by Gayle Callen
But Peter was not with his two friends—he was with the Clifford sisters, Lady Alice and Lady Athelina. They were simpering and laughing at whatever he said, gazing up at him with worship in their eyes. Elizabeth thought he was standing a bit too close to them than was proper, and wondered why their mother, a dragon if she ever met one, was not paying more attention to them.
Surely he hadn’t always pushed the boundaries of Society’s rules, she told herself. She would have noticed—wouldn’t she have? Lately she’d begun to hear a mother or two talk about Peter’s exploits at the racetrack or in a gaming hell, whispering that they received their information from their husbands. Shaking their heads with fond regret, they believed that a young woman would come along and teach Peter the error of his ways, calling him a regular rascal waiting to be tamed. Before Peter had made himself rich, none of them had even noticed him.
It had been several years ago, Elizabeth recalled, when she had at last decided she had to mature and represent her family, that she’d no longer needed Peter to help extract her from adventures that had gone . . . unexpectedly. They’d socialized in the country as neighbors, but not so much in London. She’d taken his occasional presence for granted.
Now she watched Peter take Lady Athelina’s gloved hand between his and lift it to his mouth. He looked up at the young woman with what could only be a hint of sin in his eyes.
What had happened to spark such a change in Peter Derby?
She was saved from gaping like a fool when Lord Dekker approached to lead her into the first waltz. Powerful, stocky, barely taller than herself, but twice her width through the shoulders, he moved them through the other dancers with confidence, if not absolute grace. He grinned down at her, and she smiled back, reminding herself that she wouldn’t let the rest of her life be a reaction to that painting. Sometimes, she needed to simply enjoy a dance, enjoy being an eligible young lady.
And then she felt a breeze at her back, and realized that Lord Dekker had waltzed her toward the open terrace doors. Her smile vanished as she caught a glimpse of torchlit darkness. She tried to come to a stop, but he only took her motion in stride, taking an extra turn before he attempted to pull her through the doors, right in front of a group of astonished elderly ladies.
“Lord Dekker,” she said through smiling, strained lips, “the dance floor is the other way.” She tried to pull back her hand.
He didn’t let go, only winked at her and turned her about again.
With her back to the ogling ladies, she replaced her smile with a glare. “Lord Dekker, I do not wish to leave the ballroom.”
“But I know you do.” His voice was a murmur, his smile a leer.
She couldn’t have possibly heard him correctly—could she? She was about to come to a complete stop, perhaps force him to make spectacles of them both if he still intended to drag her out the door.
“Excuse me, Lady Elizabeth,” she heard a man say. “I believe this was my dance.”
Lord Dekker released her immediately, and she caught herself from stumbling. Together, they turned to face her rescuer—and instead of being grateful, her heart sank further.
It was Lord Thomas Wythorne. He was the younger son of a duke—and she’d turned down his proposal of marriage just last year. He hadn’t spoken to her since. Even her brother had been disappointed with her refusal, for he’d long considered Lord Thomas the best match possible for her. From the beginning, Lord Thomas’s mother had treated her own mother, the dowager duchess, as a friend, and their attachment only deepened through the years. Many thought her engagement to Lord Thomas a sort of destiny. But expectations were not a reason for her to marry.
Lord Thomas was smiling innocently, looking from Lord Dekker to her.
Whatever Lord Dekker saw in his face—and Elizabeth couldn’t tell—it made the man bow.
“My mistake,” Lord Dekker said, then walked away.
Elizabeth continued to smile at Lord Thomas, even as she surreptitiously wiped her perspiring hands on her skirts. Her heart was still pounding, and she wasn’t sure why. She’d been out on a moonlit terrace before, after all. There were certainly couples strolling in the shadows. But it was one thing to agree to a walk with a man one trusted, another to be forced.
“Are you well, Lady Elizabeth?” Lord Thomas asked politely.
She nodded, trying to make her smile more genuine. “Of course, my lord. A misunderstanding, that is all.”
He arched a dark brow and said nothing. He had wavy brown hair that framed his narrow face, emphasizing the aristocratic bone structure of generations of dukes. She had always liked him well enough, but she certainly didn’t love him. A romantic, she was lucky enough to be able to wait for the right offer of marriage—the only one she wanted.
Lord Thomas cleared his throat. “I believe several of the gentlemen overimbibed earlier this evening.”
“That must explain it,” she said, telling herself to relax.
“You could dance with me, my lady,” he said, cocking his head as he awaited her response.
Accepting his offer would be polite, since he seemed to be attempting to make amends for his angry reaction to her rejection of his proposal. But before she could agree, she saw Peter Derby—standing with her mother. The evening was getting worse. Her mother might be the Dowager Duchess of Madingley, but she had once been a common Spanish girl, swept off her feet by a future duke touring her country. British Society had not taken well to the unusual duchess, although she was never openly snubbed. Consequently, she did not normally care for London, preferring the peace and gentility of Cambridgeshire, the duke’s country seat.
“Oh do excuse me, Lord Thomas. I must attend to my mother, who hasn’t been feeling well.”
He bowed without speaking, and she gave him a hurried curtsy. He would probably take offense, of course, but she couldn’t just leave Peter with her mother! Who knew what he might let slip?
As Peter approached the extended Cabot family, conflicting feelings churned inside him. Except for Elizabeth and her cousin Matthew Leland, he had made a point of avoiding certain members of the family the last several months. He could see Emily, Matthew’s bride, nod as she noticed his approach. Classically beautiful, she had champagne blond hair and a slender figure. If she seemed ill at ease, he would make his greetings short and depart. He knew too many of her and Matthew’s secrets, although they would never pass his lips. His involvement and guilt guaranteed his silence, and surely she knew that.
But although her blue eyes widened a fraction when she saw him, she gave him a faint smile, easing his worries. He’d misjudged her not so long ago, and her forgiveness still struck him as unexpected.
“Your Grace,” Peter said, bowing to Elizabeth’s mother.
The dowager duchess was still a beautiful woman, silver threads in her regal black hair. With her darker complexion and strong nose, one could never mistake her for an Englishwoman. Elizabeth bore some of her mother’s handsome features, but with a fascinating twist of Englishness.
“Mr. Derby, it is good to see you,” the duchess said, her voice melodious with a Spanish accent. “My daughter Elizabeth tells me of your recent good fortune.”
He noticed that Emily pointedly looked away.
“Yes, madam, I have been very lucky.”
“I don’t believe in luck, young man,” the duchess said. “You’ve always been a diligent fellow, something I truly appreciate.”
“Your Grace!” a woman called.
They all turned as one to see Elizabeth waving as she moved quickly between milling couples and clusters of chatting guests. Peter immediately understood her concerns, for she smiled too pointedly at him. What did she think he would do, reveal her indiscretions to her entire family? He’d always protected her secrets.
He took the brief opportunity to admire the way she shone under the candlelit chandeliers, her pale pink gown glittering with tiny diamonds, her dark hair glowing, her eyes soft with love. He knew that look, had watched her b
estow it on every member of her family. A version was granted to her friends, and he had been the recipient a time or two. He had always contented himself with that.
But he wasn’t content anymore.
When at last Elizabeth approached, the duchess said, “Is there a reason for such unladylike haste, my child? It has been many months since I’ve seen Mr. Derby.”
Peter simply smiled at Elizabeth. “I visited Madingley House this afternoon, Your Grace. Elizabeth was in the middle of welcoming many young men.”
Just like that, the duchess returned to a mother’s favorite topic and gave a faint sigh. “I should never have accepted a shopping invitation.”
From beneath her skirts, Elizabeth stepped firmly on his foot. He almost wanted to play her childhood game by lifting his foot and watching her lose her balance, but she was no longer a child—for which he was grateful.
She waved a hand negligently. “It was nothing, Mama.”
The duchess frowned. “I’m certain many other young ladies would not think it so.”
Peter arched a brow as Elizabeth tried to recover.
“I did not mean that I wasn’t pleased and flattered,” she quickly said.
“Did any man take your fancy?” the duchess probed.
“They were all very nice . . .”
The duchess rounded on Peter. “What did you think, Mr. Derby?”
Many pairs of female eyes focused on him.
He knew the only speculation of interest to them was if he could reveal something about the men courting Elizabeth. They would never assume that he considered himself one of her suitors. She was the only sister of a duke; her marriage could ally them with another great family, increasing their power in land and wealth and in Parliament.
In fact, he was considered a family friend, nothing more. But last night, in a gentlemen’s club, things had begun to change. Now, Elizabeth was watching him with a new speculation.
Peter shifted his gaze to the duchess. “Lady Elizabeth’s suitors seemed rather . . . young, madam.”
“They were testing the waters, Mama,” Elizabeth said briskly. “I didn’t mind letting them practice their flirtations on me.”
If Elizabeth was grateful he’d deflected her mother’s interest, she didn’t show it. She was still angry with him.
“Lady Elizabeth, would you care to dance?” he asked, taking advantage.
Those black eyes glittered, but she sweetly replied, “Of course I would, Peter. Perhaps you need practice as much as my young suitors today.”
The duchess drew in a quick breath.
Peter laughed. “Try not to step on my toes.”
Elizabeth winced as he drew her away. The orchestra played another waltz, and for some reason, she glanced at the terrace doors.
“Do you wish me to dance you outside under the moonlight?” he asked.
She frowned. “No, that would be indecent.”
“Indecent?” he echoed, studying her. What an interesting thing for her to say. “I seem to recall practicing your dances on the terrace at Madingley Court in the sunshine. In fact, I believe I helped you learn them after your dance instructor had practically collapsed in fear that he’d disappoint the duke because of your disinterest.”
He saw her jaw clench, but she still didn’t meet his gaze.
Perhaps it was only indecent now because she was thinking about him as a man who’d seen her painting, rather than as her old friend. He didn’t mind that, he thought with satisfaction.
He pulled her a little closer through a tight turn, avoiding a couple plodding along like a ship with torn sails.
Her breasts brushed his chest, and he felt the reaction deep in his gut. Elizabeth’s gaze flew to his.
“Too indecent?” he asked innocently. “I didn’t want you crashing into the next dancers.”
“You never dared try such a thing with me before,” she said grimly. “It is only that painting.”
“I don’t think less of you for that painting.”
“Only because you don’t want people questioning your behavior of late.”
Ignoring her, he said, “I just want to know why you did it. What made you want to take such a risk? I thought you’d worked hard these last years to rid yourself of such impulses.”
“It wasn’t about risk,” she said at last.
At least she was talking. He held her close, whirling her about until her skirts flew and her toes barely touched the floor.
“Elizabeth—”
“I don’t want to talk about it!” she whispered.
The passion in her expression was about anger, but it was a passion he’d never borne the brunt of before. He saw her temper at last, the “wild Spanish blood” of which some used to accuse her mother.
She seemed to realize the same thing, because her eyes went wide with worry and sadness.
“Forgive me,” she murmured. “I don’t usually behave in such a way—even when provoked.”
“I’m looking forward to uncovering what provokes you, my lady.”
The dance was done, and her eyes searched his as she curtsied. He began to escort her back to her mother, but she shook him off and went alone.
Before Elizabeth could reach her mother, Lucy appeared in her path, and they almost ran into each other. Both stumbled back, and when Lucy laughed, Elizabeth found herself reluctantly joining in.
“That was quite a dance,” her friend said when at last they strolled arm in arm about the fringes of the crowded ballroom.
Elizabeth tensed, thinking of the way Lord Dekker had tried to force her outside. “Which dance?”
“The one you just finished with Mr. Derby.” Lucy gave a dramatic sigh. “You dance very well together.”
“Oh!” Elizabeth said brightly, then had to admit, “He was often trapped into being my partner when I was learning.”
“He didn’t look trapped today. He seemed to be enjoying himself, although you didn’t.” Lucy gave her a pointed look. “Share.”
“There’s nothing to share. I always dance with Peter. We are friends.”
“But it must be difficult for him to be so closely connected to your great family, yet always on the fringes.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth, then closed it. Was that true? Surely Peter didn’t feel that way. She remembered that he and her cousin Susanna had briefly flirted with each other, although a romantic relationship never developed between them. But the flirtation alone proved that Peter was always confident about himself and his position in their narrow Society.
“So where is William?” Elizabeth asked, changing the subject to something even more important.
Lucy grimaced. “He hasn’t arrived yet. He was meeting several of his silly friends at their club first. Hopefully they’re not all foxed.”
Elizabeth could only pray that William belonged to a different club than Peter. She didn’t want to think about William looking at that painting.
Although perhaps it might make him actually notice her, if he knew the truth.
Oh good heavens, what was she thinking? He might not wish to see her again over the scandal of it. She told herself to stay calm. Susanna had a plan, or so she’d told them earlier in the evening. They were going to defeat those three boorish men, win back that painting—and destroy it!
“I see him!” Lucy suddenly squealed.
Elizabeth found herself dragged too close to the dance floor, where more than once she had to dodge a waltzing couple. At last she and Lucy stood before Baron William Gibson, so handsome that Elizabeth’s eyes hurt looking at him. His hair was a tousled blond, streaked by the sun, green eyes like springtime. He loved to race his horses about London, and more than once she’d seen him driving his phaeton when she’d been out walking. It was as if the sun had come out to dazzle her.
William turned from laughing with his friends and saw his sister. He chucked her under the chin. “Hullo, Lucy.”
And then he looked at Elizabeth. She waited for the magic, for him to really n
otice her, as he had when she’d first made her debut.
But then he chucked her under the chin, too.
“Hullo, Elizabeth.”
“Good evening, William,” she said, holding back her disappointment even as she sank into her most perfect curtsy. Why didn’t he say how lovely she looked? Why didn’t he notice her gown, and the way it showed off her figure, so that she could see the admiration in his eyes, the way Peter—
She broke off, appalled and angry. There was no comparison between William and Peter.
“Remember to save me a dance?” William asked her.
Her heart skipped a beat and she looked at her dance card. “It is rather crowded, but I do believe the next waltz is still available.”
He shook his head. “Can’t. Card game in the drawing room. I’ll come find you later.”
And then they were gone. Elizabeth stood beside Lucy, watching the young men laughing and slapping backs as they paired up for their silly card game.
“I’m sorry,” Lucy said softly.
“It isn’t your fault.”
“He’ll remember and come back.”
“Of course.” Though Elizabeth kept her voice calm, she felt unsteady beneath. In every way, this had been a disappointing evening.
Elizabeth paced her bedroom, unable to sit still for her maid to brush out her hair. After allowing Teresa to find her own bed, she brushed it herself, taking out her frustrations. She glared at herself in the mirror and took vigorous strokes.
She didn’t like how this painting—this wager!—was changing her. She was becoming overly suspicious of everyone. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that Lord Dekker only wanted to flirt with her under the moonlight.
All of it was Peter’s fault. She thought about his smug, laughing face as he’d held her so inappropriately during the waltz. What was wrong with him? He should be consoling her, siding with her against his imbecilic friends. And instead, he was treating her like . . . like . . . oh, she didn’t know. She wanted the old Peter back, not this stranger, with blue eyes that seemed almost hot.
