The Girl with the Pearl Pin

by Lynne Connolly

  “Oh, sir, you c-can’t!”

  Her protest made him smile. “My cravat will manage very well without it.”

  “But that pearl!”

  He regarded the item in question indifferently. “It will manage well, too.”

  She swallowed and met his gaze. “It’s huge.” Her eyes gleamed when she turned her head, the light of the moon catching them. This was the strangest assignation he had ever had, but also the sweetest.

  He chose to take the remark flirtatiously. “Why, thank you, ma’am. I cannot think it more than ordinary.”

  “Oh!” Miss North covered her cheeks with her hands. His slight innuendo had not gone unnoticed. Interesting. Did she have brothers? That was where ladies often learned what they should not. “I beg your p-pardon.” She had responded to him with spirit, despite her obvious discomfort with his behavior.

  Since he’d picked her up and carried her here, he had behaved with indecent intimacy. Something in her drew him, something beyond social situation and circumstance. He felt close to her in a way he never allowed with society ladies. Yet she had tried no artifice on him, nor coquettishness of any kind. And yet she appealed to his baser nature too. He was too honest to deny that, and so was his body, which had reacted with predictable enthusiasm to his close proximity to a woman.

  Ignoring her protests, he threaded the long pin through the rip in her gown and capped the end. “That should do for now,” he said.

  “I will ensure you have the p-pin back as soon as possible.”

  He got to his feet, dusting his hands. “Take your time, my dear.”

  The small endearment, mild though it was, brought her color up again. He found her response charming. She was dainty and pretty, and he liked her.

  He should take her back to the ballroom, but he couldn’t converse with her properly there. Instead, he took a seat next to her. “They behaved appallingly to you during that dance. I shall ensure they do not do so again.”

  “Oh no!” Her horror provoked a short, tense laugh. “I b-beg your p-pardon, sir, but if you show me any particular attention, that will s-serve to make matters worse.”

  “How does Miss Childers treat you? Is she hard on you?”

  She could not have feigned the way her pretty eyes widened in shock. “Goodness, no. She is very k-kind.”

  He detected no subterfuge in her reply. So the problem lay outside, with the way she was subtly cut by the more affluent and fortunate members of society.

  Her bosom heaved as she sucked in a deep breath, gathering courage, or so he guessed from her heightened color. She should tuck her fichu back into place because he found the sight most distracting. “Sir, I appreciate your help. However, I must not impose on you any further.” She clasped her hands tightly until the knuckles turned white. “I c-cannot accept more of your k-kindness. If anyone believes you are m-making any particular advances toward me, my situation will only worsen.”

  Righteous anger was a cleansing emotion sometimes. It certainly gave him a purpose now.

  He got to his feet and held out his hand. “I will not allow the ignorant of society to pursue you and castigate you. I cannot understand the way these people think, and I will make that clear.” When she softly put her hand in his, he murmured, “I would take great pleasure in driving you around the park tomorrow. Could you be ready at, say, two?”

  She froze. “That would not be a good idea, sir.”

  He was not above using the trinket as an excuse. “How else are you to return my pin?”

  “I would not t-trouble you so. You could send a trusted servant to the house to collect it.”

  “But I insist, ma’am. I shall call on you at the correct hour.”

  “You might run into the society, sir. I do not think you would wish for that.”

  He frowned. “What society?”

  “You have not heard?” When he shook his head, she continued. “The cartoonists have certainly found amusement in it. Miss Childers has opened a suite of rooms for the use of single ladies such as she was conversing with tonight.”

  “Single ladies?”

  Her pretty mouth twisted. “The Society for Single Ladies. A literary salon, if you will. A place for us to meet, like the clubs men are so eager to set up.”

  “Ah!” Now he understood her meaning. He was the natural quarry of single ladies. To arrive during a gathering of such people would be to put his head into the lion’s mouth. Especially now that he had promised his grandmother he would marry and breed an heir. He might as well have a target on his back for all the toxophilites who would produce their bows and arrows especially for him.

  “These young women deserve somewhere of their own. They are overlooked and some are used hardly by their families.”

  “Are you?” he asked abruptly. He watched her carefully.

  “Oh no,” she assured him. “I am merely a visitor in her house, acting as her companion while her usual duenna is ill. Our mothers were cousins.”

  “You are far too young to be a companion, ma’am,” he declared indignantly.

  “Indeed, so people keep telling Angela. But she takes no notice. She always ensures she has a strong footman or two when we are abroad.”

  Something troubled her. He would ask. But she had lost that hesitation in her speech, for which he was glad. He should take her back inside.

  After he’d claimed his kiss. She was skittish, but he wanted his reward. Close up, she had the most remarkable skin, as if it glowed softly from the inside.

  Slowly, waiting for a sign of resistance, he drew her closer. Her eyes wide, she came to him, making him ridiculously pleased. He didn’t want to startle her, but this lovely woman was like a bird in his hands, soft and delicate. No more than a kiss, and that despite his better judgment, but he longed to feel it, to know what those lips felt like against his own, and how she tasted.

  Before he could take his reward, a commotion erupted from outside the grotto. Shouts of “Stop, thief!” rang around the previously quiet garden. The sound of feet pounding against the gravel path sped toward them. Were it not for the firm foundation of this building, they would have felt the vibrations.

  Aiming for discretion, Leo stepped back, drawing Phoebe with him, but she slipped out of his grasp and went forward instead. Concerned with her safety, he lunged after her, cursing under his breath. His heart almost stopped when he heard a pistol discharge close by, the explosion rocking the quiet garden. The report hammered in his ears, shocking and unexpected.

  When she screamed, he snaked his arm around her waist, but the damned silk meant she got away. Pulling out of his arms, she picked up her skirts and ran down the steps of the grotto.

  “No, you fool!” he called, pursuing her.

  She held out her arm as a man hurtled toward her. Considering the relative mildness of the evening, he was dressed unusually, bundled in a heavy cloak in some dull material. He struck her, shoving her aside. Phoebe spun, her skirts tangling around her feet, and she tumbled to the ground, crying out. Leo roared her name, but by now more people were upon them, pursuing the man who’d knocked her down.

  Ignoring the escaping man, Leo got there first. Scooping her up, he set her on her feet, still holding her around her waist in case she was overcome and could not stand on her own. She blinked, but called out, “He went that way!”

  He groaned as Lady Latimer ran up to them, followed swiftly by other people. The greatest gossip in London would have to be the first guest to arrive. But he was more concerned with Phoebe’s welfare. “What did you think you were doing?” he demanded.

  “He was absconding at speed, so I thought to stop him. I was n-not thinking.”

  “Evidently.” His heart was regaining its normal rhythm, but when she’d run into the men’s path, Leo’s heart had missed a beat. What if they’d had another pistol or a dagger to hand? “Did you
not hear that shot?”

  “My bracelet!” Lady Latimer snatched a glittering object from Phoebe’s hand. Her eyes gleamed as she turned her head toward him. “Did you catch this little thief, Your Grace?”

  “They ran past us,” Leo said, sparing the lady a glance.

  Her mouth curled. “Your sense of chivalry is delightful, sir, but someone stole my jewels. This lady!” Dramatically she pointed at Phoebe. Her elaborate powdered hairstyle quivered along with her finger. Half a dozen people stood around, enjoying the display. Enough to spread malicious gossip, that was for sure.

  Hard on the heels of his determination not to allow her to be ignored, this was too much for Leo. He assumed his best ducal manner, glaring down his nose at the woman. “Miss North needed air.”

  “I’ll wager she did after she snatched my jewelry. Where are my earrings and necklace, you hussy! These are family pieces, the diamonds presented by Queen Elizabeth to my husband’s ancestor! Give them back at once!”

  Phoebe was trembling. “I d-d-d-d-d-d—” She could not speak, trapped in a circle of stammers.

  “Hush.” Leo touched his fingers to her mouth. Her lips quivered against the pads. He kept his voice soft and unthreatening when he spoke to Lady Latimer. “Precisely what occurred, ma’am?”

  “Ask her!” Her ladyship thrust an accusing finger at Phoebe, her voice rising dramatically. “But since you insist—the jewelry is old and heavy. I went to the ladies’ retiring room to rest for five minutes, and removed the pieces, putting them in my lap for safe keeping. I must have fallen asleep, because the next I knew the jewels were gone and I saw only a flicker of blue silk as the thief left. She must have met her accomplices outside. After all, who knows this woman?”

  “I do,” Miss Childers said calmly. “She is my cousin and companion.”

  Leo had not seen her arrive, but he heard her voice with relief. Miss Childers was a sensible woman, but unfortunately she was not here with the thief. But her word would mean nothing without corroboration. Some sectors of society would love to see the wealthy Miss Childers brought down. He had to corroborate her story or two women would suffer.

  There was no avoiding the inevitable. His grandmother would kill him, cut his heart out with one of the elegant knives they’d used at dinner tonight, but he had to do it.

  “You are mistaken, my lady,” he told Lady Latimer, who was glaring at Phoebe. “Miss North has been with me for some time.” He took Phoebe’s hand in his. It was cold and shaking. “I had just asked her to do the greatest honor a woman can bestow on a man and accept my hand in marriage.”

  He ignored the collective gasp and gazed down into Phoebe’s face. The torches brought by two footmen flickered, making her eyes glitter. “She had only just given me her answer. I had not expected such a crowd to arrive to share what should be a private moment.”

  His statement had the desired effect. Nobody spoke.

  Liquid warmth flowed over his hand, where it clasped hers. Only then did he notice that she was bleeding.

  * * * *

  Phoebe could not process what had happened in the last hour, or how smoothly His Grace had handled the disturbance. He’d escorted her to Angela’s private sitting room and dressed her wound himself, despite her protests that she was fine. Her thoughts were reeling.

  When Lady Latimer had snatched her bracelet back, Phoebe had felt a sharp sting but thought nothing of it in the confusion. Not until His Grace noticed the long cut slashed up the side of her hand. Heavens, she had nearly stained his beautiful lace cuffs.

  Angela took care of Lady Latimer, taking her to another room and plying her with enough burgundy to sink a battleship, as she privately told Phoebe later. And the ball went on, only a slight stir in the supper room disturbing the tenor of the evening. No doubt the gossips would be busy tomorrow.

  “You should go,” she told the duke. For all his kindness, she could not think of him as anything but a gentleman who had taken her breath away with his calm statement. The great ruby he wore on his finger glittered in the candlelight as he gently wound the bandage around her hand. “T-truly it is not a s-s-serious injury. I s-s-swear I will not d-die from it.”

  “Ah, but we must be sure.” He tucked the end of the bandage neatly underneath the result, a feat she had never achieved without the whole thing coming undone. “In the morning when you have rested, you must remove this and bathe it again. Have your maid clean it at least twice a day.”

  Phoebe snorted, and at once his features froze and a dark eyebrow winged skyward.

  “Did I say something amusing?”

  “A maid,” she informed him. “I b-b-borrow one when necessary, like t-tonight, but for the m-most part I shift for myself.”

  “Do you indeed?” He eyed her curiously, as if he had never heard of such a thing. “But a maid saves so much time. I fear my wife-to-be must appear in public with some style.”

  “N-no, sir.” As her anxiety rose, her stammer grew worse. It still returned at times of agitation, such as that mortifying moment outside when she could not get one word past her lips. “You are joking me. That is foolishness. S-society will have forgotten by the m-morning. It is of n-no m-matter. I will be g-g-gone soon enough. N-nobody will remember m-me.”

  He folded her good hand in his and met her gaze. He had the most beautiful eyes, clear and pure, changing in depth of color depending on the light. She felt as if she could trust him with anything. “Draw a deep breath.” When she did, he said, “Now another. Take your time. Think what you are about to say and then say it.”

  “Oh.” She did as he bade her, his steady gaze helping her to calm her thoughts. That was how she generally coped with her stammer, but he had behaved as if she hadn’t spoken in anything but a normal tone. He understood. How startling.

  When she was ready, she tried again, putting care into enunciating her words and taking her time. “I do not think you c-can have thought about what you were s-saying. A b-betrothal between us is preposterous.” Her mouth quirked. She’d managed a whole sentence with only slight hesitation. “How did you know?”

  “About what?”

  “C-Coping with the s-stammering.”

  “You are not the only person who has had to overcome that problem.”

  Her eyes widened. “You?”

  He nodded, smiling. His smile was as wonderful as his eyes. In a different way, of course. “It affected me after my parents died. However, mine did not last long. My grandmother would not allow it. I gave you the advice I received, that is all. Passing along the knowledge I have learned. Of course,” he added, his voice becoming reflective, “if I had continued, people would have declared themselves charmed, and perhaps even imitated me.”

  “Why would they d-do that?”

  His smile broadened. “Because I’m Leomore. The title is more important than the person holding it.”

  “Oh no, I would never say that.”

  His expression hardened, and his eyes became colder, the color of a bleak winter stream. “Most people do, and it is only the truth.”

  What was he thinking of, this man who had the highest privilege and the greatest title of the peerage? Dukes were at the top of the aristocratic ladder, although the thought of all those dignified people standing precariously on the rungs almost made her smile.

  She stood—or rather sat, considering their relative positions—in awe of this man. She did not find the task at all difficult, even though he was kneeling before her with a bowl of warm water at his side. He had just tenderly cleaned her cut and kept her amused with the utmost grace and charm.

  Phoebe must not find herself caught in the snare of his kindness. That would never do.

  He got to his feet in one smooth movement and held out his hand. She laid her own in it, and he drew her to her feet. Although she knew she was a mess, her gown creased and soiled, her hair straggling down fro
m its pins, his warm gaze made her feel like a princess. “You’re extremely g-good at that.”

  He raised a brow. “Good at what?”

  “Making the p-person you look at feel b-better. I know I’m in a state.” She flicked the silk of her gown. “This is ruined. But you m-make me forget that. Did you have to p-practice?”

  He laughed shortly. “I wasn’t aware I was doing anything out of the ordinary.”

  “You n-noticed me. That is unusual.” She did not know why she’d said that, only that he drew the truth from her. She would have to take more care to control her emotions.

  He retained his grip on her hand. “I fear you will find more attention aimed your way in the next few weeks. We must keep to our betrothal.”

  “B-But it’s f-f-foolish. Surely nobody will b-believe you. I thought I would j-jilt you t-tomorrow, or we would say it was a m-misunderstanding.”

  “I have conceived a violent passion for you.” Not by a twitch did he betray the foolishness of that remark.

  She burst into disbelieving laughter. “M-Me? N-Nobody will b-believe that.”

  When he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it, she snatched a breath. He affected her in a way she hadn’t experienced before, and his gaze on her face—she could almost believe him.

  “If you wish it, we may part at the end of the season. Let our association fade away, and if anyone asks, we may merely say that we did not suit. But for the foreseeable future, you are mine.”

  “Y-yours?”

  “Indeed so.” He drew her closer. “And this time we must seal our bargain. I meant to steal a kiss before, you know, as a reward for stopping you falling on the dance floor, but now I claim one merely because I want to know how you kiss.”

  Not at all, she would have told him, but she could not, because he pressed his lips to hers.

  Phoebe had been kissed before but not like this. The black pinpricks of his incipient beard that she’d noticed earlier now abraded her tender skin, teasing it delightfully. He smelled wonderful, of a no doubt costly cologne and of warm male. She detected no lavender or camphor, both scents she was used to when meeting people in their Sunday best, products to deter pests when the garments lay in storage. He probably had best clothes for every day of the week.