A Prior Attachment (Dorothy Mack Regency Romances)

by Dorothy Mack

  “My brother?” she echoed blankly. “Do you mean John?”

  “Who else?”

  Lucy was so occupied in coping with the shock of his words that she failed to notice he was regarding her with a half-tender, half-amused light in his eyes, and by the time her absent faculties returned, he was carefully expressionless again.

  “What a fool I’ve been! But it is always so difficult to tell what John is thinking. His manners are perfect and he is an absolute clam, a combination that defeats inquisitive little sisters.” Lucy’s former dejection had vanished miraculously. She was on tiptoe with excitement. “I confess I have not noticed any languishing after Gemma on John’s part, but naturally John would not languish,” she said laughingly. “He is protective of her, but so am I. Gemma falls into one scrape after another, you see.” She continued to muse aloud, almost unaware of her listener. “And then, he does flirt with Coralee.” A touch of anxiety dimmed the animation in her face, and she clasped her hands together in an unconsciously pleading gesture. “You are sure?”

  “He is playing his cards very close to his vest, but yes, as sure as one may be in these matters. And everyone flirts with Miss Fairmont, even Malcolm Godwin in his quiet way. It means nothing.”

  “You don’t flirt with her,” stated Lucy, and then wished she had censored the thought before it reached her unruly tongue as all signs of human interest faded away and the lines of his face hardened again, congealing into the indifferent mask with which he faced the world.

  “It is different with me,” he said repressively.

  “How, different?”

  Lord Oliver experienced a dizzying rush of fury to his brain and had to throttle an impulse to hurt the girl staring up at him expectantly. Did she think to torture him? Was that her idea of amusement? He’d enjoy seizing those shapely shoulders only half-covered by the wide neckline of her gown and shaking her until she begged for mercy — and even that act was beyond a man with one arm! He clenched his fist and his teeth, setting a muscle twitching in his jaw.

  She was repeating, “How is it different with you?”

  Goaded beyond bearing, he took his revenge in words. “So you insist on having me spell it out for you? Because, Miss Delevan, a one-armed man is in another category entirely. Along with hunchbacks and idiots, he is removed from the field of competition. Do you now understand?”

  Wide shocked eyes locked with his, but instead of reacting with fear to the clear danger in his black gaze, she blazed up at him. “You utter fool! One would think that shot had pierced your brain instead of your arm! You have another one, have you not? Self-pity is what I have no patience with; it is cowardly and destructive. I beg you will excuse me, sir. I find I do not wish any tea today.” She seized her paint box from under his rigid arm and sped away.

  Lord Oliver was left standing outside the garden hedge staring after Miss Delevan’s retreating figure, his mind a swirling mass of conflicting impressions. For a second, he felt rather as if a pet dog had turned savage and bitten him. Part of his mind was recalling how magnificent she had appeared, tall and stately, with those luminous eyes flashing, but the image was soon swamped by an upsurge of the blackest rage he had ever known. How dared this girl who had never lost anything in her life, this pampered daughter of a wealthy man, accuse him of cowardice! Had a man said what she had just said he’d be measuring his length on the ground right now!

  Lord Oliver’s long legs almost outdistanced his furious rantings, for before he realized his intention he was rounding the corner with the stables dead ahead. He made a stern effort to mask his fury enough to avoid provoking the groom’s interest when he asked for his horse. His reputation for being unapproachable came in handy and spared any necessity of exchanging commonplaces. A faint gleam of sardonic amusement came into his eyes as the man scurried to obey the order. Pleasant sociable persons like John Delevan must find it the very devil when they were out of sorts to get away from people without wounding sensibilities and ruffling feelings. How glad he was that he wasn’t a pleasant sociable person.

  Lord Oliver would have had less cause for self-congratulation on that score had he been aware that impatience and suppressed rage radiated from him like heat from a flaming brand and caused the stable boy to exclaim to the groom as he rode out of the yard, “I wonder what put ’is nibs in such a rare tweak? A proper ’ellion ’e is!”

  This piece of impertinence earned him a sharp rebuke from the groom, who though secretly sharing his inferior’s opinion, had no intention of confessing the same.

  Had she but known it, Miss Fairmont’s sly suggestion that her cousin and Mr. Delevan might be found in the gardens together had been quite correct.

  Casting a critical eye over her handiwork when she came downstairs, Lady Gemma had decided that two of the arrangements would benefit from the addition of several flowers. Accordingly, she gathered up shears and cutting basket and headed back to the cutting garden to make further depredations in the worthy cause of the hall’s beautification for the ball. John discovered her there some minutes later — accidentally, as far as Gemma was concerned, a misapprehension that he permitted to stand as he greeted her in simulated surprise.

  “I was under the impression that the floral arrangements were all complete,” he commented idly, enjoying the picture she presented in a green-sprigged white muslin dress that drifted and floated as she bent to cut suitable blooms.

  “Some of them looked a little sparse, but an extra spray or two will do the trick. Can you reach that stalk of delphinium over there, Mr. Delevan?”

  Obligingly he cut at her direction, but when she would have taken the stalks, he put his hands behind his back and asked gravely, “Do you think you can bring yourself to use my Christian name? Are we well enough acquainted yet?”

  Her face as serious as his, she tipped her head to one side and gazed at him consideringly. “Is this a case of extortion, sir? Am I not to receive the flowers unless I accede to your request?”

  To her surprise, a faint flush spread over Mr. Delevan’s cheeks and he handed the flowers back to her at once. “I would not dream of coercing you in anything, little one. Any favour granted, any pleas accepted must be by your own desire.”

  Brown velvet eyes widened as she accepted the flowers mechanically and laid them in the basket. “You must know I was only teasing you,” she protested, not comprehending his intensity. “I think of you as John. I cannot think why I haven’t called you that before, except that you have never requested me to do so.”

  Cursing himself for a coward and a clumsy fool, John strove for a light touch. “That favour is usually granted at the lady’s discretion.”

  “Oh?” Mischief flashed into her face as the dimples were given full play. “I have the most wretched memory, for I really cannot recall granting you permission to call me by that silly ‘little one’ you affect upon occasion.”

  He put up a hand in a fencer’s gesture. “Touché. I plead guilty to presumption. Would you like that tall spike of larkspur over there?”

  Lady Gemma thanked him prettily and they proceeded to complete her errand in perfect amity, descending from the cutting garden into the rose garden to select a couple of pink beauties for accents.

  Entering the house a few minutes later, she called to the butler, who was crossing the hall. “Stansmere, do you know where Miss Delevan might be?”

  “Yes, my lady. She is painting at the Greek temple.”

  “Thank you.” She inquired of the man at her side, “Would you care to wander down and fetch Lucy back for tea, John, while I pop these flowers into the arrangements?”

  He pretended to consider, then countered with a suggestion of his own. “If yours isn’t to be a terribly time-consuming task, we could walk down to the temple together when it is done.”

  “Very well. I shall be quick about it.” She led the way to the shaded room where the vases were stored and replenished them with deft fingers, accepting John’s praise with no false modesty as
they headed back outdoors.

  “Yes, I am rather good at this; I enjoy it so. Flowers give such pleasure.”

  They strolled down toward the decorative building that so fascinated Lucy, not talking much but enjoying the late summer afternoon. The earlier breeze had died down and an expectant silence hung over the world, undisturbed by birdsong or the buzz and whirr of insects at the moment. They were practically at the temple before it dawned on them that Lucy was nowhere in sight.

  “Perhaps she’s on the other side of the building,” suggested John. “Can we walk right through it?”

  “Yes, it’s open on two sides.”

  They were already ascending the shallow steps when John became aware suddenly that the temple was tenanted at the moment. His step faltered and he wheeled instinctively to shield Gemma, but one glance at her stricken face told him it was too late. The interior of the temple was dim compared with the sunny brilliance outside, but not so dim that it had been possible to mistake the sight of the blond girl in the embrace of the dark-haired man for anything other than what it was.

  Betrayal — that is how she will see it, he thought numbly as he took her elbow to guide her back down the steps. For a second she resisted, and his eyes, which he had averted from her face, either in compassion for her suffering or because he couldn’t bear the story it might tell on his own account, flew back to discover a totally composed mask so unlike Gemma’s expressive countenance that his heart contracted and he hastily averted his gaze once more.

  He was persuaded they had not made any noise in their approach to the steps. It was vital to get Gemma away from here before they were discovered by the pair inside. In her shocked state, Gemma could not be relied on to produce the casual inconsequential chatter that would enable them to carry the thing off. This time his tug at her elbow met with automatic compliance, and in another thirty seconds they had passed the big elm.

  Not until they were halfway up the slope did he again look at the girl beside him. He was surprised to find her arm still in his light grasp as she plodded along like an automaton, eyes straight ahead. The silence between them threatened to become permanent, but all John’s natural ease in social situations had deserted him. He could think of no conventional phrases to bring comfort to Gemma and was terrified to utter even one of the words of love and desire burning in his brain and struggling for release by his tongue. She was in no mood to hear them, would resent them most like, and he would only succeed in queering his own pitch. Patience was his game, his only weapon, he reminded himself grimly, unaware until she winced and removed her arm from his grip that his fierce efforts at restraint had tightened his muscles and resulted in a bruising pressure on her elbow.

  “I-I beg your pardon,” he stuttered. “Gemma, my dear, I —”

  “No, don’t say anything,” she warned in flat tones, “not one word,” as his lips parted again. “There is nothing whatsoever that needs to be said.”

  He searched her face for some sign of emotion and found nothing save impatience to be released from his scrutiny. She turned away from him without a word of farewell as they reached the hedge surrounding the rose garden, and he was left with no recourse except to respect her desire for privacy.

  He remained standing outside the garden for a long moment, unable to conceive what his next action should be, until he finally decided to seek the solitude of his own room before Miss Fairmont and Captain Godwin should end their tryst and discover him here. He was in no condition at present to welcome an exchange of pleasantries with that pretty pair, even though, too deeply embedded to be acknowledged by his better self, there existed a feeling of gratitude toward them for resolving a situation that had held him in impotent suspension for a seeming eternity.

  CHAPTER 15

  “Come in, girls, and let us see you in all your glory.”

  The duchess, magnificent in burgundy silk and diamonds, with a delicate tiara gleaming against raven locks, rose from her chair and glided over to examine her daughter and Lucy at close range. Except that Lucy was a trifle pale and Gemma’s smile was less spontaneous than usual, not the most carping critic could have found fault with their appearance. Her Grace of Carlyle beamed maternally and impartially on both as they twirled slowly to allow a comprehensive view of their finery.

  “Absolutely enchanting, girls. Lucy, that mauve silk is devastating with your beautiful hair. It’s rather a shame you cannot keep the silver-spangled shawl on while you are dancing because it’s the perfect final touch. Gemma, the white sarcenet was definitely one of our happiest purchases, and I am in agreement with Miss Weems that the yellow ribbons at the shoulder are just the detail that was lacking last time. They’ll float when you dance, and speaking of dancing, is the ankle comfortable?”

  “It is fine, thank you, Mama.”

  “Where is Coralee? I was under the impression that you three had planned to come in together to dazzle our old eyes,” remarked the duke.

  “I believe she intends to make an Entrance,” replied his daughter somewhat dryly.

  If that was Coralee’s intention, she was certainly successful, thought the duchess a moment later when her niece entered the saloon. Even one who had grown used to the girl’s beauty had to admit that tonight she fairly took one’s breath away. She could only nod agreement as the duke told his niece that she looked like a fairy princess. Small wonder her proud mother had tears shimmering in her eyes.

  From the top of her head, with its burnished gold hair swept up high and pinned in a mass of curls that were surrounded by a wreath of artificial rosebuds, to the tips of her pale-pink dancing slippers, Coralee was a vision to behold. Everyone agreed that the white silk open dress worn over a blush pink slip with a scalloped and embroidered hem was a great success. The scalloping was repeated in the low-cut bodice and down the edges of the overdress. It was a gown for a fairy princess, and Coralee’s perfection of face and form did it full justice. She had never been in better looks or spirits; indeed, her beauty was enhanced by a glow of excitement and triumph that drew all eyes. Not the most doting parent in the world could deny that the others, very pretty girls both, were like farthing candles compared with the sun that was Coralee Fairmont. Fortunately for the self-assurance of the other two young ladies, daily familiarity had bred, if not contempt, then a casual acceptance of Coralee’s looks on the part of her cousin Peter and Mr. Delevan, neither of whom was disposed to ignore the claims of the others to a share of the masculine attention.

  Dinner was a rather hurried meal and, it must be reported, one that none of the younger generation save Lord Gresham partook of very extensively. This was quite naturally attributed to the excitement and anticipation produced by the imminence of the ball, and was looked on indulgently by their seniors. Gemma’s and Lucy’s innate good manners assured that it would have taken a very keen eye to detect that neither girl was really in spirits. Mr. Delevan did indeed note to his sorrow that Lady Gemma was taking pains to avoid crossing glances with himself, but such is the optimism of young love that he still cherished hopes of seeing her vivacity revive in his company under the happy influence of music and dancing.

  In the event, half of his wish came true. A disinterested onlooker that night would have had no hesitation in declaring that Lady Gemma was in high force. If Coralee Fairmont was the undisputed belle of the ball, her cousin ran her a close second as the most sought-after young lady present.

  John would have been delighted at this transformation had he been granted his fair portion of her time and attention. One waltz early in the evening — moreover, a waltz during which his partner, though a pliable delight in his arms, had only bright nothings to offer by way of conversation — was his entire share of her company. Thereafter, he could not come within talking distance of his contrary little love. She had refused his invitation to be his partner at supper on the suspect grounds of a prior commitment to Malcolm Godwin. Since John had asked her before the first guests arrived, he strongly suspected her of prevaricating, wh
ich the subsequent sight of her going into supper on Mr. Godwin’s arm did nothing to diminish. She scattered her favours impartially during the evening, but if one gentleman could be said to have benefited more than any other, that one was Malcolm, a fact not lost upon the elder Biddlesford girl. John had the doubtful pleasure of dancing with this rather awkward young woman at a time when Gemma was whirling expertly around the floor in the arms of the fortunate Malcolm. Miss Biddlesford’s lack of natural grace on the dancefloor was compounded by her obvious attempts to keep these others in view at all times, a habit not likely to endear her to her own partner, who was already wincing mentally at each shrill laugh she emitted. To his everlasting credit, Mr. Delevan did his duty by Miss Biddlesford and, in the course of the evening, by several other young ladies in need of a partner.

  This selflessness won him the commendation of the duchess, who was a considerate and conscientious hostess. He had been previously unaware of how high he already stood in her regard, for she had taken the utmost pains all summer to do nothing that could be construed as meddling by her autocratic husband or her strong-minded daughter. As he looked back on the ball, the rueful truth was that his dances with the charming duchess marked its highlight, for her gentle approval enveloped him in a warmth that delayed for a time the onset of the chill that was creeping into his bones.

  And if his own troubles were not sufficient to occupy his mind, there was the problem of Lucy. His sister was enacting the part of contented guest in competent fashion; she had her share of good partners and managed to look graceful even when going around the floor in the arms of a poor dancer, but her underlying unhappiness hit him like a sudden blow from behind when he partnered her just before supper.

  “Thank you, dear brother,” she whispered fervently on being rescued from the persistent attentions of a stolid young man with a lot to say on the subject of scientific farming, but once on the floor she fell silent.