Cecilia Grant - [Blackshear Family 03]

by A Woman Entangled

  She hadn’t often been proud of that story. At Miss Lowell’s she’d put all her energy into distancing herself from her origins, and cultivating a manner that might convince her schoolmates she’d sprung fully formed from the pages of the latest Belle Assemblee, free from any problematic relations. The effort had exhausted her some days.

  “May I ask you something, Louisa?” She hadn’t meant to broach this. But they were so near the topic already. She angled to face the mirror, and address the other lady through that protective distance. “Why have you been so friendly to me, knowing all along what my family is?”

  Because I pity you. She dreaded to hear it, but she couldn’t stand to wonder.

  “I liked you when we met at your aunt’s house.” The girl’s voice was all gentle gravity. “You were charming and well spoken, and I appreciated your observations relating to Sir George Bigby in particular. I was ready to hope we would be friends.” In the mirror her face showed an absolute lack of guile or calculation, even with the devilish forehead curls. “What would it say of me if I were to change my opinion of you upon learning who your parents were?”

  “Nothing very dire. Most people base their opinions of a young lady in large part on who her parents are. That you should do otherwise is out of the ordinary, I think you must admit.”

  “But it’s not as though you’re the daughter of pirates, or pawnbrokers.” Here she went, warming to the argument, inclining her posture slightly and bringing more modulation to her voice. “People pack the theaters to see Mr. Kean. Mrs. Siddons was the toast of London in her day. For us to persist in telling ourselves that these are exceptions in an otherwise disreputable profession strikes me as more than a little absurd.”

  “Thank you for saying so. I wish more people thought as you do.” Some people did, of course. Lord Barclay’s respectful manner with Mama had lingered vivid in her mind.

  “Well, that’s what comes of having a political brother. Philip is forever on about this sort of thing. The importance of working people to the nation’s health. The intrinsic right to dignity of every man. And so on. But is that the clock chiming? We’d better go see if my mother is nearly ready to leave.”

  Kate followed her out, thoughts churning along with the happy anticipation of the ball. How odd that twice now, since infiltrating the haut ton, she should have encountered such unexpected graciousness, and that neither case should have involved a gentleman stupefied by her beauty.

  At least she was fairly certain Lord Barclay hadn’t been stupefied. His courtesy, like Miss Smith’s kindness, seemed more a product of an ideology that had been in place before he’d ever set eyes on her. If he did marry her, it wouldn’t be a capricious act that he must sooner or later come to regret.

  She couldn’t help one more glance into a pier glass as she passed it. The gown might as well have been made for her, so splendidly did it accentuate the virtues of her form. And it did indeed have a demi-train, which couldn’t but make a lady glide across the floor like royalty. If she was ever going to stun a man, or build upon the good impression she’d already made, then this night, when she’d arrive as a guest with her name announced and her looks polished to a dazzling glow, must be her finest chance.

  MISS WESTBROOK was late. Of all things. She was the one who wanted so fervently to spend her time at society parties; he was the one who’d passed up a relaxing evening of study in his chambers, again, because he could not be sure Lady Harringdon would look after her properly … and she wasn’t even here.

  Nick sidled along the wall until a pair of heavy-set gentlemen blocked him from the sight of Lord and Lady Cathcart, and then stole a look at his watch. That she would arrive, he did not doubt. Only it would have been nice if he’d known, ahead of time, that she didn’t plan to be punctual. There were a dozen better uses he could have made of the half hour in which he’d been milling about, watching other people have what appeared to be a capital time.

  If you’d been speaking to her, she might have told you she’d be coming late. The self-castigating part of his brain had been in rare form this past week. But he couldn’t bear to see her so ill at ease in his presence as she’d been the day he’d visited with Barclay, so he’d stayed away. It was better for him, too, not to see her. The memory of that kiss would surely fade faster this way.

  He pushed away from the wall and started a leisurely circuit of the room, his fourth since arriving. He turned two corners and came upon Lord Barclay, standing in conversation with an august-looking bespectacled gentleman. The baron caught his eye and waved him over.

  “This is the fellow who’s endeavoring to make a capable persuader of me,” Barclay said after effecting the introduction with Lord Littleton, as the older man proved to be. “You ought to see him in court. Stirring speaker, quick on his feet, champion of the downtrodden, everything that’s admirable in the legal profession.”

  “Ah. Your sort of man, indeed.” A sudden acuity came to the man’s gaze as he studied Nick. “Blackshear, you said. Are you a relation of Andrew Blackshear’s, perhaps?”

  His heart beat hard. Andrew wasn’t political. Anyone acquainted with him must know him from social events or perhaps through his club, which meant they’d also be acquainted with the family scandal that had curtailed his appearances at such venues. “Indeed, he’s my elder brother.” He braced himself, and didn’t look at Barclay.

  Lord Littleton nodded, piecing matters together. “You have a deal to say to the baron, I expect, concerning what can be done for those men so altered by their service as to now be unfit for life among polite people.”

  And there it was, a sharp blow to the chest. Curse the man, he almost certainly hadn’t even meant malice. He’d only drawn what seemed to him a logical conclusion, relevant to the conversation at hand. No doubt he never dreamed that this might be a subject on which Lord Barclay had been kept in the dark.

  No matter. Littleton might as well have cackled and rubbed his hands together with villainous glee. Though Nick trained his gaze rigidly on the older man, he could feel Barclay’s puzzlement, a peripheral disturbance like the rustle of leaves in a nearby tree.

  He took a breath. “Not at all.” A false briskness infected his words. “We’ve spoken enough to establish that we haven’t any significant political incompatibilities. Beyond that I should consider it presumptuous to impose any of my opinions.” He clasped his hands behind his back and raised his chin a jaunty degree to indicate a joke was coming. “And I prefer to confine my presumption to telling him he’s not breathing properly, or refusing to be convinced by his well-reasoned arguments because he hasn’t put his dramatic pauses in the right place.”

  Barclay and Littleton both laughed, with a gusto far outstripping the wit of the remark. “Quite right, quite right,” Littleton said. “I’m sure he gives you opportunity enough for that.” For good measure he asked the baron some question about his brother Astley, effectively sweeping all traces of the topic away.

  Such a graceful, gentlemanly maneuver, a minuet figure impeccably executed by the three of them: without any open pronouncement, it was clearly understood that this subject would not be referred to again.

  Lord. Could he possibly despise himself more? He must depend now on the baron’s delicacy, hoping honor would prevent the man from later asking Littleton what had been behind that bit of awkwardness with Blackshear. A memory rose up of Will’s wife, staring her harsh judgment at him. He’d been sure, once, of having a superior character to hers. Yet it was he who went about hoping people wouldn’t discover the truth, and she who scorned society’s opinion and stood up for his brother.

  Somewhere in this morass of self-dissatisfaction studded with the fraudulent pleasantries he must occasionally contribute to the gentlemen’s conversation, a word from elsewhere plucked at his consciousness. From the right, at the room’s great doorway, in the butler’s voice: Harringdon. Finally, Miss Westbrook’s party had arrived.

  He twisted to look. Probably not quite polite to t
he two men with whom he was ostensibly speaking, but damn it all, he knew better than anyone in the room what this moment meant to her—a grand entrance with her name called out—and, his own evening having already gone down the road of disaster, he could at least take some vicarious enjoyment in her triumph.

  Besides, Barclay was turning to look, too. So she’d definitely succeeded in making an impression on the baron. Nick would do his best to be happy for her in that triumph, too.

  Lady Harringdon blocked his view at first. Then a woman of middle years not familiar to him, and then a fetching young lady who proved, surprisingly, to be the same Miss Smith who’d sat across the supper table at Cranbourne House—he wouldn’t have guessed it but when her name was announced he could see it was none other. She’d done something different with herself since he’d seen her; some rearrangement of … of …

  Whatever he’d been thinking was gone all of a sudden, snatched from his grasp and whirled off like a feather on a blustery day, as Miss Smith stepped to one side.

  “Miss Westbrook,” the butler intoned.

  He swallowed. That quickly, his mouth had gone dry.

  Hell and fiery damnation, how could she continue to do this to him? Three years ought to buy a man some … well, not indifference; he wouldn’t hope for that, but some aplomb, at least. Ah, yes, I know those eyes; no novelty there. Yes, there’s the hair to which I’ve long since grown accustomed, and the porcelain skin, too. Granted he’d never seen quite so much of the porcelain skin. He’d never, to be specific, seen so much of her bosom, rising in curved perfection from the bodice of her gown, and suddenly his hands ached; he ached all over with ferocious regret that he had not touched her there when he’d had his one chance.

  Get hold of yourself. Think how much worse your regrets would be now if you’d taken that liberty, too. And for God’s sake stop gaping at her bosom like a damned schoolboy. He forced his gaze down, forsaking the view of flesh to instead fill his vision with the red, red silk that draped her. Where the devil had she been hiding this gown? Last week she’d been all delicate beauty in that pink-and-white thing she’d worn, like a visitor from some fairyland where ladies grew up alongside roses in the flower beds.

  Tonight she was an incendiary device bewitched into human form. Not that the gown itself was necessarily provocative—the neck was no lower than was customary for evening—but the color invited eyes to linger, as milder colors did not. And once lingering, any eye that had a man’s sensibility behind it must soon perceive the extraordinary merits of her figure.

  His gaze traveled up again, pausing only briefly at the bosom before returning to the familiar face—and his breath caught. She was looking at him. Among all the titled and otherwise eligible gentlemen in this room, more than one of whom, he could now see, was craning for a look at her, he was the one on whom her glance had settled.

  Instantly the glance flitted away, her cheeks gone pink.

  Christ. She’d just seen him look her up and down, lingering at the bosom both ways. So, yes, he could despise himself more than he’d already done.

  He forced himself to speak. “You ought to ask her for a dance.” Here was one piece of penitence, muscling these words out to Barclay in a tone of casual good nature. “She won’t know many people here. I’m sure she’d welcome a set with someone she can count as an acquaintance.” The ladies were making their way into the crowd, apparently bound for some other part of the room.

  “By that logic, oughtn’t you to ask her? I should think a friend would be even more welcome than an acquaintance.”

  He shrugged one shoulder, hands still clasped behind his back. “Not on this occasion. She can dance with me whenever she likes.” She’d never danced with him in all of three years. “I’ll have the pleasure of hearing in minute detail about whom she danced with and what everyone wore, the next time I call at the Westbrooks’ house.”

  “Ah.” The baron grinned. “You didn’t exaggerate, when you said you’re like a brother in that family.” He explained to Lord Littleton the connection between Nick and the Westbrooks, the role Charles Westbrook had played in introducing them, and of course the identity of the girl in red who’d momentarily captured their attention. Littleton pronounced her very fine.

  That Littleton knew of the irregularities attending the Westbrook name, just as he knew what there was to know of the Blackshears, was clear from a slight increase in the gravity of his expression. He’d apparently resolved to be more circumspect on such matters now, though, because he made no remark. In fact when Barclay excused himself to go and secure one of Miss Westbrook’s dances before they were all taken, the older man cleared his throat and tilted his head in an apologetic manner. “I fear I spoke out of turn, earlier. You’ve chosen reticence on a subject round which I would very likely choose reticence myself, were I in your place. I oughtn’t to have assumed it was something freely discussed between you and the baron.”

  This was the opposite of gossip, this courteous apology from a gentleman—viscount? earl? marquess?—quite a few rungs above him. For all that, it carried much the same sting.

  Nick bowed in turn. “Think nothing of it.” He might have left matters there, but some perverse impulse spurred him to further speech. “Even had I been in the habit of urging my opinions on Lord Barclay, I’d have nothing to say on the topic of deranged soldiers. My brother is of sound mind and generally good judgment. His lapse, in the matter of choosing a bride, may have been spectacular but is certainly not without precedent among otherwise reasonable men. It wants no war-induced snapping of the mind for a man to fall under the spell of an unsuitable woman. English history provides examples aplenty of that particular frailty.”

  The fingers of his clasped hands tightened until he could feel the pinch of his nails. To defend Will against the charge of madness made him feel a little better, though he was skirting the edge of impertinence with Lord Littleton, who’d been gracious enough to apologize.

  Littleton, slighted or not, was shortly called away by another acquaintance, which left Nick free to tour the room’s perimeter once more, now with even less satisfaction than he’d found in the task on his first attempt. It might be a very long night, watching Miss Westbrook in her red gown and wondering how much longer it would be before Barclay learned what had been kept from him.

  He took up a position beside one of the room’s many decorative pillars, where he had a fair view of the dance—Miss Westbrook had already gone into the set with a gentleman he didn’t know—and also, it developed, of Lady Harringdon holding court among the other matrons.

  Devil take Andrew for not having been an earl, anyway. How long had it taken Lord and Lady Harringdon to recover all their consequence, once they’d cut off the Honorable Charles? A season at most, he’d wager. If the Blackshears had only had a title at their head he might now be going about with Barclay, enjoying introductions to all manner of political men and beginning to build such a web of acquaintance as could later serve his grandest ambitions. Instead of standing by a post, avoiding any company, and playing chaperone-by-stealth to a barrister’s daughter with too much beauty for her own good.

  “I should find a place in the set and try to catch her eye, if I were you.” The voice came unexpectedly from the other side of the pillar, startling him like a sudden flight of pigeons. “You don’t show to best advantage at a pining distance.”

  “Mrs. Simcox.” God, he hadn’t seen her in months. “I had no idea you were here tonight.” She was in excellent looks, too, all green and gold in her gown and jewels; all auburn in her hair. Her appearance, indeed her youth, had taken him by surprise the first time he’d met her. Ignorant as he’d been, he’d heard widow and imagined someone matronly, not a vibrant creature several scant years his senior and seething with wicked appetites.

  “I’ve been in at cards for the past hour and more. I must have missed hearing you announced.” She grinned her cheeky grin at him, waking all manner of pleasant memories. “And ‘Mrs. Simcox,’
is it? Am I not to be ‘Anne’ anymore?”

  “I doubt your Mr. Stewart would appreciate my calling you Anne.” In spite of good intentions he couldn’t help falling into the rhythms of flirtatious speech.

  “Mr. Stewart.” She turned her face aside and sent a dismissive puff of breath through her lips. “You’ve been shut away in your chambers as usual, Blackshear, else you would have heard. Mr. Stewart got it into his head I must marry him. He got very tedious with it, and so I sent him on his way.”

  “Is that so?” He angled a bit farther to face her, and set his hand on the pillar between them.

  “It’s so.” Her eyes took thorough note of his hand before flicking back up to his face. She set a hand of her own on the pillar, rather near his. “Has the widow Marbury had you all to herself these few months, or have you broadened your circle of acquaintances?”

  “It’s been a bit of a lull, actually. Mrs. Marbury followed your example in accepting a gentleman’s respectable attentions, and as to new acquaintances, I don’t seem to hold much appeal for the ladies of late.”

  “Because of the business with your brother, you mean?” With the hand that wasn’t resting near his she made a contemptuous little wave. “Astute women care nothing for that, Nick. If anything, you’ve acquired an interesting frisson of disrespectability to go with your other charms. Which, as I recall in some detail, are considerable.” Her gaze wandered down his form, with near as much effect as if she’d traced the same path with her fingers.

  It had been too long since he’d enjoyed himself with a carefree sort of woman. He was weary—until this moment he hadn’t realized just how weary—of watching his every step for the sake of a lady’s innocence, and the friendship that had been between them, and the trust her parents had placed in him. He was tired of being the kind of man who reproached himself for a kiss.