greeted the girls she knew, and after the various introductions had been made, she edged quietly back, so as not to inhibit them.
After a few minutes of initially tentative conversation, the girls started to relax. Then Lucy said something that made them all laugh, and after that they were all talking and laughing happily. Alice smiled to herself: their silly, lighthearted chatter made her feel positively ancient.
Several of the girls’ mothers were sitting at the side of the room, keeping a weather eye on their daughters while having a cozy chat. Should she join them? None was particularly a friend, but perhaps it was time to start making friends of her own, other than the ladies Thaddeus had instructed her to cultivate.
Not one of them had called after Thaddeus died.
Two older gentlemen approached the group of girls, flirting ponderously—no danger there. The other mothers didn’t give them more than a glance. Alice was pleased to see that while Lucy made no effort to put herself forward, going by the attention both gentlemen paid her, she was making a good impression.
It seemed the badly behaved Lucy really was a thing of the past.
Feeling thirsty, Alice signaled to a footman who was gliding through the crowd bearing a tray of gently fizzing glasses. He didn’t see her. She looked around for another footman and lifted her hand, but he, too, didn’t notice. Why was it that women of a certain age seemed to become invisible?
The chattering girls suddenly fell silent. Had Lucy made a mistake? Alice glanced around. All eyes were turned in her direction, and there was a sudden fluttering of fans and eyelashes. One girl gave a nervous giggle, hastily stifled. What on earth?
“Aunt Alice,” said a voice at her elbow.
She turned. “Oh, Gerald. Many happy returns of the day. Are you enjoying your party?” She glanced briefly at the tall man who stood at her nephew’s elbow. Him again.
“I’d like you to meet my former commanding officer, Colonel—Lord Tarrant. Tarrant, this is my aunt, the dowager Lady Charlton.”
The tall man bowed over Alice’s hand. “Delighted to meet you, my lady.”
“Colonel Lord Tarrant,” she murmured.
“Just Lord Tarrant,” he said. “I’m no longer a colonel. I’ve sold out. And you look far too young and pretty to be a dowager.” His gray gaze didn’t shift. She felt her cheeks warming.
Was he one of those—the kind of man who thought a widow was up for anything? She knew perfectly well she was neither young nor pretty.
“Allow me to fetch you a drink.” He lifted a finger—one finger!—and immediately two footmen glided up—two!—presenting her with a choice of ratafia, champagne or lemonade. Trying not to feel aggrieved, she accepted a glass of lemonade and drank thirstily.
The girls behind her were still whispering and giggling.
Gerald leaned toward Alice and said quietly, “That girl you came in with—the girl in the golden gown—would I have met her somewhere?”
“I doubt it,” Alice said. The colonel’s intense regard was unsettling her. She wished he’d go away. “She’s only just come to London. Her name is Lucy Bamber, and she’s my goddaughter.”
Gerald hadn’t taken his eyes off Lucy. “Will you introduce us?”
She hesitated, recalling Almeria’s demand, but she could hardly refuse to introduce them when Gerald had specifically asked her. “Yes, of course. Lucy?” She beckoned.
Lucy turned and noticed Gerald, and her bright smile abruptly faded. For a split second Alice could have sworn there was a panicked look in her eyes, but before she could be sure of what she’d seen, Lucy was approaching with nothing more than an expression of mild inquiry.
The girlish whispering and giggling stopped. Looks were exchanged, and the small group of young ladies focused intently, like pointers scenting prey. Their mothers’ heads came up, and all conversation stopped.
Ohhh.Of course. These girls and their mothers were here for Gerald.
Feeling like a sparrow watched by a circle of cats, Alice introduced Lucy to her nephew, and he introduced her to his former colonel, Lord Tarrant. But it was clear that Gerald had eyes only for Lucy.
“Have you been in London long, Miss Bamber?” he asked.
“Not long.” Lucy plied her fan and gazed across the room, apparently uninterested.
“Have you seen many of the city sights yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Perhaps I could show you some of them—with Aunt Alice, of course, or some suitable companion.” Alice was surprised by his offer. Gerald never squired young ladies around. He couldn’t possibly be interested in Lucy, could he?
“Perhaps,” Lucy said vaguely. Her gaze wandered over the crowd.
“Are you interested in art? I’m told the Elgin Marbles are very popular.” Then, when Lucy didn’t respond, he added, “Or perhaps you prefer flowers. Kew Gardens has some remarkable specimens from all over the world.
“Mmm? Flowers? My godmother has flowers in her garden,” she said in a seen-one-flower-seen-them-all kind of voice.
Alice didn’t know whether to laugh or weep. On the one hand, she was relieved that Lucy was showing no interest in Gerald. But oh, she was being so naughty.
Gerald persisted. “Perhaps Astley’s Amphitheatre would be more to your taste. They put on some quite spectacular shows.”
Lucy gazed at something over to the right and didn’t answer.
“Miss Bamber? Did you hear me?” Gerald sounded annoyed. He was not used to young ladies ignoring him. Quite the contrary. “I asked you about Astley’s Amphitheatre.”
For a moment Lucy didn’t respond at all, then said in an awed voice, “That woman over there is wearing the largest turban I’ve ever seen in my life. I wonder how she makes it stay on.” All eyes except Gerald’s swiveled toward the lady with the enormous turban.
Gerald’s gaze didn’t shift from Lucy’s face. “You know, I have the oddest feeling that we’ve met before.”
Lucy sighed. “So many gentlemen use that line. It’s not very original.”
“No, I’m serious. I’m sure I’ve seen—”
“Have you met these ladies, Lord Thornbury?” Lucy turned and beckoned her erstwhile companions forward. They closed the gap in seconds, shoving and elbowing one another with genteel, ladylike determination.
“Thornton, it’s Lord Thornton,” Gerald began but quickly found himself surrounded by fluttering, chattering, bashful and flirtatious young ladies. Lucy slipped to the edge of the circle, looking pleased with herself, and began talking again to the two elderly gentlemen who’d been abandoned.
By sharing Gerald with her new friends, she’d made a good impression on them—and their mothers, Alice observed. It seems Lucy really wasn’t interested in lords. Not in Gerald, at least. That would please Almeria.
Only what on earth had got into her that she would behave in such an impudent and mischievous manner toward Gerald—who was, after all, the guest of honor? It verged on the insolent.
Over the bobbing heads of the eager debutantes, Gerald gave Alice and the tall colonel a hunted look.
Lord Tarrant laughed softly. “Ah, the perils of being young and eligible. Another lemonade, my lady? Or perhaps an ice?”
“Thank you, no.” Alice suddenly realized that she was more or less alone with this big, looming colonel. Former colonel. Lord Tarrant. He presented his arm and said, “Shall we take a turn around the room?”
She looked around for an excuse to escape, someone needing to be talked to, but there was nobody, not a single person looking in her direction. Even Lucy seemed happily occupied, chatting to the two elderly gentlemen and observing her new friends parading their charms to a harassed-looking Gerald.
Trapped, Alice glanced back up at her tall companion.
He looked amused. “No urgent appointment? Nobody needing your exclusive attention? Then, shall we?”
“Thank you,” she muttered and took his arm.
They strolled around the room.
“I understand you are a widow.”
She tensed. “Yes.”
“My condolences.”
Alice inclined her head in acknowledgement. She could hardly admit she was glad to be free of her husband, and it felt hypocritical to be accepting condolences.
They strolled on. “I knew your late husband slightly,” he said after a few minutes.
“Indeed?”
“Yes, at school.”
“Mmm.” She made a vague, polite, indifferent noise.
Another few minutes passed, then he said, “We were not contemporaries, of course. He was in his final year, and I was a small boy in my first year.”
“Mmm.”
“I was not an admirer.”
She had no intention of discussing her husband with anyone, let alone this big, unsettling stranger. If he wanted to fish for information, he would be disappointed. “The weather has been very pleasant lately,” she said. “It augurs well for the harvest.”
“Indeed. Are you interested in agricultural matters, Lady Charlton?”
“Not in the least.”
The smoky gray eyes glinted with amusement. “You grew up in the country, I understand. Whereabouts?”
“Worcestershire.”
“A pretty part of the country. I myself am from just outside Kenilworth in Warwickshire. Do you know it?”
“No.” She pressed her lips together. She was being horridly uncivil, she knew. Normally she was quite good at keeping a conversation bubbling along. With any other man, she would be asking questions—men always liked to talk about themselves—and encouraging him to talk about his home or the harvest or his military career or his horses or whatever he was interested in, but she didn’t want to offer this man any encouragement.
What was it about him? Apart from the way he had initially accosted her, his manners had been unexceptional. She’d been prepared for an improper suggestion, or at least a hint. Instead he’d been all consideration.
But he unsettled her. The way he looked at her. And the way he refused to take a hint, apparently indifferent to her patent lack of interest in him or his conversation. And that look of . . . of amused understanding in his eyes, as if he knew what she was thinking. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.
Some men were so wrapped up in their own importance that they didn’t notice when a woman was bored or uninterested or even—she thought of Thaddeus—quietly furious. They just talked on, confident of their intrinsic fascination.
But this man wasn’t like that, she was sure. He seemed perfectly aware that she was doing her best to freeze him out. And it seemed to amuse him. Which was very annoying.
She was also very aware of the warmth and strength of the arm on which she’d laid her gloved hand. Just to be polite. And that was irritating, too. She didn’t want to be aware of him. She just wanted him to go away.
Somehow he’s more attractive than the really handsome men here.It was true. She would feel much more comfortable with a useless, pretty man. This one . . . His mere physical presence unsettled her. As for those all-seeing gray eyes that kept capturing hers and making her forget where she was. She was too . . . too conscious of him.
They finished their second circumnavigation of the room, and she was determined it would be their last. Just as she was casting around for a reason to excuse herself, music began in the second reception room. She started. Almeria hadn’t mentioned any dancing. Where was Lucy?
Lucy had told Alice that she knew how to dance, but that she’d never been to a proper dance or a fashionable ball. Alice knew from her own experience that there was a wealth of difference between country dancing as it was done in the actual country and the way people danced country dances in society.
She scanned the room quickly. There was no sign of Lucy.
“Would you care to dance, my lady?”
She shook her head. “Thank you, no. I am here tonight en chaperone.”
“Ah, yes, the goddaughter who has so intrigued young Thornton. Looks like she’s joined the dancers in the other room. We’d better follow them in.” Before she could say a word, Alice found herself being propelled toward the second reception room, his hand lightly resting in the small of her back. “There she is, with your nephew,” Lord Tarrant murmured.
Alice made a small sound of dismay. Almeria would be furious.
Gerald and Lucy were on the dance floor, the dance quite lively, but their expressions told a different story. Lucy looked perfectly indifferent, even bored. Gerald was obviously frustrated.
“Miss Bamber doesn’t look as though she’s enjoying the dance,” Lord Tarrant said.
“She’ll be minding her steps,” Alice murmured. She hoped it was true.
“Our hostess looks even unhappier about it,” Lord Tarrant observed.
Alice followed his gaze. Almeria stood at the side of the dance floor, glaring at her son and Lucy. Almeria swung her gaze around the room, fixed it on Alice, standing at the entrance, and stalked toward her.
“Oh dear,” Alice murmured.
Lord Tarrant glanced down at her. “Trouble on the way?”
“I’m afraid so.” Alice took a deep breath and braced herself for Almeria’s tirade.
“Right then.” Lord Tarrant took Alice by the hand and, without warning, swung her into a nearby set of dancers.
“What on earth?” she gasped. But the dancers around them happily adjusted to an extra couple in the set.
He swung her around masterfully. “Do you dislike dancing?”
“No, but—”
He twirled her in a circle, and she was too breathless to speak.
The top couple danced down the row, and everyone clapped to the beat. After a quick glance at Almeria, fulminating on the sidelines, Alice clapped along obediently.
“I told you I had no intention of dancing tonight,” she told Lord Tarrant when they met in the next movement. Almeria would be even more furious now, imagining that Alice had deliberately thrown Gerald and Lucy together. And was now avoiding her.
“I know, but the situation called for action,” he said solemnly. His eyes gleamed with amusement.
She snorted. “Action?”
“Retreat and regroup—an old army tactic. Avoid a confrontation unless you can be sure of winning.”
“Since when is dancing an army tactic?”
“Oh, Wellington is all for dancing—all his staff officers were excellent dancers. It’s a very healthful—and strategic—exercise,” he said with a virtuous air that fooled her not at all.
She wanted to laugh, but she didn’t want to encourage him.
“Besides,” he added as they came together again, “did you really want to stay and listen to whatever that woman has to say to you? She looks ready to explode.”
Alice didn’t, of course, but Almeria would say her piece eventually. She always did.
“As for being here en chaperone,” he continued, “isn’t this a much more agreeable way of keeping a close eye on your charge?”
“Agreeable for whom?” she said tartly as she circled gracefully around him.
Those gray eyes had a wicked gleam in them. “For me, of course. I wouldn’t dare speculate about how you might feel. I don’t yet know what pleases you.”
Yet.As if he planned to discover what pleased her. No one had ever cared to discover what pleased her.
He was flirting. He was definitely flirting. And she had to nip it in the bud before he got ideas. She wasn’t that sort of widow.
* * *
Her first ever ton party, and she was dancing with a lord. Papa would be thrilled. Lucy was decidedly unthrilled.
Of all the lords in all the houses . . . And for him to be Lady Charlton’s nephew!
Had she known this party was for the arrogant fellow she’d encountered on the Brighton road, she’d never have come; she would have pretended she had the headache or something.
As it was, she’d done her best to avoid talking to him. She’d deliberately caused him to be swamped by marriage-minded debutantes, distracting him from looking too closely at her. And had turned her back on him and flirted madly with the two old fellows. Old sweethearts they were, too.
She’d been about to quietly slip away, but the minute the music sounded in the next room, Lord Thornton looked at her over the heads of the other girls—he was annoyingly tall—and asked her to dance. By name, so there would be no mistake.
Curse him. If he hadn’t been a lord, and she hadn’t encountered him on the Brighton road that day, she would have accepted like a shot. He was rather good-looking, and despite the fuss the other girls were making of him, he didn’t seem too big-headed.
But he was wrong for her in every way possible.
She’d pretended not to hear, but the clot of eager debutantes had parted like the Red Sea, leaving a clear path for Lord Thornton to step forward and repeat his invitation.
She’d looked around for Alice, but she was occupied talking to her tall admirer. So with all eyes on her, and it being the first dance at a birthday party for this wretched lord, Lucy had no option but to accept.
He led her into the next room, where people were beginning to form sets. “So, Miss Bamber, you’ve only just arrived in town.”
“Apparently so.” Imitating the haughtiest of her former schoolfellows, a girl she’d christened Lady Languid, Lucy gave him the sort of smile she hoped looked both cool and enigmatic. And repellant.
“Are you enjoying living in London?”
“It’s tolerable.” Lady Languid always spoke in an affected drawl. Nothing was ever fun or even enjoyable; everything was tolerable or intolerable or barely tolerable or insipid or dreary.
They danced on.
“Where were you living before?”
Lucy gave him a cold glance, but otherwise ignored him.
Apparently unaffected, he continued, “You’re quite a mystery, aren’t you? Everyone is wondering where you’ve sprung from.”
She arched a brow and said languidly, “They must have very dull lives to be so easily intrigued.”
They separated in the dance, and when they came back together, he seemed to have dropped—thank goodness—his interrogation about her origins. “You’re very light on your feet, Miss Bamber. You clearly enjoy dancing.”
“It’s tolerable.”
“What else do you enjoy? Music?”
“It’s tolerable.”
“Do you play an instrument?”
“No.” Would the man never give up?
“Sing?”
“No.” Only for her own enjoyment. Never for performance. What was it Frau Steiner had told her? Your technique is execrable, your instrument barely mediocre—Lucy’s “instrument” being her voice. Opera singers. What did they know? Singing was for joy, not just for performance.
She glanced over to where Alice was dancing with her tall admirer. If she knew how Lucy was treating her nephew at his own birthday party, she’d probably be appalled. Lucy was a bit appalled herself, but she had to ensure Lord Thornton wanted nothing to do with her in future.
And to give nothing away.
But Lord Thornton seemed unaffected by her haughty behavior. Perhaps he was used to this kind of conversation. He probably knew lots of much haughtier ladies—the haughtiest lady Lucy had met here tonight was his mother, which made sense. The other girls she’d met had been quite friendly—especially after she’d called them over to talk with Lord Thornton.
The dance continued. He circled around her, regarding her thoughtfully.
“You know, I have the strongest feeling we’ve met before.”
Curse the man. Couldn’t he take a hint? Lucy sighed ostentatiously. “That line didn’t work the first time, and to repeat it is really rather . . . sad.” How long would this wretched dance go on for? Any minute he was going to work out where he’d seen her before, and then it wouldn’t just be embarrassing for her; it would be awful for Alice.
“I mean it,” he continued. “Your face is oddly familiar to me. I just can’t place it.”
“Nonsense, I have a very ordinary face. There are girls like me everywhere.”
He seemed to take that as an invitation to look at her in quite a personal manner. “I don’t find you ordinary at all.”
Lucy felt her cheeks warming, and it was with relief that she launched into the next stage of the dance, “stripping the willow,” in which she had to twirl around all the other men in the set, and conversation was impossible.
But the minute conversation became possible again, Lord Persistent said, “Perhaps I’ve met some of your relatives, and what I’m noticing is a family resemblance.”
It wasn’t easy to shrug while dancing, but Lucy managed it. “Perhaps.”
“Would I have met any of your relatives?”
“I’ve no idea.” She gave him a wide-eyed, limpid look. “Would you?”
His eyes narrowed, and at that point Lucy decided to give up on the Lady Languid imitation. It wasn’t putting him off in the least. Time to change the subject.
“I understand you were at Waterloo, Lord Thornbroke. What was that like?”
“Thornton,” he corrected her. “Lord Thornton. War is not a pleasant subject for ladies. The best I can say of it is that it put an end once and for all to the depredations of Napoleon.”
“You’re not worried he will escape again?”
“No, his rule is well and truly broken. His time is over.”
“And so you’ve sold your commission and returned to civilian life. How are you finding that?”
“Tolerable.” His expression made it clear he’d chosen the word deliberately and was indicating that what was sauce for the g—no, she wasn’t even going to think about geese.
“And so today is your birthday?”
“Yes.”
Was he being deliberately difficult? She tried a different subject. “So, tell me, Lord Thorncliffe, are you a sporting man?”
“Thornton, it’s Lord Thornton,” he said grimly. “I played cricket at school, of course, but if by ‘sporting’ you mean riding to hounds, no. I don’t hunt. I’ll shoot game, as long as it’s for the pot, and I enjoy fishing when I get the chance.”
“And where do you like to go fishing?”
He glanced at her. “Are you really interested in my fishing habits?”
She smiled sweetly. “Not at all, but one must make conversation, mustn’t one?”
He let out a huff of laughter, which wasn’t at all her intention. Then, thankfully, what had felt like the longest dance in the history of dances finally ended. “Thank goodness that’s over,” she said as they bowed and curtsied to each other.
One dark brow rose. “You didn’t enjoy the dance?”
She smiled. “It’s just that I’m frightfully thirsty.” She glanced around and saw the other Lady Charlton signaling him, a grim expression on her face. “Oh, look over there—your mama wants you. Hadn’t you better run along?” As if he were eight instead of eight-and-twenty.
He didn’t even glance in his mother’s direction. “I did not survive years at war with Napoleon’s forces only to dance to my mother’s tune,” he said, escorting Lucy to a nearby seat. “I’ll fetch you a drink. And then, perhaps you’ll grant me a second dance.”
Lucy had to admit she liked his matter-of-fact attitude, but she couldn’t afford to let him get to know her any better. The minute he’d gone, she jumped up and hurried across the room to where Alice was standing with her tall admirer.
“Godmama,” she said, “excuse me for interrupting, but I feel the most horrid headache coming on. Would it be possible for me to go home early?” She fixed Alice with an intense look, hoping she got the message.
“Yes, of course,” Alice responded instantly. “You poor dear, you’re looking quite pale. We must leave at once, get you into bed with an eau de cologne compress.”
Lord Tarrant glanced at Lucy. His mouth quirked. “Dear me, yes, that’s the palest flush I’ve seen in a long time.”
Alice’s lips compressed. “Come along, Lucy dear, we will just make our apologies to our hostess and be off. Goodbye, Lord Tarrant, so . . . interesting to have met you.”
They hurried away.
“Do I really look pale?” Lucy whispered.
Alice glanced at her. “No, but it was the first thing that came to mind. Drat him.”
“You wanted to leave early, too?”
She nodded. “Now hush and try to look ill,” she said to Lucy as they approached their hostess, who was also called Lady Charlton. Lucy found it very confusing.
“Almeria, I’m very sorry but—” Alice began.
“So you ought to be!” The other Lady Charlton gave Lucy a scathing look. “I warned you about attempting to entice my son with your . . . your guest.” The way she said guest it might have been dipped in vitriol.
“Gerald asked to be introduced. I could hardly refuse,” Alice said calmly.
“And then they danced together.” Lady Charlton glared at Lucy as if she’d committed the crime of the century. Old bag.
“Yes, because Gerald asked her in front of others. She could hardly refuse that, either,” Alice said. “And now, Almeria, we’re leaving. Miss Bamber has the headache.”
Lady Charlton sniffed.
Lucy tried to look pale and wan. She was impressed with Alice’s cool responses. If anyone had spoken to her like that, she would have snapped back, and probably lost her temper. But Alice had responded so calmly and reasonably, the other Lady Charlton had nowhere to go—you could see the frustration on her face.
Even more impressive was that Alice had defended Lucy. Nobody had ever defended Lucy.
“Thank you for inviting us,” Alice said. “It’s been a delightful party.”
“Yes, thank you so much,” Lucy murmured. She glanced back and saw Lord Thornton holding a glass of ratafia and looking around. She slipped an arm through Alice’s, and they quietly slipped away.
* * *
Did my nephew upset you in some way?” Alice asked once they’d reached home.
Lucy was embarrassed to explain, but it had to be done. “No, I’m not upset—but oh, Alice, he’s going to be a problem.”
“In what way?”
“I’ve met your nephew before—and not in the best of circumstances.” She told her about their encounter on the Brighton road.
Alice regarded her wide-eyed. “You mean you’re the reason Gerald lost his race?”
Lucy nodded. “Well, it was the goose, really. He’d stopped because of her. I just collected her off the road.” And held him up further, by giving him a piece of her mind as well.
Alice let out a muffled snort. “A goose? Gerald lost his race because of a goose? Oh, he won’t like people knowing that.”
“No, and the way I was dressed, in my old clothes and an apron, and with my hair down and blowing about—I’m sure he thought me some kind of maidservant or farm girl. And the way he spoke to me, ordering me off the road as if he owned it—well, it was so, so lordly, it made him want to cheek him. And so I did.” He’d been furious.
Alice was still chuckling. “A goose. No wonder he didn’t explain. But what were you doing with a goose anyway?”
“She’s the comtesse’s pet goose.”
“Your comtesse has a pet goose?”
Lucy nodded. “Apparently back in France at the height of the Terror, the comte was imprisoned in Paris—she heard later they chopped his head off—and the comtesse was alone in their castle in the country. One night something had stirred up the local peasants, and they marched on the castle carrying sickles and pitchforks and burning brands. The castle geese started hissing and honking like mad, and when she looked out to see what the matter was, she saw the peasants coming for her. She managed to grab her jewels and escape, but her castle was burned to the ground.
“And ever since then she’s kept a pair of geese—Ghislaine and Gaston—to protect and warn her. But Ghislaine is naughty and likes to wander, and she wandered onto the road when your nephew was coming.”
“It was lucky he missed her.”
“He stopped, actually.” Lucy hadn’t expected that. Most lordly types she’d encountered would have driven straight over a goose. But then he’d shouted at her, and still shaken by the close encounter, she’d snapped and shouted back.
She wished now she hadn’t, because he obviously recognized her, even if he didn’t yet realize why.
“Ghislaine and Gaston, what a tale.” Alice sobered. “So you and that goose were the reason poor Gerald lost his precious race. Oh dear. He’s not likely to forget that. Or forgive.”
Lucy nodded. “I know. I’m going to have to avoid him. He already thinks he knows me from somewhere.”
“Yes, I see. It does make things rather awkward.”
“That’s why I wasn’t very polite to him tonight. I tried to give him a disgust of me so he won’t want to have anything to do with me in future.”
“It won’t be easy, seeing he’s my nephew.” Alice glanced at Lucy, her expression faintly embarrassed. “I wasn’t particularly polite to his friend, either.”
“The tall colonel?”
“He’s not a colonel anymore.”
“Is that why you were rude to him?”
“No, of course not. And I wasn’t rude, exactly, just not very encouraging.”
Lucy was perplexed. “But he liked you, I could tell.”
“I don’t care. I don’t want to encourage him.”
“Why not? What’s wrong with him? Was he too forward? Coarse? Suggestive?” Men often were, in Lucy’s experience. Especially lordly types. But surely they wouldn’t behave like that to a proper, gentle lady like Lady Charlton, would they?
“No, no, nothing like that. He was a perfect gentleman.” Alice sighed. “It doesn’t matter. I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”
* * *
Hours later Alice lay in bed, sleepless, twisting, restless between her sheets. She couldn’t get Lord Tarrant out of her mind. He’d behaved perfectly politely—apart from initially addressing her without being introduced. So why had she reacted to him that way?
He hadn’t made any kind of nasty proposition—he’d just looked at her with an expression in his eyes, an expression she didn’t even know the meaning of—and she’d fled from his presence like a nervous virgin, which lord knew she wasn’t.
Somehow, he’d stirred sensations in her—with just a look from those hypnotic eyes, like a winter lake, silver against the tan of his skin. Sensations she’d never felt before. Sensations she didn’t want to feel.
I don’t yet know what pleases you.
Yet.As if it were some kind of promise. No one had ever cared to discover what pleased her.
She turned over and punched her pillow.
Why couldn’t she stop thinking about him? And how could a mere glance from those eyes feel like a . . . like a caress? It was . . . unsettling. Wrong.
She was too . . . too aware of him. His height, his strength, the faint fragrance of his shaving soap. The indefinable air of masculinity about him.
As if he were some kind of tall, well-made magnet and she some feeble creature made of iron filings.
She punched the pillow again. She was no feeble iron-filing creature. She refused to be.