What a Lady Wants

by Victoria Alexander

  “Mr. Cavendish.” She met his gaze directly, and a delightful shiver ran through her. He stared at her as if he was momentarily confused by what he saw. It was most disconcerting. She resisted the urge to pat her hair or check her clothing to see if her gown had vanished from her body or a tree had sprouted from her head.

  “Mr. Cavendish?” she said again and pulled her hand from his.

  “Would you honor me with this dance?” he blurted. She had expected him to be much more practiced than this but the man seemed positively befuddled. It was surprisingly gratifying, and her nerves vanished.

  “This dance?” Her brow quirked upward.

  “It is as good a dance as any. Unless, of course, you have already promised this dance.” He leaned slightly closer and lowered his voice. “In which case I shall ask for the next, and if that one is taken, the one following, and the one after that, and so on until you agree to dance with me.”

  Now that was the charming devil she had anticipated. “Or until we run out of dances.”

  “I shall arrange for the musicians to continue forever if need be,” he said staunchly.

  “You are determined.”

  He smiled an easy, confident smile. Obviously what ever had perplexed him had disappeared. “Indeed I am.”

  Norcroft cleared his throat. Odd, Felicity had nearly forgotten anyone else was here.

  “I believe I see someone I have been meaning to speak with,” Beckham said smoothly. His gaze met Felicity’s. “I do hope you will save another dance for me.”

  “Of course, my lord.” She cast him a genuine smile.

  Beckham nodded and took his leave. Mr. Cavendish glanced at Norcroft.

  “I too believe I have spotted someone…” Norcroft sighed. “Never mind.” He smiled at Felicity, threw a warning glance at his friend, turned, and disappeared into the crowd.

  Felicity directed her gaze toward Mr. Cavendish. “Am I mistaken or doesn’t Lord Norcroft trust you?”

  “I assure you, in the midst of a crowded ballroom I am most trustworthy.”

  She doubted that. “And elsewhere?”

  “Elsewhere is a different matter.” Mr. Cavendish offered her his arm. “Shall we?” He escorted her onto the dance floor, and they took their place amid the kaleidoscope of dancers moving to the strains of yet another waltz.

  He glanced down at her. “Lady Felicity.”

  “Mr. Cavendish,” she said politely. One would have thought they were conversing on a public street rather than in each other’s arms. There was absolutely no indication in his words or his eyes that he had ever seen her before. Of course, it was entirely possible he might not know that she was the woman on the balcony. Certainly she had made the effort to find out who he was, but perhaps he hadn’t made a similar effort. He had, after all, thought she was a mere girl. His asking for an introduction could be no more than a coincidence.

  He studied her carefully. “You have no idea who I am, do you?”

  “I know who you are. I can’t imagine anyone in London who hears even the least bit of gossip doesn’t know who you are,” she said coolly. “You are the Honorable Mr. Cavendish, son of Viscount Cavendish.”

  “Well yes, that, but that’s not precisely what I meant.” His gaze searched hers, and at once she realized he knew who she was just as she knew who he was.

  She bit back a satisfied grin. “I am well aware of what you meant, and again, I know exactly who you are.” She smiled in a cordial manner even if it was somewhat difficult to keep her wits about her while dancing in his arms. The man smelled as good as he looked. “However, I must confess, I find it most taxing to attempt a conversation and not stumble through the steps of the dance at the same time. So if you don’t mind—”

  “Oh, but I do mind.” Determination sounded in his voice. “And as waltzes are exceptionally plentiful at a ball hosted by Lord Denton, as he quite enjoys both the tempo of the dance and the proximity to his partner, I would much prefer to talk. But if it is awkward for you…” Without warning, he smoothly steered her off the dance floor and ushered her out an open terrace door. “We can speak elsewhere.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “I daresay this isn’t especially proper.”

  “Not especially.”

  “One wonders if you are as trustworthy on a terrace as you are in a ballroom.”

  “Not if I have a choice. However.” He gestured at the terrace. While not nearly as crowded as the ballroom behind them, it was by no means empty. Clusters of guests stood chattering away, illuminated by dozens of blazing candelabras. Waiters bearing trays of champagne wound their way around those enjoying the uncharacteristically warm spring night and disappeared in and out of the stuffy ballroom. “As we are in plain sight, I have little alternative but to be trustworthy and completely honorable.”

  “Yes, of course,” she murmured, ignoring the vaguest sense of disappointment. Not that she was prepared to be alone with him. Still…

  He raised a brow. “Unless you would prefer to find a more secluded spot? There are any number of nooks in the shadows of this terrace as well as in the garden below.”

  “This will serve, but I do so appreciate the offer,” she said, ignoring the fact that that had indeed crossed her mind. “Do you know them all? The secluded nooks, that is.”

  “Not all.” He led her to an open spot along the terrace balustrade. A good six feet would separate them from any of the other guests, far enough away to have a private conversation, yet easily observed to avoid any suggestion of improper behavior. “A fair number perhaps. I have been to my share of Lady Denton’s balls.”

  “And do you know the secluded spots off the terrace of, oh, say, Effington House? Or Shelburne House? Or Hamilton House?”

  “I pride myself on knowing the secluded spots on any terrace I might find myself on under the stars with a beautiful woman.” He flashed her a wicked grin. “One never knows when such knowledge might come in handy.”

  She laughed.

  “You find that amusing?” He accepted two glasses of champagne from a waiter and handed her one.

  “I do indeed.”

  “Why?” He sipped his champagne and studied her.

  “Why? I’m not sure exactly.” She thought for a moment. “I suppose it’s because I have had very little occasion to converse with a man of your nature. It’s really somewhat thrilling and most amusing.”

  “A man of my nature?” he said slowly.

  She nodded in a noncommittal manner.

  “Dare I ask what, precisely, is a man of my nature?”

  “Are you sure you wish to know?”

  “I do know. What I am curious about is your perception of my nature.”

  “Do you wish for honesty then?” She sipped her champagne and gazed at him over the rim of her glass. “Or flattery?”

  “One always prefers flattery to honesty, but for now”—he shrugged—“honesty will suffice.”

  “Very well.” She considered him for a long moment and wondered exactly how candid she should be. She had always believed in honesty. Perhaps it was time to put that belief to the test. “You are the type of gentleman, and I use the term in its loosest definition, that mothers warn their daughters about. If it weren’t for the stature of your family name and your wealth you would be ostracized from polite society.”

  He winced. “I should have chosen flattery.”

  “However,” she continued, “as the world is a most peculiar place, you are actually viewed as reformable. Even desirable.”

  “Because of the aforementioned name and wealth and title?”

  “I didn’t mention title, although I suppose I should have. Therefore your misdeeds, for lack of a better term, have little effect on your future.” She raised her glass to him. “You, Mr. Cavendish, are quite a catch.”

  He grinned. “I knew that.”

  “No doubt,” she murmured.

  He drew his brows together. “Are you always this honest?”

  “Always?�
� She tilted her head and considered the question. “Perhaps not always, but most of the time, I should think. Generally there is no reason not to be honest. And in a situation like this, where I gave you the option of honesty or flattery and you chose honesty, well, I really had no choice but to be completely candid, did I?”

  He chuckled. “Even if it hurt?”

  “Especially if it hurt. It probably did you a world of good.” She studied him with a skeptical eye. “I can’t imagine you are the least bit pained by my assessment. It can’t possibly have come as a surprise. You did say you were aware of your own nature.”

  “Nonetheless, I am deeply wounded,” he said staunchly. “Why, I may never recover.”

  She laughed again. The man definitely needed work, but he had a great deal of potential.

  He raised a brow. “Now you find my pain amusing as well?”

  “I find your acting amusing.”

  “Really?” He frowned in a mock-serious manner. “I thought I was most convincing.”

  “No doubt you have had considerable practice in deception. At least if gossip is to be believed.” She turned and gazed out at the starlit skies. “It’s a lovely night, isn’t it?”

  “Lovely,” he murmured, and she knew without looking he was staring at her. “You do not like me very much, do you?”

  She glanced at him. “Do you wish for honesty again?”

  “I would be wise to ask for flattery,” he muttered, then sighed. “However, honesty it is.”

  “Excellent choice. Well then.” She drew a deep breath. “I’m not entirely certain whether I like you or I dislike you at this point. I scarcely know you.” She met his gaze firmly. “I do find you most intriguing.”

  “Intriguing and amusing? I could scarcely ask for more.”

  She turned her attention back to the heavens. “I imagine most women find you amusing and intriguing.”

  “I’m not sure…”

  “Oh come now, Mr. Cavendish. A man with a reputation like yours does not acquire a reputation like yours by being dull and ordinary.”

  “I never said I was dull and ordinary.”

  “No, you’re quite adventurous.”

  “Well, I—”

  “You break society’s rules whenever the fancy strikes you without so much as a by-your-leave and act only as your own misplaced sense of behavior dictates.”

  “I wouldn’t say—”

  “You, Mr. Cavendish, are really quite infamous.”

  Indignation pounded in his voice. “I scarcely think—”

  “I have your shoe,” she said abruptly.

  “What?”

  “Your shoe. The one you caught in the trellis.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, then slowly smiled. “You did recognize me, then.”

  She shook her head. “No, I didn’t, although I might well have recognized you by voice alone if given the opportunity.”

  “Then how—”

  “Goodness, Mr. Cavendish, one would think your intelligence was in question as well as your morals.” She scoffed. “I daresay there are few who do not know about your late-night encounter with Lord Pomfrey’s dueling pistol, not to mention the assignation that preceded it with Lady Pomfrey.”

  “It was a bad night in so many ways,” he murmured.

  “I should think so.”

  “Your behavior was not exactly above reproach,” he said under his breath.

  She gasped and turned toward him. “My behavior?”

  “It was questionable when I thought you were a mere girl. Now that I realize your true age…” He shrugged.

  “I did nothing improper whatsoever!”

  He leaned toward her. “If you do not lower your voice, my lady, you will have each and every person on this far too busy terrace moving ever closer to us in hopes of overhearing precisely what impropriety the infamous Mr. Cavendish is accusing the immovable Lady Felicity of.”

  “Immovable?” She widened her eyes. “Why would you call me immovable?”

  “A comment Norcroft made. It scarcely matters at the moment, although I assure you it was meant as a compliment.”

  “Was it?” She wasn’t at all sure if she liked being called immovable. “I’m not certain it sounds like a compliment.”

  “It was,” he said firmly. “And you are changing the subject.”

  “Yes, I suppose I am.” She drew a deep breath. “You’re right about the other night as well. I was completely improper. I should have raised an alarm. Called for the authorities. Screamed for assistance. At the very least I should have shot you myself.”

  He chuckled. “Now that would have been proper.”

  She sniffed. “I shall remember that next time.”

  “Oh, there will be no next time.”

  “You have given up dallying with married women?”

  “I have given up Lady Pomfrey.”

  She scoffed. “Don’t tell me you’ve reformed.”

  “I have no intention of reforming at the moment, and I see no need to do so. Aside from an enjoyment of certain members of the opposite sex—enjoyment that I might add is mutual—as well as a penchant for gambling—in which I typically win nearly as often as I lose—and an overindulgence in spirits, I am not unlike many men of my age and position.”

  She stared in disbelief. “You say that as if the fact that you are not unique in your disrepute makes your behavior acceptable.”

  “Perhaps not acceptable, but as you yourself said, forgivable. I am yet a young man. I have my entire life to reform. Besides, as you said, I am a catch.”

  “The magnitude of your arrogance is astonishing,” she said dryly.

  “Thank you yet again.” He signaled to a waiter and exchanged their empty glasses for fresh ones.

  She sipped her champagne and studied him curiously. “Why did you seek me out to night?”

  “To night? Well…”

  “I am not the type of woman you usually pursue.”

  “I’m not…” He shook his head. “Curiosity, I suppose. When I thought you were a girl, your behavior—”

  “My not revealing your presence at the top of my lungs, you mean?”

  “Among other things, which I attributed at the time to the fact that you did not know any better. However, when I learned of your true age—”

  “When you realized your mistake.”

  “Yes, of course, my mistake. I was curious as to what kind of woman would not be terrified by an obvious scoundrel climbing onto her balcony.”

  She drew her brows together. “Why would I be terrified?”

  He paused. “Concern for your virtue, that sort of thing.”

  She choked back a laugh. “Concern for my virtue?”

  “Yes, of course,” he said firmly. “There you were, an unmarried lady of good family, on your balcony in the middle of the night, in your nightclothes, I might add, and you see a man of questionable moral character climb out of the window of a neighbor’s house and make his way to your balcony. A sensible young woman would be terrified.”

  “I was not unprepared to defend myself.”

  He scoffed. “With what? Your telescope?”

  She shrugged. “It’s brass and quite heavy.”

  “Even so—”

  She leaned toward him and lowered her voice. “What if I’m not sensible?”

  He started. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean just what I said. What if I’m not sensible? Or rather, what if I’ve tired of being sensible?” She straightened and set her glass on the balustrade. “I have always believed in science, in rational, sensible, irrefutable facts. Take the stars, for example.” She nodded toward the night sky. “Their study is one of observation of what is, and yet throughout history many people have believed they are mystical, even divine. Part and parcel of the rule of the universe, as it were.

  “I have never believed in silly nonsense like magic or fate, omens or signs. You, Mr. Cavendish”—she met his gaze—“have persuaded me otherwise.
”

  “I have?” he said slowly.

  “Indeed you have.” She wasn’t at all sure this was the right moment to tell him he was the answer to her wish. That she had decided his appearance in the night was fate. No, the scandalous Mr. Cavendish would run screaming into the night if he realized she had set her cap for him. Besides, it only seemed prudent to get to know him a bit better before letting him in on her plans. His fate, as it were. But in some odd way, she already knew, without question, without doubt, he was the man for her. Her fate. And she did like him so far.

  “Do you care to elaborate?”

  She picked up her glass and took a long sip of champagne, then shook her head. “No.”

  He frowned. “No?”

  “No.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Will you ever?”

  “My dear Mr. Cavendish.” She looked into his eyes and smiled in a slow, provocative manner that came from somewhere deep inside her she had never known existed but was delighted with nonetheless. “You may count on it.”

  Three

  What a man really wants is to know that his son is up to the task of carrying on his name in an honorable manner. And to know as well he has produced not merely an heir but a good man.

  Edmund, Viscount Cavendish

  “Pleasant,” Nigel muttered to himself and handed his hat and coat to a footman in the foyer of Cavendish House. “I’d scarcely call her pleasant.”

  “Beg pardon, sir,” the footman said cautiously. “Were you addressing me?”

  “George.” Nigel frowned at the young man. “It is George, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Very well then, George, let me give you a piece of advice. The next time a friend, even a very good friend, introduces you to a woman he describes as no more than pleasant”—he narrowed his gaze—“do not hesitate. Run for your very life.”

  George stared at him as if he had serious questions about the state of Nigel’s sanity. “Very well, sir, I shall.”

  “See that you do.” Nigel nodded and headed toward the stairs.