by Allison Lane
"I won't allow anyone to dictate my life.” The reaction was automatic and contradicted his own history of avoiding dangerous people.
"Men!” She shook her head. “Then at least remain in company for a week or so. I'll not have her add to your problems."
It took him a moment to recognize she was protecting him rather than arranging his life as his father had tried to do. No one had ever protected him. Even his family considered him hopeless. “I will consider it if you will stop skulking in corners. You would attract your own court if you remained in the ballroom."
"Don't flatter me, my lord. What would I do with a court anyway? I've no chance of making a match in town. I wish to wed for love—Catherine has done so twice—but I'll not find such a man here."
"Why?"
"London gentlemen are superficial, which is why they gravitate to beauties like Laura. The few willing to talk to someone as inept and clumsy as I spout bad poetry and false flattery as if I hadn't the wit to converse sensibly."
"Surely there is someone who cares for you."
"No one.” She grimaced. “Except possibly Mr. Griffin, but I cannot like him. Nor can I believe he is truly infatuated."
"The snake.” He nodded toward the reticule holding her sketchpad. “You caught his character perfectly."
"I know. But he is persistent, which is another reason I prefer to remain out of sight."
Gray said nothing. The runner he'd hired had not yet turned up anything useful. There was no point in mentioning his interest until he had evidence. But he could ask Nick and Justin to keep Griffin from annoying young ladies. No girl should be forced into seclusion because a gentleman made ballrooms unsafe. “Is there no other?"
She shrugged. “If I cannot wed for love, I would prefer to remain single."
"A barren life for a woman."
"For some, but I had expected no other choice until recently. What little Father left was set aside for Laura, so I accepted a role as governess to my niece. Only Catherine's marriage to Rockhurst changed my prospects. But I sometimes wish I could go back. Life was simpler then—more enjoyable in some ways."
"Really?” The question was rude, but he couldn't help himself. He'd heard the conviction in her voice. She was unlike anyone he'd ever met. “Why would you say that?"
"It would have been different had I held a post with strangers. But with family, I suffered none of the indignities of service. And Sarah—my niece—is a joy. Bright, happy, smart ... It broke my heart when Rockhurst hired a real governess."
"Surely the woman is capable."
"Very. In fact, she is a warm, loving lady. Intelligent, well educated, and she'll be able to prepare Sarah for society. We'd all feared that Sarah would end as a governess.” She rubbed her arms. “But I miss our time together. Since Blake hired Miss Mott for Laura and me, my days have been filled with manners and court curtsies. I've had no time to study anything of interest."
"That is part of life, my dear."
"I know, but it is frustrating. Rockhurst is determined to find me a husband. My only consolation is that he will never force me to accept someone I do not approve."
"What about your brother?"
"He is rebuilding his estate, so Catherine took charge of Laura and me—to no one's surprise, for she'd raised us. Mother died when I was four."
Approaching footsteps cut off further confidences.
Gray stifled a curse. He should have insisted she leave instead of succumbing to the pleasure of talking to her. If anyone found them together, she was doomed to spend the rest of her life as his wife. He would not tolerate another scandal.
But would that be so bad?
The thought distracted him. Before he could gather his wits, Mary had shoved the bird book into his hands, swept the folio out of sight, and ducked into the window seat behind heavy velvet draperies. She must have made contingency plans the moment he staggered through the door.
And just as well. The draperies had barely closed behind her when the drunken Earl of Clifford stumbled into the room.
"Sho this is where you went, Grayson,” he slurred. “Did the beating shcramble your brains? Always knew you were prissy, but never took you for a scholar.” He stared pointedly at the book open in Gray's lap.
Clifford was a self-righteous prig, far too like Rothmoor for Gray's liking. Both men considered reading a waste of time. Rothmoor preached that the only knowledge a gentleman needed was how to choose horseflesh, hunting dogs, and bed partners. He left everything else to solicitors and stewards. Gray had started his shipping business as much to thumb his nose at Rothmoor as to support himself—he'd been living quite nicely from his investments.
But Clifford's real complaint was Gina Wren. The earl had never forgiven Gray for winning the delectable courtesan. Clifford had offered a larger house and more extravagant allowance, but she had turned him down. He never forgot slights.
"Birds?” the earl continued in incredulous tones, catching sight of an illustration. “You won't find your next bird of paradishe in that dusty old tome."
Gray donned his social mask, surprised that it had slipped with Mary. A glance identified the illustration as a pied flycatcher. “Just settling a wager,” he said mildly.
"Wager?"
"Precisely. One party claims a pied flycatcher appeared outside his window last evening. The other swears it is found only in the country. They were working up to pistols at dawn when I offered to discover the truth—for a fee."
Clifford sneered. “You always had a nose for profit. Sho who wins?"
"Neither. The bird prefers woodlands, but sometimes visits Hyde Park. Since the window in question is in Albany, a lost flycatcher might have flitted by. Thus I judge both men correct."
"Sho you lose."
"Hardly. My fee stands. Arbiters never lose."
A sound from the window told him Mary was battling laughter. Fortunately Clifford was too foxed to notice.
"Since when do you unruffle ruffled feathers?” asked Clifford, resting one hip on the corner of the table.
"'Tis an innocent lark. And a service to society. Those hen-wits were ready to meet over a bird."
"Abshurd. Now a dog or a horse ... Good wagering there. But never a bird."
"Not even a wren?"
Gray enjoyed Clifford's scowl. After losing Gina, the earl had added new exaggerations to Gray's reputation. In retrospect, Gray wished he'd bowed out of the competition. Gina's passion was as fiery as he'd expected, but she was a demanding little witch—one of the reasons he'd delayed his return to town. He would have to dismiss her, but she was the sort to throw things, and he hated violence.
"If you've settled your wager, you'll be on your way.” Clifford swayed. It was clear he wanted privacy to sleep off the wine. He was so far beyond foxed that it was a miracle he'd retained the sense to leave the ball. But the man would never risk becoming an on-dit.
Any other time, Gray would have left, but he could not abandon Mary. Until Clifford passed out, she would be trapped. And Clifford was looking rather green. Gray didn't want Mary subjected to the sights and sounds of illness. So Clifford had to go—voluntarily, lest he wonder why Gray wanted him gone.
"I'll not leave just yet.” Gray stifled a yawn. “Lady Stafford was chirping about a reed bunting last evening, but I'm not sure what the beast is. As long as I'm here, I might as well look it up.” He cocked his head as if puzzled. “You look a bit green around the gills, Clifford. Do you feel all right?"
"Are you implying that I can't hold my wine?” Clifford straightened so fast he nearly toppled over.
"Of course not. Only the veriest greenling would fall ill from a little wine, and you are far beyond that age. But it appears that supper did not agree with you. Oxbridge rarely serves decent food, but tonight was the worst I've tasted. The lobster patties were so greasy, I was bilious after only four. And I could swear the pickled herring was spoilt. Who serves herring at a ball, anyway? So déclassé. It positively reeked, and one piec
e was actually green.” He heard Mary choke. “Of course, Oxbridge's catering is ambrosia compared to that inn I was stranded at last month. The fish had gone quite off, and I swear the stew was at least a week old. Mutton and lumps of rancid fat. Three men shot the cat in the taproom. Horrible mess. And the smell! I nearly lost my own dinner."
Clifford's face had turned greener with each word. He swallowed rapidly, then tried to speak, but a loud belch erupted. Snapping his jaw shut, he bolted. Gray hoped he made it outside.
"Time for you to return to the ballroom,” he told Mary. “It is dangerous to slip away as you do."
"Clifford would never hurt me."
"No. He is far too proper to seduce an innocent. But being found alone with him would force marriage, whether you liked it or not. And believe me, with him, you would not."
"That was most unsporting of you,” she complained, but her eyes twinkled.
"It was the fastest way to be rid of him."
Her scowl dissolved into peals of laughter. “Oh, but you were brilliant. He is so very stodgy. However did he become foxed at a ball?"
"Probably evading his mother. She is pressing him to settle the succession. Have you met Lady Clifford?"
"I don't believe so."
"She makes Lady Horseley seem frivolous. More rigid than Clifford and a Tartar as well. The man will be shackled by summer. But come. You must return.” He cracked the door to see whether the hallway was clear, then hustled her toward the ladies’ retiring room.
The strains of a waltz floated from the ballroom, allowing him to relax. The dance was still so controversial that everyone gathered to cast envious or censorious looks at the participants. Thus no one would notice them.
The moment Mary was safe, he sought his carriage. She'd been right. He should have stayed in bed. Even this short walk was making him dizzy.
CHAPTER FIVE
Mary curled into the corner of the carriage as it zigzagged through late evening traffic. Ladies weren't supposed to slump, but she didn't care. She was exhausted. Even stealing an occasional hour of privacy didn't alleviate the strain of the Season. Of course, tonight's private moments had not exactly been alone.
She smiled. Grayson was fascinating. And she could talk to him. Not once had she considered whether her words might offend. Nor had he. Only friends could be so open without censure. She basked in that thought for several minutes, hardly believing it was true. Even Blake, who usually set her at ease, remained intimidating at times. But Grayson did not—hadn't from the moment he'd grabbed her sketchpad to fix the chaffinch's beak.
He invited confidences, extracting information she never shared with others.
A shiver rippled down her spine. If she had misjudged him, he could now ruin her just by speaking the truth. She had twice met him alone, the second time far from others. Both times she had remained in his company for a considerable period.
But it was the threat to Laura that was the most serious. Again, he need only speak the truth. Laura had indeed plotted to trap Blake, but if that fact became public, society would turn on her. And it would be Mary's fault. Forgetting to guard her words could extract a greater toll than all her other mistakes combined.
He won't talk, her dreamer insisted. You know he won't.
She had to believe that. Grayson was kind, intelligent, and very much a gentleman. It broke her heart that a pair of schemers had harmed him. Being innocent must make the cuts even harder to bear, for his only crime had been sympathy.
But there was nothing she could do. Gossips rarely admitted fault, and never at the urging of a nobody like her. Championing his cause would call censure on her own head—not that she would mind personally, but it would redound on Blake and could revive the false charges against Catherine. Her behavior already reflected poorly on them, as Catherine was again reminding her.
"You must stop running off, Mary,” she said sternly. “Even Lady Jersey noticed that you missed three sets tonight. Three sets! It does your reputation no good at all."
"I was feeling faint,” Mary claimed, thankful that she had been in the retiring room when Catherine found her. Barely. Not that she regretted meeting Grayson, but explanations would have been awkward. “The ballroom was horridly stuffy."
"All ballrooms are stuffy,” said Laura. “It gives us an excuse to walk in the garden."
"Tonight was worse than usual,” insisted Mary. “Lord Delwyn's scent was so powerful, it dominated the entire room. I've never smelled anything that made breathing so difficult."
"He does overuse perfumes,” agreed Catherine. “But that is common in men of his age, as is his choice of heavy musk. It does not justify avoiding company."
"Nothing does, so stop seeking excuses,” added Laura. “I know men ignore you, but manners are more important than pleasure. Cowering in the retiring room announces that you are hopeless and don't care who knows it. You don't see Miss Huntsley hiding, and she's even clumsier than you."
"Enough, Laura,” snapped Catherine. “You are not helping."
Laura scowled. “She should have stayed at Rockburn. But since she is here, she must behave. Flaunting her vulgarity shames the whole family. Even louts like Griffin feel compelled to correct her. And her insults have discouraged half my suitors."
"Hardly,” snapped Mary.
"Well...” She drew out the word in satisfaction. “It is true that gentlemen trip over their feet in their rush to admire me. Since society learned of Miss Norton's elopement, I've gained four new suitors. And Sir Randall switched his devotion from Miss Harfield,” she added, naming another of her rivals.
"Puppy,” murmured Mary in disgust. Sir Randall was eighteen and had already joined and abandoned four courts this Season. Why Laura craved the fulsome fawning of such cubs was beyond her comprehension.
"He is charming. Even Lord Whitehaven danced the last set with me."
Mary snorted. “Since he dances only with misfits, one must ask what you did to draw his attention."
"That is not—” began Catherine.
Laura ignored her. “That may be why he danced with you, but having done his duty to propriety, he is now able to seek his own pleasure. And I am his pleasure. I could see it in his eyes. He was smitten by my beauty.” She sighed dreamily.
"That makes no difference,” declared Catherine. “His—"
"You said exactly the same thing about Blake,” Mary interrupted. “And Kevin Fields and John Drummond. But it was never true."
"How dare—"
"Stop this, both of you,” ordered Catherine. “There is no point in arguing over Whitehaven, for Cromley would never allow his heir to wed you, Laura, no matter how great your beauty. He will accept no one below an earl's daughter and would approve that only with a fortune in settlements."
Laura sputtered.
Mary nodded agreement. “You know that he treats every partner as though she were Helen of Troy. It's part of his charm, but it means nothing."
"How would you know?” demanded Laura nastily. “No man would look twice at you. Why else do you hide at every opportunity? Not that I'm complaining. Your antics embarrass us all."
"Laura!” Catherine had not sounded so furious since the day she'd caught fourteen-year-old Laura embracing a groom, her gown open to the waist.
"What? Must I pretend she makes us proud? I'm tired of having people commiserate with me every time she mortifies us. You know their real purpose is to gloat at my discomfort. Too many of them expect me to be as gauche and untutored as she. I've lost three suitors to her insolence. And others stay away because they are afraid to ally themselves with a family that includes her. She's ruining my Season. It's not fair!"
"You will apologize at once,” ordered Catherine. “If you've lost suitors, blame your own insufferable arrogance. You talk only of yourself and pit admirers against one another, insulting any who annoy you. No gentleman likes acting the fool, so it is no surprise that the more discerning ones avoid you.” She continued over Laura's protest. “Yes, a
void you. Like Mr. Hawthorne. He cannot tolerate your vanity. And men aren't the only ones you irritate. Lady Oxbridge complained that you cut her daughter just because Lord Seaton asked her to dance. And if Lady Wilkins were a man, she would have called you out for insulting her. Instead of criticizing Mary, you should consider your own behavior."
Laura's face mottled, but the carriage drew to a halt, forestalling any retort.
Mary escaped into Rockhurst House, hoping to reach her room without further argument. Laura was in a strange humor tonight. She had achieved triumphs that would delight most girls, yet she was furious because they weren't bigger. Grayson's words suddenly seemed ominous. She is the sort who is never satisfied with what she has.
He was astute. She had noticed the problem before, though she'd not put it quite so succinctly. Laura was beautiful, but there was a devil deep in her soul that reared up whenever a dream shattered. It had done so eighteen months ago when scandal heaped censure on all Seabrooks. Mary feared it was happening again. London was the biggest dream yet, but the reality could never match Laura's fantasy.
Laura had always expected a triumphant London Season. Through all the delays, she had honed those expectations, building London into a modern Mount Olympus that offered glamour, excitement, dashing men, dazzling ladies, and adventure beyond imagining. Her dream always ended with her sailing away to explore the world with a man who would fulfill her every desire.
Nothing could live up to that image. While London was bigger, fancier, and more exciting than anything in Devonshire, it was not mysteriously exotic. Balls might occur daily, but the dances were the same, as were customs and manners. Theaters might employ better actors and more opulent sets, but the scripts hadn't changed, and most people still attended only to see and be seen. Gossip still dominated every gathering. Ladies still flirted, and men retired to their clubs for wine and cards. Life was no more alien than in Exeter or Bath. Thus Laura was bound to be disappointed.
