He cleared his throat. “Unfortunately the charms you refer to are the sort a woman can only learn of through proximity. And the family scandal has made a formidable barrier to that.”
“Nonsense. Ladies like a bit of scandal. Dewy young misses in red gowns like it best of all. Else they’d wear white, wouldn’t they; or some innocent shade of pink.” She’d turned while speaking; taken her hand from the pillar and maneuvered herself so that now she stood with her back to the thing, facing out over the dance, her shoulder but an inch or two from Nick’s still-resting hand. “Depend upon it, she’s aware of you.” From this distance, she could drop her voice to its duskier range. “All the more since you began speaking to me. I do believe she’d counted you as a conquest, and now sees she was too hasty in that. Thus rendering you doubly intriguing to her.”
“Anne, you couldn’t be further from the truth.” Laughter lurked just in back of his words. He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed this woman, even in mere conversation. “She’s aware of me indeed, because we’ve known one another for years. I’m a friend of her father’s, and I assure you she and I are long past the point where one might think to make a conquest of the other.” Never mind how the sight of her in a red gown had conquered him nearly to his knees.
Mrs. Simcox turned her head to look at him. Her face was near enough that he could fancy he felt her breath. “She’s seen you up close, then, and conversed with you, and still she has no interest?” Her right brow arched, an eloquent challenge to his assertion or perhaps a judgment on Miss Westbrook’s soundness of mind.
“Why should she have an interest? She can converse with me to her heart’s content as a friend, and whatever dubious gratification there is to be gained from a near view of me, our present connection affords her that as well.”
“And she finds that sufficient? Conversation and a near view? But I was an ignorant girl once, too, with no idea that marital congress could be anything better than tolerable, and no notion of how to choose a husband who would make a wife’s duty into pleasure.” Her grin flashed again, teasing and altogether impudent. “Perhaps I ought to have a pointed word or two with your pretty friend, and see whether I cannot make her aware of you in a more particular way.”
“You’ll do no such thing.” He took hold of her elbow. “Come and dance with me. I rely on the hope that standing in a line with respectable people at either side will force you to behave.”
They danced, and all his knotted-up muscles seemed to loosen at the pure bodily pleasure of it. Or no, bodily pleasure was but one of the agents working upon him. Not only had he gone too long without a woman who risked nothing by being with him, but it seemed an age since he’d enjoyed the company of someone who knew all his secrets and thought them inconsequential. He ought to spend more time with such people—and now that her erstwhile suitor Mr. Stewart had gone on his way, he’d likely have the opportunity.
He glanced up to see Miss Westbrook and her partner coming down the line, and this time he was able to give her a proper, decent smile, his eyes never roaming from her face. He would enjoy her triumphs this evening, just as he’d intended, and if Mrs. Simcox’s wicked mood held, he might even end the night with a triumph or two of his own.
WELL. MR. Blackshear did dance, after all. First with the auburn-haired lady in green who’d talked to him for so long and with such undisguised interest; then with a black-haired, full-figured lady to whom the first one introduced him. He spent the next dance laughing with the viscount at the far end of the room, and after that came a waltz and he danced it, with the auburn-haired lady for a partner again.
Not that she was keeping count. She was engaged in most of those same dances herself, and occupied all the while by making conversation with whichever gentleman stood opposite. Even now she might have been out among the waltzing couples, if a Captain Williams had had his way. But to return to her chair, with all the modesty of a girl who would not dream of asking her chaperone for permission to waltz, had seemed the more effectual course. A lady did well to project a certain air of unattainability, that a gentleman could have the bracing pleasure of working to win her.
Someone ought to share that wisdom with Mr. Blackshear’s auburn-haired friend. She would be embarrassed, later, when he grew weary of her too-attentive manner and forsook her to dance with more circumspect ladies, or perhaps to stand at the edge of the floor in solitude, as he’d been doing before she’d strolled up to engross him.
“I think a continuation of the tax upon income would have been the fairest approach.” Lord Barclay’s voice interrupted her thoughts. He’d danced the last set with Louisa and generously chosen to sit out the waltz in favor of keeping the ladies company. He would partner Kate for the next set. “But gentlemen of property had tolerated that tax with the expectation it would be retired at the end of the war, and I suppose there was a general fear that, extended once, it could easily become a permanent fixture.” He bowed to Louisa, seated at his right. “Your brother would know more than I, of course, having been in Parliament at the time and therefore privy to the discussions.”
“Yes, he had a great deal to say of that measure, as I recall.” She achieved a fair degree of radiance in speaking on this topic, even if she didn’t quite glow the way she did when debating over novels. “He said there was a sentiment, among those who opposed the tax, that our government ought to concentrate its efforts on reducing the public expenditure, and look for economies in its own operation.”
“That strikes me as an entirely reasonable expectation for any government.” Lady Harringdon, at Kate’s left, apparently found herself equipped with as many authoritative opinions on this subject as on any other. “I wonder why it had to be brought up for debate at all. One hopes one’s Parliament would not have been wasteful or extravagant in the first place.”
The waltzing couples moved in a grand circle around the floor, and here came Mr. Blackshear and his lady friend in close hold, his hand high on her ribcage, her fingers settled on his right arm just below the shoulder. There was a place there, Kate knew, where the muscles sloped down and back up, a brief indentation between shoulder and bicep well fitted to a lady’s hand. Even through a coat sleeve, Lady Auburn Attainable would have easily found that hollow, that mute invitation for her grasp.
To waltz looked very agreeable. Not necessarily to waltz with Mr. Blackshear, though he did lead his partner through the steps expertly and with some flair, his coattails flying out behind him whenever he had cause to make a quick pivot. He seemed to have some extra sense that told him how far away his neighbors were on either side, for he never glanced up to gauge the distance, as so many of the other men did. That much more attention did he reserve to spend on the lady who danced with him, her face tilted up toward his, her entire form submitting to his lead, telling him as plainly as if she spoke the words that she was his for the asking; that he could consider her as already attained.
Admittedly he did not look as though he would grow weary of her anytime soon.
Kate cast her eyes down in order to straighten her bracelets as the two passed by, not that either of them had noticed her on any previous circuit. The gold cuffs were tolerably straight already, but paired bracelets really ought to match, so she made a minute adjustment to the left one before allowing her gaze to float up again.
She could have been the one in his arms, if that had been what she’d wanted. She was reasonably certain of that. He’d been quite as taken with her in the beginning as any of Papa’s young men, and by his own testimony he’d continued to feel an attraction to her, at least, even long after she’d brusquely disabused him of futile hopes. And then, of course, there’d been the testimony of the kiss. And … the way he’d looked at her tonight, when he’d first laid eyes on her in the red gown. She’d scarcely let herself think of it all evening; to do so felt like leaning down from a precarious perch to dip her fingers into a lake that might swallow her up.
She’d felt singled out, set on fire, seen in eve
ry part of her right down to the marrow of her bones. She felt dizzy even now, just remembering.
He, on the other hand, didn’t seem to remember at all. Likely his brain was occupied with thinking ahead to the liaison that Lady Attainable would doubtless propose. Perhaps she was proposing it this minute, as they stepped through a different figure that required them to move side by side, his arm about her waist in what must feel, to the lady, like a proprietary hold.
Did she know that his brother had made a disgraceful marriage? Maybe that wouldn’t matter to her.
“Indeed there was waltzing on the Continent, but I never did indulge.” The conversation had rolled on without any contribution from her and apparently left the field of politics altogether. Lord Barclay was speaking around her to Lady Harringdon, answering a question Kate had somehow missed. “I see now the error of my ways. If I’d known it would catch on at home, and that I’d be granted a title, and expected to appear at places like Almack’s, I would have made some effort to master the steps.”
Title. Almack’s. The words sounded beside her ear like miniature gongs, summoning back her straying attention. She had nothing to envy in the auburn-haired woman’s state. Mr. Blackshear might acquit himself with distinction on the dancing floor, or in a darkened room, but a lady of purpose—a lady looking not for a few minutes of transitory pleasure but for a permanent improvement in the circumstances of her life—required more from a man.
She twisted to smile at Lord Barclay. He’d leaned in a bit while addressing the countess, and for a second, before he blinked and drew back, her face was quite near his. “I’m sure you made the best possible use of your time in those days.” She packed all the warm admiration she could into her voice. “I’ve yet to hear of any man being granted a barony in recognition of his ballroom skills.”
He blushed, and said something dismissive, which was what a gentleman did when enjoying flattery from a pretty girl. His glance even flickered to her bosom, now that she’d angled herself to present that virtue to his notice. Only for the briefest of instants, and as a kind of inadvertent masculine reflex—it wasn’t such a look as a lady could feel in her marrow—but she notched the triumph nevertheless.
Beyond him she could see a slight wilting in Miss Smith’s aspect. Louisa hadn’t … formed hopes of him, had she? On the strength of a dance and the few minutes of political conversation they’d shared here and at the Astleys’ rout? That seemed far from her professed ideal of a long-held friendship blossoming finally into love.
She’ll have other prospects. You must make the most of what’s before you now. Some streak of ruthlessness in her offered that advice. Kate didn’t like to listen. But if she gave up any designs on Lord Barclay, she’d be passing up a gentleman who already knew the worst there was to know of her family and hadn’t been at all put off. She might find another such man, but until she did, it would be imprudent to discourage this one.
Besides, Louisa’s wilting might have been but a reaction to the room’s heat. Perhaps she’d even imagined the sight. She would find a private moment, later, to ascertain her friend’s feelings, and then she could weigh the counsel of that ruthless streak. Though no ruthlessness would be needed if there’d been no wilting, which seemed more probable the longer she thought on it.
At all events, she was engaged to dance the next set with the man. To avoid conversing with him would simply be rude.
One more time she blocked out the sight of the waltzers going by. “Have you been to Almack’s often, Lord Barclay? Is it true the lemonade tastes very like water?” She smoothed the skirts of the gown Miss Smith had so kindly lent her, and fixed the baron with a winning smile.
HE COULD not doubt, by the end of the waltz, that Mrs. Simcox intended to have him in her bed that night. She’d never been subtle about such things, which in any man’s opinion must be greatly to her credit. The looks she turned upon him, the deliberate lapses in conversation, the artful lingerings and trailings of her fingers whenever it was time to change a hold, all spoke of invitation. And he was entirely ready, after a drought of several months and too much thought wasted on Miss Westbrook, for that kind of invitation.
He bowed over her hand, when the music ended, and matched her for frankness. “Have you any plans for after this party, Mrs. Simcox?”
“Aren’t you forward.” But the twist of her smile, the coquettish tilt of her head, told him she didn’t mind. “What will you do if I say I have made other plans?”
“I’ll propose you give thought to changing them. I flatter myself I can offer you superior amusements to any you have planned.” He let his smile sketch in a few details.
Wicked appreciation flashed in her eyes; she stepped backward, towing him by the hand still gripped in hers, to continue this conversation off the dance floor. “I have a counter proposal. Let’s leave now.”
The sheer flattering force of her desire swayed him, but he didn’t quite topple. “I can wait.” From the corner of his eye he could see Miss Westbrook—his responsibility—rising to ready herself for the next dance. “I’m sure you must be engaged for some of the later dances. I wouldn’t want your disappointed partners on my conscience.”
“Let me worry about my disappointed partners.” She took another step back, as if to lead him right out of the room. “Besides, I thought gentlemen liked the idea of leaving bested rivals in their wake. I thought it added a layer of triumph to the assignation.”
“For some men, perhaps. I prefer to not concern myself with other people of any sort, whether bested rivals or old lovers, when I’m in the midst of an assignation.” He felt utterly disingenuous. What was he doing? He’d never had to resort to any maneuvering or artifice with Anne Simcox. They’d always been perfectly direct with each other.
A frown stole over her features. Her eyes narrowed and his heart sank. She slid her hand out of his grasp. “What are you not telling me, Blackshear? Has some young thing promised you her supper dance, and you’re loath to abandon her?”
“You know my circumstances. You know no young thing’s chaperone would countenance my being introduced to her charge.” That didn’t answer her question, and the fact wouldn’t be lost on her.
She folded her arms and raised one eyebrow.
She deserved to be told the truth. Regardless of the cost to his hopes for tonight. “I am bound by a promise, but not that sort.” He inclined his head to her and lowered his voice. “The young lady in red you saw me watching earlier—she hasn’t much experience in society and I’ve promised her father I’ll keep an eye on her. I cannot leave here until she and her party have gone.”
“I see.” Her glance veered away from him, doubtless to settle on Miss Westbrook. “You weren’t really concerned, then, with disappointing those men to whom I might have promised my later dances.”
“I’m sorry, Anne.” He was. On his account as well as hers. “I oughtn’t to have been less than frank. If not for my obligation to Mr. Westbrook, I’d have been out the door with you by now. If you will wait until I can leave in good conscience, you will have all my best and fullest attention. Trust to my word on that.”
She brought her gaze back, the beginnings of a smile suggesting she might be placated. “We shall see. If no better prospect comes along, you may renew your offer at the end of the evening, or whenever your duty to your pretty friend concludes. But be advised I shall be looking out for more obliging men.” She pivoted to leave, delivering the last words over her shoulder. “If I encounter someone agreeable, who comes and goes at his own command rather than binding himself with promises, then you mustn’t count on my company.”
It took her all of ten minutes to find that more obliging man. To add insult to injury, it was the same damned scarecrow of a fellow who’d started all the trouble with Miss Westbrook at the Astleys’ rout. In promoting the claims of those men who expected to dance with her, Nick had unwittingly been advocating for this coxcomb.
The fellow led her out to their place in the dance, an
d, several figures in, acquired a look of such libidinous astonishment that Nick could not doubt what path their conversation had taken, or how it would all end up. Well, he didn’t expect them to walk straight off the floor in the middle of the set; that came as a surprise. Mrs. Simcox threw him one look as they passed by, and an elegant shrug for emphasis—What else could I do? You know my nature—and there it went, his first chance in months to bed a woman. He could only watch them go, and then return to his loyal, steadfast, utterly unrewarding vigil over Miss Westbrook.
How had it happened that he’d come to this? Even having mostly outgrown his tendre for the lady, he still found his movements, his liberty, his amorous ambitions all constrained by her. He was effectively just as much in her thrall as he had been three years ago, when he’d had such youthful confidence in his luck, and such foolish hopes of her.
She tripped through the dance in her usual light-footed way, catching up her trailing skirts and bestowing such smiles and frequent laughter on her partner—Lord Barclay, it happened—as must have made him believe himself the cleverest, most fascinating man in this room or any other.
Nick leaned his shoulder into the nearest pillar and folded his arms. He oughtn’t to blame her. She’d known nothing of his opportunity with Mrs. Simcox. She hadn’t deliberately interfered. But he’d blamed himself so tirelessly since the night of the Astleys’ rout, and sincerely grieved the loss of their easy cordiality, and now here she was laughing and capering as though the loss of his friendship suited her very well. It galled him to watch. And finally he could watch no more.
He retreated from the pillar to the wall, and struck out for the end of the room. Her virtue and reputation would be perfectly safe while she was dancing with Barclay; he could be certain of that. He would find a few minutes’ respite in one of the parlors or a study where he could fully indulge his ill humor, and then he would return to finish out his commission.
Cecilia Grant - [Blackshear Family 03] Page 20
