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Waiting for a Rogue

Page 29

by Marie Tremayne


  He scoffed at his friend’s suggestion. “Surely you must be joking. To roam about London after declining to show at the ball? That would not help matters in the least.”

  “No, I suppose not.” Evanston’s grin lingered. “What about a woman? They can sometimes be the most effective kind of distraction.”

  William shrugged out of his black tailcoat, ready to make a biting retort, when his footman Matthew appeared in the doorway.

  “You rang, my lord?”

  He gestured to the crystal shards surrounded by a pool of liquor, now almost completely absorbed into the dark cerulean carpet. “I have made a mess, Matthew. Please have it cleaned up immediately. Also, please have Lord Evanston’s carriage brought back around as he’ll be leaving shortly.”

  The viscount’s eyebrows shot up. “Have I done something to offend you?” he asked with a laugh, although clearly worried.

  “Not at all, but it’s obvious you’ve got other places you’d rather be,” William answered heavily, “and I am suddenly very tired.”

  The two friends shook hands firmly. Evanston lowered his voice.

  “Shall we return to Kent tomorrow?”

  William hung his head in silence, his teeth clenched.

  Thomas nodded succinctly. “Tomorrow it is, then. There will be other balls, William,” he added reassuringly. “You’ll see, all will be well.”

  And while he nodded in agreement, the Earl of Ashworth did not feel overly optimistic.

  Clara sighed and folded her gloved hands carefully upon her lap while gazing longingly at the couples waltzing by on the dance floor. After her failure of a season, she had no delusions of actually securing a suitor, but what she wouldn’t do for just a dance . . . she loved to dance.

  As she had expected, the disgrace of Lucy’s elopement had made association with the Mayfield family not only undesirable, but unthinkable. Dressed in all her finery, Clara had spent the duration of her season in the stuffy drawing rooms and ballrooms of London ignored, relegated to standing alone in corners or seated against various walls.

  Well, not quite alone. Because of Lucy’s chance meeting with her lowborn beau, her father was taking no risks. The constant watchful eye of her mother ensured there would not be a repeat of the scandal that had claimed her older sister, and this last great ball in Mayfair was certainly no exception.

  It wasn’t that Clara didn’t have anything to offer as a prospective bride. She certainly had wealth as the heiress to the Mayfield banking fortune, and knew her looks were tolerable. So it had stung all the more when invitations to balls and soirées had dwindled, her letters received fewer replies, and more women went out of their way to avoid calling on her socially. Friends she’d known for years had turned their backs on her, even going so far as to shun her in public. She longed to rage at them for their bad manners and fickle ways, but sternly forced herself to smile instead, unwilling to expose her family to the additional ridicule that an outburst would bring.

  The lack of gentleman callers was also not a surprise, but she hadn’t grasped the dire truth of her situation until recently. By then, her parents had been left to calculate their mounting losses on this massive waste of a season, and Clara could finally envision the stark reality of her future—living as a spinster, alone and childless, with not even her sister to confide in.

  Her head began to ache, and she stole a covert glance at her mother. Like Clara, Mrs. Mayfield was fair skinned with dark hair. They even shared the same dark eyes, and right now those eyes were staring unseeingly at the lavish gala before them. Not for the last time, guilt wracked through Clara. Her parents were good people. The ton was cruel and took an almost gleeful satisfaction in the Mayfield’s misfortune, but she knew they were not selective. Any ill-fated family would have been shunned just the same, though this did not lessen the sting of it.

  In fact, another target had emerged during the course of the evening. Clara had overheard a barrage of offended whispers between the lords and ladies in attendance, relating that the Earl of Ashworth had chosen not to attend tonight despite accepting the initial invitation. Aside from what they considered to be his unforgivable rudeness was their peevish discontent at being denied the opportunity to view the man, who had recently suffered an awful family tragedy.

  It was mentioned too—by more than a few disgruntled women—that he was rather attractive, although Clara did not see these people as true authorities on the matter. Often enough, even if a titled bachelor was old and portly but still possessed all his natural teeth, they would consider him to be exceptionally handsome. Still, she did feel a sense of gratitude to the man for allowing her to share the hateful spotlight for a change.

  Tired of overthinking the ton and their ways, Clara turned to her mother. “Would you like something at the refreshments table, Mama?” she asked, touching her arm lightly.

  Her mother jerked, as if suddenly awoken, then smiled feebly at her. “Yes, that would be lovely. It is rather hot in here.”

  The pair rose to stand, and made their way into the refreshment room, which was currently empty, save one older gentleman, who was standing nearby with a steaming cup of negus. Clara couldn’t bear the potent smell of the spiced port drink, and quickly directed her mother towards the lemonade and ices at the far end of the table. Glancing furtively in the man’s direction, she realized she knew him. Gray head, no whiskers, slightly rotund physique. A widower. She had seen him often during the course of the season—he tended to leer at her when he thought her attention was occupied elsewhere. However, despite his seeming fixation on her, he had followed suit with the ton and remained distant, never once condescending to ask Clara for a dance. Yet his presence now put her on edge, the fine hairs on the back of her neck lifting as they might in the oppressive quiet before a thunderstorm.

  Her mother leaned over. “Baron Rutherford,” she whispered.

  Clara nodded in confirmation and a shudder passed through her. His eyes alighted with recognition and he began walking towards them. She tensed her shoulders; there was nothing to be done except endure the uncomfortable exchange as best she could. Resolute, she pasted a waxen smile on her face and curtsied politely beside her mother.

  He bowed. “Mrs. Mayfield, what a delight . . . and Miss Mayfield.” He focused his attention on Clara, and she noticed an almost predatory gleam in his eyes. It was as if he were hunting in the woods rather than seeking a bride in a civilized London ballroom. “Why, you haven’t been dancing. I won’t stand to see you tucked away in the refreshment room during the final ball of the season. Allow me the honor.” He extended a mottled hand.

  It wasn’t a request so much as a command. Clara could feel her eyes narrowing at his show of superiority, made worse by the indelicate reference to her lack of dance partners. Mrs. Mayfield flushed, but stood silently by, waiting for her daughter’s reaction to this rare invitation to dance. While Clara longed to refuse the baron, it could not reasonably be done without fear of mortifying her mother, and her mother had been through enough this year already.

  She tipped an icy smile in his direction. “If it pleases you, my lord,” she forced out.

  Accepting his proffered arm, they approached the dance floor. Clara glanced over her shoulder to her mother, who waved in encouragement, although the confusion in her eyes was somewhat less encouraging. She was probably trying to understand why a titled gentleman would now show interest in her daughter after a long season of snubbing her.

  Rutherford led her out onto the floor, ignoring the flurry of disbelieving looks from those nearby, and launched into a waltz upon the first notes from the orchestra. His clasp on her waist was noticeably tight, as was his grip on her hand. Surprised, Clara glanced upwards to find him smiling hungrily down at her. The sight was disconcerting to say the least.

  “My lord, is it absolutely necessary to—”

  His hands tightened further, shocking her into silence in mid-sentence.

  “Perhaps you are wondering why I might wis
h to dance with you now,” he offered. “Particularly when an association with your family is considered so highly undesirable.”

  Clara’s mouth fell open in offense. “I wouldn’t want you to blacken your good name on my account. Pray, let me relieve you from such a trying act of generosity . . .”

  She did not wish to create a scene, but her own sense of self-worth prevented her from blithely accepting his insults. She pushed against him again and he retaliated by jerking her closer. The cloyingly sweet smell of negus on his breath engulfed her and she turned her head to the side, gasping for air while trying to create more distance between them. All efforts were futile, though, and he continued forcing her to dance while leaning down to whisper in her ear.

  “I have watched you these many months, Miss Mayfield. And I have waited. Tomorrow I will pay a visit to your beleaguered parents to make an offer for your hand. It is an offer they will accept, for the season has ended and your prospects are dire.”

  The baron whirled her around into a dizzying turn before she could respond, and her stomach lurched. Her eyes searched desperately for her mother, who was craning her neck to find them through the mass of dancing couples and frothy skirts. Clara knew that she was likely not able to see Rutherford’s behavior from where she stood. She glared angrily up at him.

  “Even were it so, I will never accept you as my husband.”

  He smiled. “Oh, you will accept me, my dove. Perhaps in time you will come to realize how very little control you have over the situation. It is of no importance, either way. In fact,” he added, his voice lowering, “a little resistance might make things more enjoyable, if I may be so bold.”

  Shocked beyond belief, Clara wrestled out of his grip.

  “You’ve had months to pay your courtesies, and this is how you choose to make overtures? With insults and threats and . . . detestable imaginings?”

  The ladies and gentlemen surrounding them began to slow the pace of their dancing, immediately drawn to the commotion. Her cheeks burned at the unwanted attention, but it was minimal when compared to the fire of her sudden hatred for the baron. He took a step towards her. She immediately took a step back.

  “I am not interested in making overtures, Miss Mayfield. You will consent to being my wife or your family will be ruined.”

  She scoffed. “I will consent to nothing of the sort.”

  The baron simply chuckled. As the music came to an end, he sketched a bow in her direction, and Clara spun on her heel, rushing off the floor into the relative safety of her mother’s arms.

  Clara paced fretfully in the parlor of the Mayfields’ country home in Essex. Six weeks had passed since the night the baron had made his insulting offer—and yet the time since had been more awful still, something she wouldn’t have thought possible.

  Of course, she also wouldn’t have thought it possible for her father to actually agree to marry her off to the baron, yet here she was on the eve of their wedding, the preparations having been hastened along by her husband-to-be. He was in the drawing room this very moment, preening and posturing before her parents in his penultimate moment of victory. As much as she loathed to admit it, he’d been right about everything. The state of her family’s reputation being what it was, there had been no true alternative in the end. Rutherford had easily been able to force her father’s hand, for denying the baron what he wanted could only damage the family further, while her marriage to him could repair it.

  Her father chose to view the situation in a more optimistic light than Clara could, entreating her to give the baron a chance to prove himself a worthy husband. However, the season had afforded him many chances already, and he had shown plainly what kind of man he was.

  Absently, she swiped at her cheek, then gazed down at the moisture on her hand. She hadn’t been aware that she was crying. She’d shed enough tears to last a lifetime these past months, first with the loss of her sister, and now with the loss of her own free will. At least Lucy had found love—she reminded herself of that. But oh, the cost . . .

  There was a discreet tap on the door. She rushed over to crack open the portal to reveal the white-capped head of her lady’s maid, Abigail, holding a cup of coffee. Clara admitted her inside the parlor before they could be seen, then closed the door securely behind. Abigail set the steaming beverage down on a table and reached out to clutch Clara’s shaking hands tightly in her own.

  “The preparations have been made. My sister, Amelia, has agreed to provide a reference to the housekeeper at Lawton Park, although I did not give her the particulars of your identity. I only told her you were a capable housemaid from the Mayfield estate in search of work in Kent.”

  Clara regarded her anxiously. “And if they should turn me away?”

  “I don’t think they will,” replied Abigail with a thoughtful shake of her head. “Amelia has commented on the understaffed conditions there for quite some time.”

  She chewed on her lip. “And the master there is kind?”

  “From what I have heard, the Earl of Ashworth is . . . a bit of a recluse,” Abigail replied. “But I believe him to be fair.”

  Clara nodded, but she had known this already. She had remembered the rage of his fellow aristocrats when he had backed out of the ball in Mayfair. His solitary ways were one of the reasons she’d even considered fleeing to his estate. Without the constant risk of having a master who enjoyed entertaining and throwing balls, safeguarding her secrecy would be easier.

  Abigail paused in conflicted silence. “You’ll tell me if you change your mind?”

  Clara pulled her close in a familial embrace. Over the years, Abigail had become so much more than just a maid. She had become a close friend, and Clara would miss her almost as much as she missed Lucy. She hugged her tightly. “There’s no chance of that,” she whispered.

  Another knock sounded on the door, causing the two women to spring apart. Clara smoothed her skirts and cast a nervous glance at Abigail.

  “Yes?” she called out.

  Mrs. Mayfield appeared. She gave a brief nod to the maid, and with a last departing glance at Clara, Abigail left the room. Her mother stared after her curiously.

  “What was Abigail doing in here?”

  Clara froze in panic for just a moment, before remembering her coffee. She strode to the table to retrieve the cup and saucer.

  “She brought me coffee while I waited, Mama.” She took a sip of the warm, lightly sweet drink. Clara had always preferred coffee, and this was perfect, just the way she liked it. Cream with two lumps of sugar. It reminded her of how comfortable her home—her life—had been. Her heart clenched at the thought of leaving it.

  She returned the cup to its saucer, the china rattling noisily in response to the trembling of her fingers. “Do you have news?” she asked, attempting nonchalance but feeling the full burden of her guilt.

  “Yes, my dear,” Mrs. Mayfield answered lightly. “They are ready for you in the drawing room.”

  Her heart began to race and her stomach roiled. It didn’t matter that she had no intention of marrying the vile Lord Rutherford. Just the thought of seeing him, smirking and self-congratulatory, was enough to cause an adverse physical reaction.

  She set her drink down on the table again. Otherwise, she might have been tempted to toss it in the baron’s face. Extending her hand, she tried to smile at her mother.

  “Shall we go in together?”

  Moments later, they entered the drawing room. Both Mr. Mayfield and Rutherford stood to greet the ladies, although Clara did not approach the man or even look at him, electing instead to seat herself on the farthest edge of the settee across from his chair. She stared stubbornly down at her hands and an awkward silence ensued, which was finally broken by her father’s rumbling baritone.

  “Lord Rutherford,” said Mr. Mayfield. “I am very pleased we could come to a mutually beneficial arrangement. Very pleased . . .” His great moustache absorbed any final murmurs on the subject.

  Clara’s fi
ngers tightly gripped the dark emerald velvet upholstery as she listened silently, finally raising her gaze to evaluate the situation. Her fiancé sat opposite her, triumphant in his crisp attire that did nothing to conceal his bloated form. Mutually beneficial, Clara understood, was a relative term, one that excluded her entirely.

  Baron Rutherford flicked an invisible speck off his perfectly pressed pants. “It seems we have, Mr. Mayfield,” he drawled. “Your daughter will make me the happiest of men, I’m sure.”

  “Yes, my lord—such a handsome match,” said Mrs. Mayfield. “It will inevitably be the talk of le bon ton . . .”

  If there was to be any talk within high society about their match, it would likely not be flattering. Another titled old widower, his estate destitute after years of improvident financial decisions, finds a wealthy young wife to refill his family’s coffers—almost certainly to drain them again.

  What a tale for the ages, thought Clara.

  It was strange to feel so helpless. Clara ached to confide in her sister, but the last thing she wanted to do was give Lucy any reason to worry on her account.

  As if sensing Clara’s despair, Abigail skirted by the door, giving Clara a nod of support as she passed. If their plans succeeded, it might allow Clara to live life on her own terms versus getting crushed beneath the baron’s bootheel. It would also mean hiding in service until Lord Rutherford either remarried or died, but under these dire circumstances, she was determined to be eternally patient. Although if this scheme failed, which was a distinct possibility, it could mean a life of ill-repute—further ill-repute, rather—and destitution.

  Or worse, returning home to be claimed by her enraged fiancé.

  She sank lower into the cushions, wishing she could disappear. Every second felt more suffocating than the last, and while the men discussed the particulars of the arrangement, Clara passed time by studying the gleaming hardwood floor and the ornate golden rug that lay upon it. She knew her parents wished only for their remaining daughter to make an uneventful, but advantageous, marriage, to dispel the smoke of Lucy’s scandal and return their lives to normal.

 

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