by Anne Gracie
“It was.” George so regretted that bucket of fertilizer. She had pictured his face as she dumped it on his smug head. “The duke sent him away. Towsett didn’t even realize I was there.”
“So you’ll have to endure another unwanted proposal? Oh—and his next opportunity will be at my ball tomorrow night!” Rose exclaimed. “Oh dear, and I did so want everything to go smoothly. We don’t even have a conservatory. Oh, I could shoot Lord Towsett.”
“That’s the strange thing,” George said slowly. “You won’t have to. I received a letter from him this morning—it arrived during the night, hand delivered.” She pulled it out of a pocket in her riding habit. “Here, read it.”
Rose took it and read it aloud, then stared at George in amazement. “He apologized? And has withdrawn all claims to your hand and will never bother you again? That’s wonderful.”
“But how? I mean, if you didn’t even talk to him last night . . .” Lily began.
“Exactly.”
“And Cal wasn’t at the ball, so he couldn’t have confronted the horrid beast on your behalf,” Rose added.
“Cal doesn’t even know Lord Towsett has been pestering me,” George said. “I swore Emm to secrecy. I wanted to deal with Towsett myself.”
“Then what do you think happened?”
George shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s a mystery.” There was a second, smaller mystery that she didn’t mention: A footman had come to the conservatory with a message that Lord Towsett had left the ball. And when she’d asked him who sent the message, he refused to say, which made George think he’d been bribed.
She could think of only one person who might have done such a thing, who even knew she was in the conservatory—but why would the duke care enough to send her a message? It couldn’t possibly be him. She’d seen him briefly when she returned to the ballroom, but he’d given her an icy glance, made no attempt to talk to her and left immediately afterward.
So, no, she wasn’t going to mention that little incident. It would only stir up speculation, and she wanted to forget all about it.
But for the rest of the evening, free of Lord Towsett’s presence and the duke’s, she’d had a lovely time. Danced until the wee small hours.
They rode on, and the strangeness of Lord Towsett’s unexpected about-face was soon forgotten as talk turned to the ball to be held on the following night, when Rose’s husband, Thomas, would be presented to the ton for the first time.
* * *
* * *
Hart scowled. What the devil was he doing? He’d had no intention of attending this wretched affair. It would cause the kind of gossip and speculation he loathed.
And yet his feet kept on moving.
He turned the corner into Berkeley Square, saw the crowd outside Ashendon House and the many carriages lined up, dropping people off. The sight of them alone should have given him pause—he hated crowds—but his feet kept moving.
“Hart! Dear fellow, don’t tell me—you are, you are!” Sinc almost fell on him, chortling with delight. “You’re going to the Rutherford ball, after all! Oh, that’s splendid!”
“Whatever makes you think that?” Hart said dryly. They were almost at the steps leading up to Ashendon House.
Sinc’s face fell. “But you’re wearing formal duds, enough black for a funeral, except it’s nighttime, so—oh, you’re bamming me, you rat.” He grinned in relief and slapped Hart on the back. “I’m delighted to see you, old fellow, simply delighted.”
Hart eyed his friend thoughtfully. “You are showing an unwonted joy at the prospect of my company, Sinclair. Another bet, I suppose.”
“Moi? Bet on you? My dear old friend?” Sinc tried to look hurt. It failed—smiles kept popping out—so then he tried for humble sincerity. “I am simply pleased to have your company for the evening, my dear fellow.”
Hart wasn’t fooled for a minute. “You bet on me to attend.” They were inside the house now and had joined the crowd of magnificently dressed guests moving slowly up the stairs leading to the ballroom.
Sinc’s smile tried desperately to achieve ruefulness, but glee won. “The odds were irresistible.”
Hart laughed. “You’re a disgrace.”
“I know, but I’m a very much richer disgrace than I was ten minutes ago—or I will be as soon as you step through that ballroom door.” He pushed Hart up several more stairs, then turned to wave to some of his cronies, standing below them, staring up at them with jaws agape. “Losers,” he explained to Hart. “Bet that you wouldn’t come.” He rubbed his hands in glee. “But I knew better.”
Hart frowned. “How? I had no intention of coming.” Until half an hour ago, after several hours spent pacing and fuming and being ridiculously indecisive—which wasn’t at all like him.
“Ah, yes, but I’ve known you a devilish long time—ever since we were seven-year-olds, trembling with fright outside the headmaster’s office, abandoned by our nearest and dearest and facing the prospect of living with hundreds of young savages dressed in civilized sheep’s clothing—and all bigger than us. Ghastly. Remember?”
“Yes, but what does the first day of school have to do with betting I would attend this wretched ball?” They climbed another few stairs.
Sinc grinned. “It doesn’t. But I know you. The moment that girl refused to sell you—no, before that—the moment she ripped strips off you at the opera, I knew.”
“Knew what?” Hart said irritably. It was more than he knew.
Sinc shot him a knowing look. “No one ever refuses you. I knew you couldn’t let it rest. And then, when I heard the on-dit that Towsett had apologized to Lady George and withdrawn his suit, well—the money was practically in the bag. And now you’re here, it is, it is! My bag!”
Hart frowned. “How could you possibly connect me with—”
“Towsett’s withdrawal?” Sinc chuckled. “So that wasn’t you marching him across the floor as if to a court-martial?”
“Oh.” He’d been so angry he hadn’t thought about witnesses.
“But who cares about Towsett? I collected on that too, and the minute you step into that ballroom, I’ll be so delightfully plump in the pocket I won’t know what to do with myself—the odds against you coming tonight were stupendous!” He danced up the last couple of steps and practically shoved Hart through the wide double doors leading into the ballroom.
The ball was well underway and the receiving line had disbanded. A dance was in progress. The Rutherfords’ butler announced them in a ringing voice: “The Duke of Everingham! The Honorable John Sinclair.”
At the announcement there was an audible hush. Heads turned in their direction. Hart ignored them. Then the Countess of Ashendon, lush with child and draped in a green dress that seemed to emphasize rather than disguise the fact, moved serenely across the room to greet them. At the same time, Lady Salter, thin and elegant in shades of smoky gray, cut across toward them from the other side of the ballroom, a thin smile of triumph on her face.
The buzz of conversation resumed, louder than before.
Lady Georgiana was dancing with an elegant young sprig and laughing as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Hart knew she’d heard him announced, for she’d turned her head in surprise. As their eyes met, her smile faded to a scowl.
So be it. He bowed over Lady Ashendon’s hand.
* * *
* * *
“What’s he doing here?” George muttered to Lily, indicating the duke. He stood looking around the ballroom as if he owned it, darkly elegant in black, those cold eyes of his half closed as if he were bored to death already.
“But it’s a good thing he came,” Lily said. “Isn’t that why Rose invited him? To show everyone that there were no hard feelings?”
“Yes.” But there were hard feelings, George knew. He just hid them under a veneer of boredom and ice. And superiori
ty.
Curse him. She’d anticipated a night of unalloyed pleasure, enhanced by the last-minute apology sent by Lord Towsett to Emm, claiming something had come up preventing him from attending. Which was an unexpected joy and a relief.
But now the duke was here, and she knew, she just knew that he was going to spoil everything.
That look in his eye as he met her gaze . . . She didn’t trust it. He’d come to make trouble.
Her partner arrived for the next dance and George tried to forget the duke and to enjoy the ball. All her friends were here, and now that nobody was pestering her to marry him, she could relax and simply have fun.
Except that she could feel the duke’s gaze, like a cold and sinister weight on the back of her neck, following her around the room.
He had a score to settle with her—the opera, no matter what he’d claimed before, her words had to have rankled. And as for what she’d said to him in the conservatory—he hadn’t liked that at all.
Too bad. She’d meant every word. But if he tried to spoil Rose and Thomas’s ball, the one that Emm and everyone had worked so hard to organize, when really, all Emm should be thinking about was the coming baby—well, George would make the duke sorry he ever crossed her path.
She mightn’t have been part of this family for long, but she was devoted to each and every member. And would protect them with her life.
Oh, stop being melodramatic, she told herself. Yes, he was focused on George for some reason—every time she looked at him, he was watching her—but he was probably only getting ready to pester her again about selling Sultan. These men who thought they only had to snap their fingers and everyone would rush to please them . . .
The next time she glanced at the duke—for some reason she felt impelled to keep an eye on him—Emm glided across the floor to welcome him, and a moment later Rose joined her. George tensed, bracing herself to hurry across the dance floor and intervene if necessary. Though what she would do, she wasn’t quite sure.
She watched anxiously, but the conversation between them seemed a little stiff but quite civilized. At the end of a short exchange, the duke bowed, and then he and his friend strolled toward the card room.
George breathed again. Perhaps it would be all right after all. Maybe the duke was not planning to revenge himself on Rose and Thomas.
Her own partner arrived and they joined a set made up of friends, jolly and young and carefree. One of the young men decided to play the fool, pretending to have forgotten the steps, and there was much laughter and silliness as they steered him through the movements of the dance.
When George had first come to London she hadn’t expected to enjoy any of the social whirl, tied down as it was by endless rules, spoken and unspoken—very few dos and hundreds of do nots. She hated most of the do nots.
As well, she’d never danced in her life and had dreaded having to perform in public, fearing to make a complete fool of herself. Rose and Lily and Emm and Cal had taught her, as well as a little Frenchman who made his living teaching the latest dances to all the best people.
To her surprise, once she stopped feeling like a clumsy oaf, George loved to dance and was even quite good at it, if her partners’ compliments were to be believed.
After the dance, still smiling with remembered laughter, George sat sipping a lemonade her partner had fetched for her. Next up was the supper dance. She was looking forward to that—and to the supper afterward; she was starving, and glorious scents had been coming from the kitchen all day. She looked around for her partner but saw instead Aunt Agatha sailing toward her like the ship of doom, grim purpose in her eye.
“Georgiana, come with me.” Aunt Agatha didn’t ask, she commanded.
“But it’s the supper dance, and Sir Matthew Carmichael has—”
“Sir Matthew has found another partner. Come.” Seizing George by the wrist Aunt Agatha tugged at her to move. On the other side of the ballroom George could see her erstwhile partner, Sir Matthew, bowing over the hand of another young lady. He caught George’s eye, grimaced a rueful apology and led the young lady onto the floor.
How odd. Sir Matthew had been so keen to dance with her that he had reserved this dance several days earlier. What had changed his mind?
Bemused, George allowed herself to be towed. Until she saw where they were headed. “Oh, no. Not him.” She tried to pull away, but her aunt’s bony fingers gripped like death.
“He is an honored guest and you will not make a fuss,” Aunt Agatha snapped. Short of wrestling with her elderly aunt in public, George’s only alternative was to allow herself be led up to the Duke of Everingham. Those cold gray-green eyes bored into her as she approached. Lichen on stone. Frosted ice on a pond.
Would it hurt the man to smile?
“Your grace, may I present my niece, Lady Georgiana, as a desirable partner for this dance.” Aunt Agatha’s voice oozed with satisfaction.
The duke’s heavy-lidded eyes showed nothing, not pleasure nor anger nor any kind of human emotion at all. Except boredom. Such fun to be him.
There were any number of ladies here who would swoon with delight to be presented to the duke—why did it have to be her? The family sacrifice on the altar of reconciliation and politeness.
He bowed slightly and offered his arm. “Lady Georgiana, may I have the pleasure of the next dance?” Said without the slightest hint of pleasure or enthusiasm. Or even interest.
George ached to refuse him, but she was committed to making this ball a success, and common politeness forced her to allow the duke to lead her out onto the dance floor with every appearance of willingness.
She didn’t smile at him, though. If he wanted to act as though she were a dreary duty, she wouldn’t bother to pretend His Frozen Grace was a desirable partner.
“Do you always get old ladies to kidnap dance partners for you, duke?” she said as he led her toward a set that was forming.
“Lady Salter offered,” he said smoothly, adding, “I expect she thought you needed help finding a suitable partner.”
“I had a suitable partner. He engaged himself to dance with me several days ago.” How had he convinced Sir Matthew to give up this dance? Bribery? Intimidation? Or had Aunt Agatha done it?
The music started, they bowed and moved into the dance. “Most men I know find their own partners—” They separated to twirl briefly around with another partner. When they came back together, George continued. “Dukes are different I suppose—” She broke off to twirl with another partner. “Silver spoon and all that. I expect all your needs are provided by others.”
The gray eyes glinted as he took one of her hands in his and set the other at her waist. “Not all of them.”
At her first-ever ball, when she was still quite nervous of dancing in public and getting her steps mixed up, George had discovered that the right partner made an enormous difference. The revelation happened during a progressive dance, where a couple would perform a set figure of steps and then the lady would be twirled on to be received by the next partner. She’d gone from having to concentrate hard, to dancing effortlessly and gracefully, not missing a beat. She’d thought she’d mastered the dance and was enjoying herself hugely—until she was passed on to her next partner, an earnest, clumsy young man, who took them both back to beginner status.
The duke was, she had to admit, an excellent dancer, though it was a mystery how he’d achieved that level of skill when he rarely attended balls. The way he guided her through the steps was both deft and masterful—and a little unsettling.
It wasn’t that he behaved in any inappropriate way; indeed he was perfectly cool, distant and conventional. It was just that whenever his hands touched her—and it was only in the various required movements of the dance, nothing untoward—she . . . she felt it. The warmth, the strength of his hands—even though they were both wearing gloves.
Shivers ran t
hrough her, though she wasn’t at all cold.
To be twirled and turned and steered this way and that effortlessly and confidently by his big warm hands . . . She felt like a leaf caught up by an irresistible tide. She didn’t like it, the feeling of helplessness. But, she told herself, it was just a dance, a perfectly ordinary dance. She could stop, or step out of it any time she chose. And he was just a man, one she didn’t like very much.
His scent disturbed her too, a combination of clean pressed linen, soap and a faint hint of cologne—citrus and spice, something crisp and masculine. It took her instantly back to those moments when they’d stood, almost touching, in the darkness of the conservatory. It felt . . . too . . . too intimate.
It felt as though every eye in the ballroom was on them.
She couldn’t wait for the dance to be over.
“I suppose you’re used to it, all this attention,” she commented as they came together in a movement. It was polite, after all, to make conversation. Not that he was bothering.
His shoulder moved in the barest hint of an indifferent shrug.
“So disheartening,” she said, “seeing that after all these years of civilization, and for all our so-called sophistication, most people are still no better than the ancient Romans, gawking at a spectacle, hoping for blood—or scandal.”
A dark eyebrow rose. “Lions and Christians?” he said when they came together again.
“Yes.”
His eyes glinted. “And which would you class me as—lion or Christian?”
“Oh, neither.” The dance separated them then, and when the steps reunited them, his brow rose in a silent prompt.
“You’d be the emperor, above it all, looking down your long nose at the struggles of the mere mortals, untouched. Uncaring. Indifferent.”
His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
They danced on. A dance had never felt so endless.
Finally it was suppertime. But George found there was no way for her to wriggle out of supper with the duke. She tried, asking to be excused because she had a headache and needed to lie down.
