by Candace Camp
“I am sorry, but I did not think to interrogate Lady Morecombe about her friend’s background. All I really know is that she is a widow. I think you will find her speech and manners unexceptionable. You needn’t fear that her presence will be an embarrassment.”
The countess’s gaze flicked across him, sharp as a knife. “Pray do not take that tone with me, Rawdon. I have been fending off the overtures of jumped-up mushrooms for a good many more years than you have been alive.”
“I have no reason to think that Mrs. Howard, or her late husband, were ‘mushrooms,’ Grandmother. She is a friend to the Morecombes, and I believe you will allow that they are of adequate lineage to associate with Staffords. Lady Morecombe was a Bainbridge, a cousin to Lord Fenstone.”
“Fenstone!” The countess lifted her head, sending a long look down her nose at her grandson, clearly registering her disregard for the earl. “Your father’s ancestors were guarding the border long before Richard gave Fenstone to that lot.”
“Yes, yes, I know, and we were throwing our lot in with the Percys against the Nevilles. But I really do not think that the War of the Roses is pertinent to asking Mrs. Howard to Genevieve’s party.”
“Being a friend of a Bainbridge is little recommendation,” Genevieve inserted hotly. “Lord Fenstone is always run off his legs, and we all know what sort of man Ian is.”
Alec started to retort sharply, but a glance at his sister’s pink cheeks and flashing eyes made him soften his response. “I know how you feel about Ian, and I appreciate your loyalty to me. But believe me, Mrs. Howard is in no way connected to him. She had never even met the man before we cast her Twelfth Night party into shambles.”
It had been at Damaris’s masque ball six months earlier that they had all learned the full story of how Ian, once Alec’s friend, had betrayed him, seducing Alec’s fiancée and leading her to break their engagement and flee the country.
“I will not allow anyone to hurt you.” Genevieve’s eyes were as fierce as a she-wolf’s.
He smiled faintly. “Pray do not worry. Whoever Mrs. Howard’s antecedents are, it makes no difference. I am not about to lose my head over her. Certainly not my heart.”
Three
Damaris took a deep breath as she smoothed the long, elegant white kid gloves up her arms. It was not too late. She could still change her mind and decide not to go to Lady Genevieve’s party.
She had spent the entire day telling herself that she should not go. It was a selfish, foolish thing to do. If her presence there was noticed… if anyone knew who she was or discovered her identity, it would not reflect well on the Staffords, who would never have extended an invitation to her if they had known the truth about her parents. Indeed, it had been clear from Genevieve’s expression that she had had little desire to extend Damaris an invitation even without knowing Damaris’s history.
Why Rawdon had forced the issue was a question that sent a tickle of excitement through her. No matter how much she told herself it was silly to be flattered that he wanted her to come to the party, she could not convince herself to feel otherwise. Yes, other men had been interested in her, sought her company. She had flirted with any number of suitors—and, truth be known, men far more adept at flirting than Lord Rawdon. But that did not matter; those men had not made her stomach quiver and her pulse speed up. They had not made her blood sing through her veins.
Alec Stafford did.
So, each time she decided that she would not go, every time she decided that her presence at the ton ball would be inappropriate and she sat down to write a polite note of apology to Lady Genevieve, she had wound up going to look through her dresses or to contemplate what jewels she would wear or whether to tie her hair up in rags so that it would have just the right amount of curl. After all, she rationalized, attending the party would not do anyone any harm. It was extremely unlikely that anyone there would have the slightest idea who she was.
Damaris had gone to school on the Continent when she was fourteen, and she had not returned to England until last year. No one would connect her last name to that of her father, and certainly her father’s family would never have mentioned her. And it was unlikely that the scandal concerning her marriage would be common knowledge, since it had occurred in Italy. Besides, even if someone did learn her secrets, surely it would not stain Rawdon or his family in any serious way. She was only a casual guest at a large party, after all.
Besides, it would be too bad, really, not to seize the chance to wear the new confection of a ball gown that Madame Gaudet had made for her. The deep-purple silk was overlaid with silver tissue, so that the result looked like a sugared plum, and her amethyst and diamond earrings would echo the rich color. A silver ribbon running through her curls and an amethyst pendant nestled in the hollow of her throat finished off the picture perfectly.
So she had chosen her clothes and bathed and primped and now here she was—ready to go and yet still unprepared. As she stood there, lost in indecision, one of the parlor maids appeared at her door and bobbed a curtsey, saying in an awed voice, “Lord Rawdon is below, mum, waiting to see you.”
Damaris stared at her, for a moment unable to speak or move. “Lord Rawdon? Here?” Her voice came out almost a squeak, and she cleared her throat before inclining her head in a dignified manner and saying, “Tell him I shall be right there.”
She turned away, clasping her hands together and drawing a deep breath to calm the nerves that were suddenly dancing inside her. What was Rawdon doing here? She started down the stairs, her stomach curiously hot and her hands cold, her emotions bouncing wildly between excitement and fear.
Alec stood at the foot of the stairs, facing away from her. He was dressed all in black and white as he had been the night before, but the crisp severity of his clothing could not completely hide the touch of wildness that clung to him. Damaris thought of the first time she had seen him, when he had stormed into Gabriel’s house, his angular face raw with rage, silvery blond hair windblown, pale eyes burning. He had been all elemental power then, intense and furious, his body coiled to strike. And yet over it all had lain an aura of control. Even in his fury, he was cold and in command. Damaris was not sure why, but she could not deny that the sight of him, as it always did, called up a swift, primitive response in her.
Rawdon turned at the sound of her footsteps on the stairs. Though he did not smile, his face brightened subtly, his eyes suddenly alert. “Mrs. Howard.” He swept her a bow, and as she reached the bottom stair, he took the hand she offered him, guiding her needlessly but politely onto the floor beside him. “You are a vision.”
He bent to brush his lips over the back of her hand in a gesture that should have been nothing but courtesy but instead made her tingle all over. “And you, sir, are a dreadful flatterer… but I appreciate your words, all the same.”
“’Tis scarcely flattery when one speaks the truth.” His eyes slid down her in a quick, comprehensive way that verified his words. “You take a man’s breath away.”
To Damaris’s annoyance, she felt a blush creep into her cheeks. She was more knowing, surely, than to be so easily affected by a man’s admiration. More bluntly than she would normally have spoken, she went on, “I am surprised to find you here. Surely you should be at your party.”
“’Tis Genevieve’s party, and my grandmother’s. My presence is considered more a bother than a necessity. And I could hardly be so ungentlemanly as to invite you, then leave you without an escort.”
“Ah.” Damaris could not keep from slanting a challenging glance up at him. What was it about this man that always made her want to push at him, like a child poking a tiger with a stick?
“Then you are here out of duty, not desire?”
“My dear Mrs. Howard…” The faint lines that bracketed the corners of his mouth deepened, drawing her gaze to his lips. “Where you are concerned, ’tis always desire.”
Warmth curled in her abdomen even as she chuckled at his deft parry of her verbal thrust. “I must remembe
r that I should not try to cross swords with you.”
“No, pray, do not cease. It is one of the things that I enjoy most about you.” His hand tightened a fraction on her fingers, and Damaris realized that he was still holding her hand long after courtesy would have had him release it. More startling was the fact that she would like him to continue holding it.
“I can only thank you for being so thoughtful as to escort me,” she told him rather formally, slipping her hand from his. “’Tis much more than I expected.”
“I hope you will accept this as well.” He reached over to the narrow entry table and picked up a small box, handing it to her.
She opened it, the heady scent of gardenias floating out before she saw the flowers. A delicate wrist corsage lay inside. Damaris drew in a little breath. “Rawdon! How lovely!” She took the corsage from the box and smiled up at him.
“Seeing you smile, I can only wish I had brought you two of them.” Alec took the corsage from her hand and settled it on her wrist, tying the delicate ribbons.
“You are a man of many surprises,” Damaris murmured, lifting her wrist to drink in the aroma of the flowers.
Her maid hovered at the edge of the entry, holding Damaris’s wrap of sheer silver voile and eyeing the earl with interest. When Damaris looked at her, she came forward, holding out the shimmering material, and Alec took it, draping it around Damaris’s shoulders. She felt the brush of his fingers against her skin, and it was all she could do not to shiver.
He gave her his arm and led her out to the town carriage that awaited outside. A family crest in dull gold adorned the door of the polished black vehicle, and a liveried footman stood ready to open its door and let down the step. As Rawdon handed her up into the carriage, Damaris could not help but reflect how very different their circumstances were. Though she had never lived in anything less than comfort, the life she had always known was clearly a step below the elegance and formality that permeated the world of an earl.
However, she was not one who would allow herself to be intimidated, so she faced Rawdon with equanimity as he sat down across from her and the carriage started forward. “I am surprised that you knew where I lived.”
“I have my ways, Mrs. Howard.” His face relaxed in the manner that she was beginning to understand was a smile in another man.
“I am sure you do.” She kept her voice light and wry.
“I wondered whether you would cry off tonight,” Rawdon said after a moment. “I am glad you did not.”
“I am not so fainthearted as that.”
“No,” he agreed, his eyes steadily on hers. “I don’t believe you are at all faint of heart.”
Damaris could not tear her gaze from his. She could feel the hard pulse in her throat, and she wondered if he could see it. He looked at her so intently that she thought he must see everything about her, clear through to the excitement swelling inside her. Her breath grew short, and she tensed imperceptibly, suddenly envisioning Rawdon moving across the carriage and taking her in his arms.
Then he looked away, breaking the moment, and Damaris let out her breath. She hoped, heat rising in her face, that he had not heard it. More than that, she hoped he had not suspected what she was thinking. Fortunately, the trip to his house did not take much time, and soon they pulled to a stop in front of a white stone mansion that stretched to either end of the block. Across the street was a small crescent-shaped park, a pleasant touch of green in the midst of the city. Streetlights illuminated the area, revealing the line of carriages unloading their passengers.
Rawdon whisked Damaris up the steps to the imposing front door, where another footman in full livery stood, admitting guests. He bowed to Rawdon and took his hat, and Rawdon, with a nod here and there, slipped around the guests to a knot of people at the door of the ballroom.
Damaris recognized his sister, talking to a man whose back was turned to Damaris and Rawdon. Genevieve’s dress was white, and the pale pink satin ribbons that trimmed it gave her a bit of color without contributing any appreciable warmth. The strand of graduated pearls around her throat was as cold as snowdrops, accentuating her milk-white skin. Lady Genevieve’s eyes fell upon Damaris and Lord Rawdon, and her face tightened.
The man in front of her turned, following her gaze. He was a handsome man, slightly shorter than Rawdon, with thick cropped hair of a golden-brown color almost the same shade as his eyes. His dark green coat was tailored to his wellmuscled chest and arms, and his snowy-white neckcloth was tied in an intricate arrangement, centered by a single large emerald. His eyes lit up appreciatively when he saw Damaris, and he cast a quick, speculative glance toward Rawdon as the two of them approached.
“Mrs. Howard,” the man said when they reached him, and he swept her an elegant bow. “What an unexpected pleasure. I did not know you were in London.”
Damaris smiled back at him. “Sir Myles. I am happy to see you again. I have been here for nigh on a fortnight now.”
“And I have just now learned this?” Sir Myles assumed a wounded expression, which sat so ill on his strong-jawed face that Damaris had to laugh. “I shall have to have a word with you, Rawdon.” He turned to his friend, eyes dancing. “Clearly you have been keeping Mrs. Howard hidden from the rest of us.”
Rawdon merely shrugged, and Damaris lifted her eyebrows. “Lord Rawdon has little to say about my whereabouts, I assure you. I chanced to meet him and his sister at the theater last night, and they were kind enough to invite me.”
Sir Myles had started a lighthearted flirtation with Damaris six months earlier, when he accompanied Lord Morecombe to Chesley for Christmas. Damaris suspected that wherever and with whomever he went, Sir Myles was certain to have a lighthearted flirtation going with someone, and she placed little weight on his words. But she did enjoy talking to him, and he was a better dancer than any other man who had ever asked her out on the floor. She also knew that there was a bedrock of loyalty and true friendship beneath his easygoing banter. He had been the only one of Morecombe’s friends who had maintained his friendship with Rawdon after Alec and Gabriel came to blows.
“How do you do, Mrs. Howard?” Genevieve stepped up to greet Damaris. “I am so glad you could come. I see you have already met Sir Myles.”
“Yes, I was fortunate enough to make his acquaintance last Yuletide.”
“It must have been a large gathering at Lord Morecombe’s,” Genevieve commented. “We quite missed Rawdon from our celebrations.”
“But fortunately Miss Bainbridge and her brother included Lord Rawdon in their Christmas party,” Damaris inserted smoothly. “I know you are grateful to them that your brother was not alone on such a festive occasion.”
“Yes, of course.” Genevieve turned a considering look upon her. She was not, Damaris thought, as practiced as her brother in concealing her emotions, but while Genevieve could not match Rawdon’s air of indifference, she seemed equally proud.
It was not hard to see where both had learned such qualities. The white-haired woman standing beyond Genevieve was ramrod straight and regarded the world with a regal expression. Diamonds glittered in matching hair combs and were echoed among the sapphires that encircled her throat. Though time had worked its way in the wrinkles lining her face, it clearly had not softened her. The blue gaze she turned on Damaris was incisive, and Damaris felt sure the countess did not miss a single detail of her appearance.
Genevieve introduced her grandmother, who nodded in response to Damaris’s polite curtsey.
“Mrs. Howard. I am surprised I have not met you before,” the countess said to Damaris.
“I have been back in the country for only a year or so.”
“Indeed? You were living on the Continent?”
“For much of my life, yes.” Damaris smiled but did not elaborate.
“Fascinating. We must talk more later in the evening. I have a number of acquaintances in Vienna.”
“It is a lovely city, though I confess I have not spent much time there. I look fo
rward to chatting with you.” Privately Damaris determined to stay as far away from the woman as she could. She could well imagine the exhausting effort it would entail to evade the countess’s subtle interrogation regarding her history.
“No doubt you will enjoy that, Grandmother.” Rawdon inserted himself into the conversation, firmly taking her arm. “But first I must claim Mrs. Howard for the waltz. I believe it should be starting soon. Mrs. Howard?” He nodded toward the others. “If you will excuse us, I should introduce Mrs. Howard around.”
Rawdon neatly separated Damaris from the other three and steered her away. She sneaked an upward glance at him.
“To whom are you planning to introduce me?”
“Why, no one if I can help it,” Rawdon replied imperturbably. A grin lit his face and was gone in an instant. Damaris realized that she would very much like to bring that smile to his lips again. “I can see that Sir Myles would like to steal you for the evening, and I have no intention of giving him or some other fellow the opportunity.”
“Lord Rawdon! That sounded almost as if you were flirting with me.”
“Almost? Clearly I have fallen short of the mark.”
Damaris let out a little chuckle and whipped her fan open, wafting it gently. “If you do not plan to introduce me, what are we to do? Do you mean to promenade about the room, then abandon me to fend for myself?”
“I am sure you will not spend any time alone,” he replied drily. “However, my intention was to find some old dragon of a female sitting along the wall and settle you down beside her. Two old dragons, preferably, so you will have guardians on either side.” He glanced down at her. “Although I have little doubt that will suffice. I shall be lucky if you are not surrounded by admirers while I am still standing beside you.”
“Since you have had ample opportunity to be alone with me several times before this, I believe I shall take your words with a grain of salt.”
“Ah, but that was in Chesley. We are in London now; a man must be more careful.”
