by Robyn DeHart
“What about Mr. Middleton?”
“What about Mr. Middleton?”
“What color were his eyes?”
“Brown.” She said that entirely too fast. Cripes. She was supposed to be uninterested in that man. If she was so uninterested, why did she keep thinking of him? And his brown eyes.
“But he’s nothing special?”
“Oh, all right, he’s handsome. Devilishly so. Satisfied?” She crossed her arms over her chest, then smiled in spite of herself.
“Partially.”
“It simply doesn’t matter whether or not he’s handsome, I’m still not work—”
Gracious, he was here. And dressed head to toe in black, like a walking sin. His hair, tied back tonight, gave him an almost civilized look. But the sharp slant of his eyebrows over those sensual eyes revealed his secret. She popped open her fan and waved it back and forth a few times. Her cheeks blazed as if on fire. Perhaps she had a fever. Where had that pleasant breeze gone? As if even the trees and wind stilled when he entered the room. What was he doing here?
“Claudia?” Poppy waved a gloved hand in front of her face, which brought her attention back to her friend.
“Yes?”
“Care to share your secret?”
“That’s Mr. Middleton.”
“I suspected as much. I could tell by his devilishly handsome face.”
“Stop that.”
“You’d better stop waving that fan about—you’re beginning to make a spectacle of yourself. What is he doing here?”
“How should I know?” Claudia closed the fan and slipped it back on her wrist. “It matters not to me why he’s here. We have no relationship, nothing whatsoever to discuss.”
“Then you’d better think of something to discuss, because he’s headed in our direction.”
He saw her standing across the ballroom, dressed in flamingo pink. She looked more like a frosted cake than a woman. How exactly did he court a woman like her? He’d never courted a lady before, not even his former wife. But tonight he didn’t have to think of courting. No, tonight he only needed to convince her to continue to work for him. Tomorrow he could start his courtship.
Damn, there were enough ruffles on that dress to distract a man from noticing her womanly curves. A ruffle gathered the entire neckline that dipped subtly off her shoulders. Clusters of rosebuds bunched on the gathers of her two-layer skirt, but it was the rosebuds pinned at her cleavage that grabbed his attention. It was a bosom that men would write poetry about; not him, though, because he didn’t write poetry. But if he were that sort of man, her breasts would certainly inspire a sonnet.
He glanced at her face. Her sassy expression did nothing to hide her surprise to find him heading in her direction. She turned to the tall, attractive woman next to her and attempted to say something, but her eyes were drawn back to him. When he finally reached her, she smiled tentatively.
“Miss Prattley, what a pleasure to find you here,” he said.
“Thank you, sir. Please meet my dearest friend, Lady Penelope Livingston. But everyone calls her Poppy.”
“A pleasure.” He nodded over Lady Penelope’s hand and then brought Claudia’s to his mouth for a kiss. Her eyes grew round and a blush colored prettily in her cheeks. She was not a beautiful woman, not in the classic sense, not like her friend, but something about her drew the eye to her face. It was her smile; honest, real, and full of actual joy—not one of the manufactured smiles that most women wore. She was more cute than pretty, in the way that children or puppies were cute. Only those ruffles hinted at a not-so-childlike body beneath. Cute or no, Claudia Prattley was all woman.
“I thought perhaps we might share a dance this evening. That is, if you still have room on your card.”
“Well—”
“Of course she has room left.” Poppy nudged her friend in the side.
“Certainly. Where are my manners? I apologize, Mr. Middleton. I do believe I must be coming down with something. I’m simply not thinking clearly. It’s been agitating Poppy all evening. Why, I was just saying that—”
Poppy nudged her again.
Claudia smiled sheepishly. “I have a tendency to ramble.” She handed him her dance card.
Her first waltz was unclaimed. Perfect. Only one other name appeared on her card—Richard Foxmore—and he was on there no fewer than three times. She certainly kept poor company.
“How do you know Richard Foxmore?” Derrick couldn’t help but ask.
“He’s courting her,” Poppy answered.
Claudia shot her friend a look. He couldn’t interpret what it meant, but something about divulging that information made her uncomfortable.
“Indeed?”
“Pardon me?” A portly lady, late in her years, patted him on the arm with her fan. “Are you Mr. Middleton of London’s Illustrated Times?”
“Yes,” he said.
“I thought that might be you! I know this is terribly rude, but I’m an avid reader of your newspaper, and I simply must ask you a question. In last week’s issue of the Society Fashion Report, there was a picture of what I’m positive was myself—well, it just had to have been me, I mean the dress was perfect, as was the hair. I simply must know who the illustrator is. I would like to solicit him to do a painting of me for my daughter.”
It was then that she noticed Claudia and her friend.
“Goodness me, I nearly didn’t see you two. Good evening, Miss Prattley, Lady Penelope.”
“Lady Springdale,” they said in unison.
“Did you see the illustration?” she asked them. “It was simply marvelous.”
“I thought the very same,” Poppy said.
Derrick met Claudia’s glance, her soulful blue eyes pleading with him not to reveal her. “As it turns out, I cannot release that illustrator’s name. My illustrators insist on anonymity, and I must honor their request. But I shall certainly pass on your praise.”
“I expected as much.” She pursed her lips. “Those artists are a different sort. In any case, please pass on to him what I said. And if he ever wants to do portraits, I can be most discreet.” With that, she turned on her heel and huffed off.
“Discreet?” Poppy snorted.
“Is she not?” Derrick asked.
“She stops short of posting announcements in the Times,” Claudia said.
“If you will excuse me,” Poppy said. “I must go find my mother and check on her. She had the start of one of her headaches this afternoon.”
“That was a prime example of what I am put through nearly every time I venture into town,” Derrick said once they were alone. “Your work is highly praised.”
“Thank you for keeping my secret,” she said.
“I told you in my office that I would always keep your identity a secret. I don’t make statements like that lightly. I believe this next dance is ours.”
She looked down at her card. “So it is.”
“Shall we?” He held his arm out to her.
She eyed him warily, glancing to her right and then her left. She held out her gloved hand, and he led her to the floor.
The music swelled, and he swept her up into the waltz. Her blond ringlets began well below his chin—so much so that she had to tilt her head to make eye contact. The hint of peppermint tickled his nose, and he resisted the urge to lean closer and smell her hair.
“You must promise me that you’ll never tell anyone I beg,” he said.
“I’m sorry?” Her brow furrowed in confusion.
“Tonight. You mustn’t ever tell anyone that I begged—it would ruin my bad reputation.”
“I promise.” She smiled up at him, and two dimples pierced her cheeks, causing him to miss a step in their dance. He quickly recovered.
“For what are you begging?” she asked.
“For you.”
“Oh.” A blush spread across her cheeks and down her creamy throat.
“I’m unfamiliar with it; let us see how I do.” He cleared his t
hroat for added drama, which caused her to giggle. “My dear Miss Prattley, I must beg of you to continue your position with my paper. My very life depends on it.”
She scrunched her face. “I can tell you’re unfamiliar with it.”
“Not very good?”
“Terrible. You should say something like, I’m a fine illustrator despite my sex, and your days would be darker without my drawings to look upon. Oh, and then add that no matter what, you’d protect my identity at all costs.”
“And if I said all of this, you would agree to continue working for me?”
“Probably not, but it sounds good.”
Those dimples again. Focus, Middleton. “Would you agree to work for me until I find a replacement for you?”
She turned her head so that it was a little closer to him and whispered, “You shouldn’t allow people to think they’re replaceable. Makes them feel less than special.”
“You’re exactly right. You are irreplaceable. I should have instead asked if you would work for me until you marry. I’d like to keep your drawings running as long as possible, since I’ll have to discontinue that section when you leave. No one will ever be able to do the job as well as you.”
She rewarded him with another smile, but this time he was mindful to keep his footing. There was something about Claudia Prattley. Precisely what, he wasn’t sure. But he just might be curious enough to stick around and find out.
Her features straightened into an expression of concern. “Would you promise to continue to protect my identity?”
“You have my word on it. Even if they threaten to have me drawn and quartered, I shall not reveal you.”
He thought of the old show of promise he had done in school—kissing his two fingers, then putting them to his heart. In this situation, it would be more rewarding to kiss Claudia’s fingers, but she would surely box his ears.
“I don’t believe they still draw and quarter people,” she said.
“Is that an agreement?”
She chewed at her lip a moment before nodding.
“I believe I shall give you a raise.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Never reject an offer of more money, Miss Prattley. It’s bad business.”
“Yes, of course.”
Their dance ended, and he led her off the dance floor.
“I shall call on you soon to arrange the details of our new agreement.”
With another kiss of her hand, Derrick left her to her thoughts while he strolled off to find a drink. A stiff one, preferably. Then he could retreat out of this stuffy ballroom. His presence was beginning to warrant stares.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d danced with a woman, especially in proper Society. Well, other than his aunt, but that hardly counted. An assembly of pretty maidens clumped together whispered and giggled as he passed. He wanted to stop and yell, “Boo!” simply to watch them scatter.
The tongues would be wagging that he’d been here and that he’d danced with Claudia Prattley.
She might be his only dance partner tonight, but Claudia would dance with another. One other. Richard Foxmore. He was here tonight. Somewhere. What was he doing with a woman like Claudia? Didn’t he prefer simpleminded girls who allowed him to do as he chose? Although Claudia did seem bound by her sense of duty. Perhaps that was what he sought in her. No, that couldn’t be it.
He must be drawn either to her money or to her father. Richard was still climbing the political ropes. Despite being out of the majority and out of the cabinet, Claudia’s father must still have some leverage he could offer Richard. She probably had no idea what kind of man Richard was.
If Claudia married him, then that bastard would have played a part in ruining both his father’s and his own newspaper. Not that the lack of Claudia’s illustrations could actually ruin the paper, but it would decrease sales among the aristocratic families. And he wanted them reading when he introduced the new political segments.
Even as he made the argument to himself, he recognized he wasn’t motivated solely by his ambitions for the paper. Certainly he didn’t want Claudia to resign. But it was more than that. The thought of innocent and lovely Claudia Prattley at the mercy of Richard Foxmore disgusted him.
Not only should he keep Claudia from marrying Richard so she could continue working for him, he should prevent her from entering into a miserable marriage. He knew about those all too well. Besides, it was the honorable thing to do, since he knew Richard’s character. Surely she didn’t love the bastard.
From one man’s arms to the next—that rarely happened to Claudia in one evening. Richard twirled her around the dance floor, but hadn’t said much of anything since the music began.
He didn’t seem like himself tonight—usually he spent all their time together talking her ear off about all the latest political news. While she had never been particularly interested in his conversation, she’d always felt flattered that he considered her a companion. Since most men never said more than a word to her, Richard’s conversations were his most attractive attribute.
“It’s a lovely ball, don’t you agree?” she asked.
“Most lovely.”
Mr. Middleton was a better dancer, she couldn’t help but notice—smoother on his feet, with nice, strong arms to lead her about.
She glanced at Richard’s face; pink stained his cheeks, as if he’d spent the afternoon in too much wind. His pale blue eyes stared above her head, watching something behind her. Mr. Middleton was handsomer than Richard—darker and more masculine in every way. His mere presence demanded and dared you to stare, while Richard blended with the crowd.
He’d asked about Richard; perhaps they knew each other.
“What do you know of Mr. Middleton?”
Richard balked. His eyes met hers for a moment, then once again he looked past her to whatever he stared at behind her. “What I know of Derrick Middleton is not for the ears of a lady. You would be well advised to stay clear of him, Claudia. He is a dangerous man.”
Dangerous? He hadn’t seemed dangerous. Wild. Exciting. Sensual. Her cheeks warmed, and she knew she blushed. Gracious, she shouldn’t think such things. Especially in the arms of the man she was supposed to marry.
“He was very gentlemanly with me,” she said quietly.
“Any association with a man like that could ruin your reputation.”
Splendid. And she’d danced with him. Perhaps she’d yet again misjudged the situation, as her father always accused her of doing. Richard knew so many people; he no doubt knew the truth. She would have to be very careful. Fulfill her agreement to the paper and then move on.
“I saw you dancing with him,” Richard said tightly. “I don’t think your father would be pleased.”
She thought Richard had been playing billiards at the time. And no doubt he would tell her father. “It would have been rude of me to say no when he asked.”
“How did you meet him?”
Think quickly. “Poppy introduced us. He’s an acquaintance of her father’s.” She hated lying, but she couldn’t very well tell him the truth.
“I see. Perhaps in the future, Poppy will dance with him instead. I realize that we are not officially engaged, but you know that is my intention. I’m just waiting for the right moment.”
She smiled at him. “Yes, Richard, I know. I’m waiting for that moment as well.”
“As is your father, I suppose. Has he mentioned it again?”
“Briefly.”
“It will happen in good time, my dear. Once we marry, you can get out of this damp city and live in Westfield Hall and paint all the watercolors you want. Won’t that be nice?”
“Well, yes. But I don’t want to live in the country the entire year. I enjoy London. Father and I have lived here since Mother died. It’s my home.”
“You’ve just forgotten how wonderful country life can be. The air is much cleaner, and I will feel safer if you are there. I worry about you running about the street
s like a common person. You don’t consider the dangers, and you trust people that you shouldn’t trust.”
How many times had she heard this speech? That he worried endeared him to her, but, honestly, she could take care of herself. It was not as if she wandered the East End alone. “I suppose we can discuss that more once we’re married.”
“I’m sure your father will agree with me. I believe he would like to see you settled and safe in the country.”
And that epitomized the very thing she liked the least about Richard. He cared too much for what her father thought. She’d spent her entire life fretting about her father’s perception of her and fantasizing about marrying a man who would free her from that.
Richard would never be that man. But he was all life had offered her. Women like her didn’t get to pick any man they wanted. They married the first man who asked, because chances were he’d be the only one to do so.
If her father got the deciding vote about where she would have to spend her remaining days, he would most definitely put her in the country. After all, how much trouble could she get into out there? She wouldn’t be close enough to embarrass him in front of his friends in Parliament. Marrying Richard would ensure she had to quit her job at the paper.
Richard was a kind man, and he wanted her for his wife, but it wasn’t the life full of love she’d dreamed of. It was the life she would learn to love.
Chapter 3
Claudia peeked out from her bedcovers. Never had she lain in bed all morning, but today she was desperate. “Is he still looking for me, Baubie?” She eyed her maid, who stood across the room hanging up dresses.
“Not at the moment, but he’ll be looking for you again directly. You cannot hide from him all day.”
“I know.” She flipped to lie on her stomach with her head propped at the foot of the bed. “But he’s going to want to discuss all the details of last night’s ball, and I’m not sure I want him to know all the details.”
Baubie’s eyebrows shot up, and she leaned against the armoire. “Do you have a secret, dearie?”
Not precisely a secret, but right then it certainly felt like one. Like when she was a child and her mother would buy her a trinket, and together they would hide it from her father so he would not get angry. It had been their little secret.
