by Lavinia Kent
She smiled and nodded more as she made her way across the floor. A waltz had begun, and she had to step quickly through a doorway to avoid being asked to partake. She was not in the mood to be held, no matter how gently and politely.
Standing halfway into the next room, she looked back at the dance floor. Violet and Peter were dancing the waltz in perfect time. Their eyes locked on each other. She could almost see the small world that existed for only the two of them.
It was bittersweet to watch them when she stood so alone.
She stepped back farther into the room. It was a small sitting room, and she was surprised to find it deserted. Glancing carefully around, she checked every corner. She did not wish to interrupt anyone who had come here seeking quiet—or seeking anything else.
There was no one here.
She sat in the half light—she had left the door open a crack—and wished she were home.
She gave herself five minutes. She counted the seconds.
Then she stood, fluffed her skirt, and turned back to the door. She would dance three more dances and make one more round of the floor, wish Wimberley and Marguerite well, and then she would leave.
She wondered if her staff had put the knocker back on the door. If they hadn’t, she might leave it off for days and pretend she’d never been here.
The energy that had filled her for the last weeks was seeping away and did not feel as if it would ever return.
She placed her palm against the door, took one deep breath, and…
His voice carried through the wood panel. “Social frivolity is nice, but one should always have two ready conversations before attending any affair.”
Masters must be standing on the other side of the door.
A soft feminine murmur answered.
He spoke again. “No, I do not believe that knowing what the weather was like yesterday counts as a subject of conversation.”
Another quiet reply.
“But you must have read a book in the last months, seen an exhibition…” His voice trailed off.
Clara was not sure whether he had stepped away or was debating what other activity his partner might have engaged in. Unable to help herself, Clara edged to the side of the door and peered out.
All she could see of Masters was a gesturing hand. He had not stepped away.
The girl, however…Clara did not believe that she herself had ever been that young. The girl barely reached his shoulder and was buried in a dress of endless pink ruffles. She was blond, very blond, and definitely slender. Perhaps Masters was hoping she would still grow.
“Gothic novels”—he was speaking again—“are fine as a topic if one has something to compare them to. I myself have even skimmed through those…books…published by the Minerva Press. I am ready to discuss their value as entertainment and their lackings as literature.”
Was this how Masters proposed to conduct a courtship? The poor man had no idea. The hapless girl’s eyes were glazed, and it was clear that she had no thought but of escape.
Clara considered for only the briefest of seconds. She pulled the door open and stepped through.
Perhaps she would be able to even the debt she owed to Masters, after all.
Where did that blasted woman keep coming from? Masters watched as she stepped through the door, the red of her gown vivid even against the dark wood. It was bad enough that she was here at all, but now she was interrupting his interview with Miss Pink—and just when it had been going so well. The sweet girl had been so enrapt in his conversation that she’d had little of her own to add. He turned to her with an approving smile.
Why had she dressed in that gown? It was not the first time he’d had the thought that evening. Indeed, every time he addressed her, he found himself wondering. If they ever did proceed with a courtship, he would have to give her some advice on fashion. He did not normally have strong opinions on the subject, but there were some standards that must be maintained. He knew Miss Pink would be delighted to have someone to offer such valuable advice.
Clara cleared her throat, drawing his attention to the delicate lines of her neck. He could see her pulse beating rapidly.
He forced his eyes up to her face. “Lady Westington, what a surprise to see you again.”
“I don’t see why it should be.”
“I suppose I am not used to seeing you coming out of dark rooms—although perhaps I should be.” He had not meant to say that last.
Her eyes narrowed as he spoke, and then she smiled. It was not a kind smile. “Mr. Masters, you must introduce me to your charming companion.”
“Lady Westington, let me make you known to Miss Pink. Miss Pink, Lady Westington.”
“Miss Pink.” There was nothing but politeness in Clara’s tone, but Masters could not miss the devils that danced behind her eyes. “Let me say how wonderful it is to make your acquaintance. And wherever did you get that dress? I have never seen quite its like.”
“Lady Westington, I am charmed to make your acquaintance. My mother had the dress made. She said that ruffles are all the rage this year.”
“I am sure that’s true.” Clara’s words were soft and she spoke with kindness. “Is that your mother there? In the peach satin?”
“However did you know?” Miss Pink asked.
“She is glancing at you with such care and attention,” Clara answered.
Masters was sure it had more to do with the peach satin dress, which seemed to be composed of nothing but ruffles, than any maternal glance, but he refrained from comment.
“Mother does always keep an eye on me.” Miss Pink nodded to her mother. “She wants to be sure my behavior is above reproach.”
“Well, perhaps then you’d better not mention me by name,” Clara teased, with just that bit of a note that said she was serious.
“Does that mean you’re scandalous?” Miss Pink asked, her eyes growing wide.
“I am afraid I am.”
Miss Pink glanced at her mother nervously and then turned back to Clara with great interest. “Is it fun?”
That caused Clara to throw back her head and loose that full, deep laugh, that laugh that sent vibrations straight through him.
“Scandal should not be admired,” he said firmly, trying to pretend that he was not affected.
“Of course not.” Miss Pink dropped her eyes and eased away from Clara and toward him. It was good to see she was so malleable. And her movement indicated she already saw him as a protector. He felt his chest puff.
“I think your mother is gesturing for you to return to her,” Clara said, waving toward the peach dress.
“I do believe you’re right.” Miss Pink was gone before he could even say his farewells. She must truly have been frightened by the scandal that Clara might present.
He tapped his toe once on the hardwood floor. “I did not see any gesture.”
“I could argue and pretend that you had missed the motion, but what would be the point?” Clara said. “The poor girl was uncomfortable and you only made her more so.”
What nonsense. Miss Pink had been fascinated by his discussion. “I don’t believe I agree—”
“You don’t need to agree, fact is fact. I was afraid she would turn into a great pink puddle on the floor if you commented even once more on how she should behave.”
“I don’t—”
“Of course, you—”
“If you interrupt me one more time I will sling you over my shoulder and toss you into the garden.”
Clara hoped her mouth did not gape open at his words. He was the most proper of proper windbags with everybody else, but the moment she spoke up, he showed a far different side of himself.
It was impossible to know whether to fight back or to laugh.
She laughed. It started deep in her belly and rose, filling her lungs until it just bubbled out. God, it was good to simply enjoy. It would be so easy to be frustrated with the man, but it was so much better to just enjoy the absurdity of the situation.
/> “You are attracting attention,” Masters said, glaring at her.
Or was he staring at her lips?
She hesitated, leaned slightly toward him, then replied, “Now that sounds more like you.”
He stiffened, but his eyes stayed on her mouth. That was very interesting. She licked her lips. “Was that child on your list of possible brides? I would have thought you would prefer someone—someone taller.”
“Miss Pink is of excellent social standing. Her mother was the fifth daughter of the Duke of—”
“Daughter of a duke,” she chuckled. “That explains the dress. Only the daughter of a duke could be so confident of her own taste to the exclusion of all others.”
He did not answer for a moment but stood surveying the room. He turned back to her finally. “I believe we were actually getting along quite well. She seemed most interested in my company.”
“Most interested in escape, you mean. Do you really imagine that the way to court a young girl is to provide direction on every aspect of her life?”
“I was not aware I was doing so.” A blue fire lit his eyes as he continued to stare at her. “However, yes, I do think she would be grateful for it. Miss Pink seemed quite taken with my speech. She was so absorbed that she felt little need to add to it. The young must be taught how to behave.”
“When they are children perhaps, but despite my earlier comment, she is no longer a child, but rather a young lady.” She met his glare with one of her own. “Do you not think that you should be interested in finding out who she is, if you intend to make a lifelong commitment to her?”
“I am not sure I see why I should. I would of course want to know that she was well-spoken and knew the proper duties of a wife, but beyond that I do not see why I should take an interest.”
Clara stared at him, trying to determine his seriousness. She had never observed in him a great sense of humor, but the speech was so far from her own beliefs as to be impossible to accept—and there was a gleam in his eye. Marriage was a matter of great importance. Masters appeared to place less significance on it than he would on choosing between sausages and kippers for breakfast.
“Tell me then,” she said. “Who here do you fancy as a bride?”
He looked about the room, his glance moving from group to group. She watched his eyes sweep up and down several young women. His announced preference might be for slender blondes, but his eyes seemed more drawn to those with curves. There was more than one ample bosom that he paused over.
Her own curves were more than the equal of any of those he lingered over. She pushed the thought away as soon as she had it. Her purpose was not to attract the blasted man.
It was not.
Still—she drew her shoulders back so that her dress pulled tight. There was no problem with letting the man see what he would be missing in the future. Almost on cue, his gaze darted back to her and settled. She smiled widely.
“I believe that either of the Miss Thwaites or Miss Northouse would do,” he said as his eyes returned to her face.
“I’ve always heard that men had a partiality for twins, but I must admit that I would find the matter confusing. As for Miss Northouse, I believe that her nuptials to Mr. Perry will be announced within the week.”
“How do women know these things? You must have barely arrived in Town, and already you know the latest gossip.” He determinedly turned from her and gazed back at the dance floor.
“It is certainly not the latest gossip, and I keep a regular correspondence with Lady Smythe-Burke. She seems informed on most of society’s affairs.”
“Affairs.” He let the word linger on his lips but did not turn back to her. “Are you interested in society’s affairs?”
How to reply to that? Again, she could not read him properly. She normally considered herself a fair judge of people, but suddenly he seemed a cipher to her. “And should I not be interested in society’s affairs?”
Answering a question with a question, that was always effective. And she let her own voice deepen at the end, saying much more beyond the words. Would he be the one to take the wordplay a step further?
“Society is always important.” His voice was again somber. “Miss Thompson appears well raised.” He gestured at an exceptionally tall woman standing near the windows. She had flaxen hair, but was otherwise nondescript.
“I have never heard anything unbecoming about her.”
“And you would have?”
“Indeed, I do believe that she is said to be both well mannered and a good conversationalist. Although perhaps you do not require the last.”
He turned to her, and again there was that fiery blue glow in his dark eyes. “I would prefer a wife who could ease conversation at dinner.”
“I would have thought you were happy to do all the talking.”
“It is nice to have someone to agree with one.” That time she caught the quirk of his lips.
“Miss Thompson is perhaps not for you then. I do believe that being a good conversationalist requires one to do more than agree.”
“Not in my world.”
She started to speak, but then closed her lips, refusing the bait.
“You’ve turned quiet now,” he said after a moment. “It was one of the things I liked about you at the start, your ability to be silent. I’ve found most women talk incessantly.”
Her gaze dropped. “I didn’t realize you liked anything about me.”
He stepped toward her until the distance between them was only barely proper. “There are many things I like about you—even when I do not want to.”
She could feel his breath on her forehead, scent the wine he must have had with dinner. The temptation to lean into him was great, to feel just for a second the warmth of his body pressed against hers. Instead, she stepped back. “Have you been introduced to Miss Thompson? I am well acquainted with her mother from my childhood.”
He stepped back and grinned. “Do you mean you are of an age with her mother? I had not realized you were so ancient.”
“What would you do if I said yes?” She could not resist smiling back at him. “Given that you are several years older than I, that would mean you could be her father.”
“I do feel it sometimes.”
“As do I.”
He stepped away. “I was introduced a few nights past. I shared a country dance with Miss Thompson. I shall go pay my respects now.”
“Yes, you should.” She watched him walk away.
She should mingle herself. There were many here whose company she enjoyed.
She tried. She really did.
She danced two dances with men whose company she had enjoyed in the past. Neither one held her attention. Instead, her gaze kept straying to Masters and Miss Thompson. He escorted her to a corner table and fetched her a lemonade. Clara could not help noticing how his eyes stayed fastened on Miss Thompson’s face. Perhaps that was an advantage to being rather less endowed, men spoke to you and not your breasts.
Damnation. She should be graciously flirting with her partner, not peeking at a man who didn’t even like her—although he said there were things about her that he liked.
No, she would not think of that.
Mr. Brimble, her current partner, was a good-looking man. He was only slightly taller than she, but of athletic stature. He spoke well and was often amusing. He should have been an ideal companion.
Good God, she was sounding like Masters.
She turned to Mr. Brimble and forced herself to concentrate. He had kissed her once. It had been several years before, but it had not been a bad kiss. She was not sure why things had not progressed further.
Masters was holding out his hand to Miss Thompson. Was he going to ask her to dance? It was late to take to the floor. No, they were just strolling.
Mr. Brimble was talking again. She really must attend. “I am so sorry, but could you repeat that? The music is a trifle loud.”
“Do you really think so? Perhaps you would care to strol
l in the gardens.” Mr. Brimble shot an eager look toward the glass doors that led outside.
She knew that look. Strolling was not what he had in mind. She debated for half a moment. Or at least she tried to. She was not so fixated on a man she should not even want that she would refuse someone else without thought. “I am so sorry, but I really must excuse myself for a moment.”
“Of course.” Even before he had finished the two words, Mr. Brimble’s head was turning, looking for a new companion.
Men.
Blast all of them.
She nodded once more in the direction of his departing back and turned toward the door that led out and toward the ladies’ withdrawing room. She would splash water on her face and gain a few moments’ quiet. Then she would make a polite farewell to Wimberley and head off to her peaceful home.
The water in the pitcher was only tepid, but still it felt good to splash it on her hot cheeks. How could they feel so flushed yet look so pale? She was definitely not at her best tonight. The winter had not been a kind one. There were the beginnings of tiny lines at the corners of her eyes, and she feared perhaps there was even a furrow between her brows.
Age had never been something she feared, but she could not help leaning toward the mirror and pulling the skin tight. Perhaps it was but a trick of the candlelight. When she turned her head just so, the line disappeared completely.
She splashed again, wishing the water was cold enough to clear her mind.
“Did you speak with him?” A high, shrill, and very young voice echoed as its owner entered the room. She was petite and very blond. “My mother says that his estate is quite turned around and that soon he’ll be considered a catch. She thinks I should cast a lure now for fear in another year he’ll be beyond my reach.”
“What nonsense. Clearly your mother has not spent time talking to him.” Another girl entered right behind. This one was darker and perhaps even younger. “I can’t believe any girl would ever want to spend enough time with him to form an attachment. He rambles on and on, never giving one a chance to speak.”
