Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  Even worse.

  David was scowling at him. Alex took a calming breath. “The older woman is the Earl of Oxbury’s widow.”

  “And the girl? They are obviously together. They must be related in some way—the age difference is too great for them to be merely friends. Yet if the matron is the Countess of Oxbury…”

  “She is definitely the countess. I think the girl must be her niece—the Earl of Standen’s daughter.” The bloody bastard.

  “So, can you introduce me?”

  “No.” Approach Kate? She would probably spit on him.

  “Why not? You obviously know Lady Oxbury.”

  “I knew Lady Oxbury. I doubt she’d recognize me now.”

  David choked on his champagne. “Oh, I’d say she definitely recognizes you, Uncle Alex.”

  Why the hell was David grinning at him? “I meant recognize. She’ll give me the cut direct if I try to speak to her.”

  “I don’t think so. Introduce me,” David said. “I may not be quite as lofty as an earl, but my barony is an old, respected one. I—”

  “You have not been attending. Clear your mind of lust. This has nothing to do with you. Did you not hear the girl’s father’s name? She is the daughter of the Earl of Standen.”

  “So? I can—oh.” David’s arrested expression would have been comical in other circumstances.

  “Exactly. Standen. The man whom your mother, Lady Harriet, jilted to run off with your father. I assure you, the Earl of Standen hates all Wiltons. He will not—he will never—consider your suit.”

  David considered Alex’s slightly strident tone, flushed face, and set jaw.

  The Earl of Standen’s daughter…damn. That was a problem, but not an insurmountable one, surely? He’d never met Standen, but the man couldn’t be a complete idiot. He must have moved on from those long ago events—he’d married, had a daughter.

  “Surely Standen has got over his disappointment,” David said.

  Alex snorted. “The earl has got over nothing.”

  “But the scandal was more than thirty years ago. From what Grandmamma said, the earl should be falling on his knees every night and thanking God he didn’t get buckled to mama. She was much too young and too wild to suit him.”

  Alex shrugged. “I can assure you the earl harbors no good thoughts concerning our family. He’d drag his sister naked down St. James’s Street before he’d give his consent for a Belmont to marry a Wilton.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He told me so himself,” Alex said, his voice more bitter than David had ever heard it, “twenty-three years ago when I asked to marry his sister.”

  Chapter 2

  “Are you certain you’re all right, Aunt Kate?”

  “Ah. Oh. Er…” She certainly was not all right. Thank God the retiring room was empty. Her loss of composure was bad enough—at least she was not enacting a spectacle for an interested audience.

  She had to get hold of her emotions before she went back out into the ballroom.

  Kate clasped her hands and tried to stop gulping air. If only she could loosen her stays. She should never have had Marie, her maid, lace them so tightly, but she’d stupidly wanted to look young again, slim and virginal and seventeen. Impossible. Marie could tighten her stays until the strings broke, she’d still have lines at the corner of her eyes, threads of gray in her hair…

  She wasn’t seventeen any longer. Alex must have been shocked—horrified—to see how she’d aged.

  Oh, Alex…

  Kate moaned slightly. Breathe in through her nose; out through her mouth. In. Out. Stop panicking.

  “Here, try your vinaigrette.” Grace waved the small, aromatic box under Kate’s nose.

  “No, I—ah!” Kate’s head snapped up as she inhaled the pungent scent.

  “Do you feel better?”

  “Ah.” No, she was just more aware of how miserable she felt. Could she spend the entire evening here in the retiring room?

  Definitely not. She was Grace’s chaperone. She had to go out into the…

  Breathe.

  Grace was still waving the vinaigrette in her face. Kate snatched it from her and snapped it shut.

  Most likely Alex—Mr. Wilton—hadn’t even noticed her entrance, didn’t remember her or the unfortunate incidents of her long-ago Season, had absolutely no recollection of that mortifying scene in this very garden…

  “Ohh.” She covered her face with her hands.

  “Aunt Kate, you sound like you’re in pain.”

  “No, no, I’m fine.” She waved the hand with the vinaigrette in Grace’s direction.

  Had Alex noticed her arrival? She’d been too shocked to see, let alone comprehend, his expression.

  “What is the problem?” Grace said. “Is there something…odd about those two men?”

  Two men? There were two men? Kate tried to clear some of her distress from her mind. Oh, yes—the other man—the younger one who looked so like Alex. He must be Alex’s nephew, the product of the first Wilton-Belmont scandal.

  Why in God’s name was Alex here anyway? He should be safely in the country. What infernal coincidence had sent him to London precisely when she’d chosen to come?

  His parents had died around the same time as Oxbury. Perhaps that was it. Death did have a way of making one reevaluate one’s life. Oxbury’s passing had certainly forced her to do some soul searching.

  “Aunt Kate…”

  Kate flushed. She had barely admitted it to herself, but she had thought…only in a general way, of course…that while Grace was looking for a husband, she might also take a glance around the London ballrooms. Oh, not for another husband—though Oxbury’s heir was certainly making living in the dower house miserable—but for…

  Well, she was a widow, and widows were allowed—almost expected to take—certain…liberties. She’d considered…

  But she had never expected to see Alex.

  Twenty-three years ago, she’d been eager for excitement and surprises. She’d had her head full of silly dreams of handsome men and stolen kisses. Of love and marriage. Of happily ever after.

  She was wiser now. She knew life might hold contentment, if one worked hard and had a modicum of luck, but happily ever after? That was only for fairy tales.

  But Alex was here. Could it be…was it possible…?

  “Aunt Kate, what is the matter with you? Are you ill? Do you need to leave?”

  Yes, yes. She needed to leave—leave this ball, leave London. Go home where it was safe, where she could hide.

  But she couldn’t hide. Oxbury, with its comforting, orderly house and neatly trimmed lawns, wasn’t her home any longer, and if she fled Town, Grace would have to go with her. She’d miss her Season and her chance to find a husband of her own choosing.

  She would not let Grace be forced by circumstances—by Standen—to make the same mistake she’d made…not if she could help it.

  “Aunt Kate!” Grace had resorted to shaking her shoulder.

  “What?” Kate blinked and looked up. A very worried expression twisted Grace’s features.

  “Should we send someone to fetch the carriage?”

  “No. No, of course not.” Kate moistened her lips and smoothed her skirt with hands that didn’t shake very much at all. “I am perfectly fine.”

  Grace opened her mouth, but Kate put up a hand to stop the words she knew were coming.

  “No, truly. I am fine. I had a brief attack of nerves, that’s all.” She forced a smile. “It has been many years since I’ve stepped into a London ballroom. I was momentarily overcome, but I have recovered.” She stood and shook out her skirts. “Come, let’s go back to the ballroom.”

  Grace crossed her arms. “Not until you explain what just happened.”

  Kate wished Grace wouldn’t loom in such a disconcerting fashion. “I have just explained. I lost my composure briefly.”

  Grace’s left eyebrow flew up so she looked just like her father at his most skeptical.
Kate had always hated that expression on Standen. Since their parents had died when she was young, she’d seen that look growing up more times than she cared to consider. At least it was better than the cold, haughty expression he assumed when he was furious—as he had been the last time she’d been in London.

  “I may be new to Town, Aunt Kate, but I am not a complete flat. You’ve been remarkably calm this whole trip. I cannot think even a ballroom full of the ton could set you to quaking—especially as your nervous attack did not commence until you saw the tall, older gentleman by the potted palms. Who is he?” Grace grinned. “And, more importantly, who is his companion?”

  Oh, dear. Grace’s eyes were sparkling. This would never do. Of all the men in London—of all the men in the world—this was the one man Grace could never have.

  “I’m not certain.” Kate tried to leave, but Grace caught her arm.

  “Who do you think they are?”

  Kate sighed. Grace obviously wasn’t going to let her leave without giving her an answer. “I haven’t seen the older man in years, and I’ve never met the younger, but, well, I believe…”

  “Yes?” Grace’s nostrils flared and her jaw clenched. If she were her father, she’d start shouting now. “Who are they, Aunt Kate?”

  “I believe the older gentleman is Mr. Alexander Wilton and the younger is Mr. Wilton’s nephew, Baron Dawson.”

  “Oh.” Grace blinked.

  Kate felt slightly relieved. At least Grace appeared to be aware of the problem. She should only require a small word of warning to avoid the men. “I assume your father has mentioned the family?”

  “Occasionally.” Grace bit her lip. Yes, she’d heard Papa mention the baron—this baron’s grandfather. Usually it was “that bloody Dawson” followed by a detailed condemnation of the man and his family, past, present, and future. She’d made the mistake once of asking Papa why he disliked Lord Dawson so much. She’d never got a clear answer, only more curses and then tight-lipped silence.

  The old baron died a year ago, shortly after Lord Oxbury. That was also when Papa decided she needed to marry John. She’d thought the impetus for his matrimonial mania had been Lord Oxbury’s demise, but now she wasn’t so sure.

  “Why does Papa dislike the Wiltons so, Aunt Kate? It’s not as though they are our neighbors. As far as I know, Papa has never met the two gentlemen who are here tonight. Or is it only the old baron he detests? I’ve asked him, but he won’t say.”

  Of course he wouldn’t say, Kate thought, and he especially wouldn’t tell his daughter. It was not Kate’s place to reveal Standen’s secrets—and she didn’t relish discussing her own past indiscretions, either. “It’s enough for you to know you must avoid these men.”

  Grace’s brows snapped down. She looked extremely mulish—another expression she’d got from her father. “That’s ridiculous. If you can’t—or won’t—tell me what the problem is, then I’ll just have to ask Lord Dawson.” Grace lifted her left eyebrow again. “I assume he knows?”

  “Ahh.” Grace wouldn’t have the temerity to ask the baron, would she? “I don’t know what Lord Dawson knows or doesn’t know. It makes no difference. It is not the sort of conversation you can have in a ballroom full of gossips.”

  Grace shrugged. “Then I’ll find a more private location for my questions—the garden, perhaps.”

  “No!” The last time a Wilton had escorted a Belmont into the Duke of Alvord’s garden…Kate pressed her hand to her bosom. Was her heart pounding with embarrassment or…?

  Embarrassment, certainly. Definitely. Without a doubt. She had no desire to reenact that painful evening.

  Though it hadn’t been painful until later, when Standen had called her into his study. Her time in the garden with Alex had been special—a cherished memory she would keep locked away in her heart forever.

  But Grace must not be making any memories with the current baron. “You know you cannot go into the garden with a man.”

  Grace shrugged again. Was that a spark of defiance in her eye? “Of course, I won’t do anything truly scandalous, Aunt Kate. And John won’t be swayed by silly London gossip.”

  “Mr. Parker-Roth might not pay attention to London gossip, but the rest of the ton will. Do you wish to have your Season end before it begins?”

  “I wish to find out what this secret is that you and Papa have been keeping from me.”

  “Grace, I—”

  Two women came into the retiring room.

  “…and then did you see how Lady Charlotte glared at the Colonial?” the short, round one said. “I never—oh!” She stopped and stared at Kate. Her eyes widened. “Is that…can it be…Lady Kate Belmont? I mean, Lady Oxbury?”

  “Y-yes, I’m Lady Oxbury. And you are…?”

  “Don’t you know me, Kate?” The woman laughed. “I realize I’ve gained a few pounds with all my babies, but I had hoped I was still recognizable. We made our come-out together, remember? Hid by the ficus trees at the Wainwright ball, too shy to speak to anyone. I was miserable when you left Town so abruptly.”

  Kate blinked. “Prudence? Prudence Cartland?”

  “The same, except now I’m Lady Delton. And this is my friend, Mrs. Neddingham.”

  “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Neddingham. Please let me introduce my niece, Lady Grace.” Kate could not stop smiling as she chatted with the women. She’d never expected—though now that she thought of it, she should have—that she’d know anyone in London. She did remember shy little Prudence—and now that she knew who it was, she could see the young girl she’d shared her come-out with in the broader, older lines of this matron. What other old acquaintances would she find in the ballroom—besides Alex, that is?

  Alex. Oh, dear. And Alex’s nephew. She must be certain Grace kept clear of him. The girl had looked far too interested in Dawson. If she were truly attracted to the baron—no, Fate could not be so cruel.

  “It was lovely to see you again, Prudence, and to meet you, Mrs. Neddingham, but Grace and I must—” Kate looked to her right. Grace had been there just a moment ago, hadn’t she? She wasn’t there now nor was she anywhere she could see in this small room.

  “Looking for your niece, Kate?” Prudence laughed. “I’m afraid she got bored listening to us old women reminisce. She left a good ten minutes ago.”

  Lady Luck in the guise of Mrs. Neddingham and Lady Delton had certainly smiled upon her, Grace thought as she slipped out of the ladies’ retiring room. Now she could find Lord Dawson without first having to brangle with Aunt Kate. She was determined to discover why Papa held the baron’s family in such aversion—and why Aunt Kate had fled when she’d seen Mr. Wilton.

  If there were skeletons in her family closet, she wished to meet them, especially as they seemed to be pushing her down the church aisle toward Mr. Parker-Roth.

  The ballroom was even more crowded than when she’d arrived. Couples filled the center of the room, making their way through the figures of the dance while knots of turbaned chaperones gossiped and giggling debutantes darted glances at the young bucks lining the walls. The din of all the voices almost drowned out the orchestra, and the competing smells of perfume, pomade, and, well, bodies were truly suffocating now that she was down in the midst of them.

  Where was Lord Dawson? He should not be hard to locate—he was one of the tallest men in the room. There was his uncle, still by the potted palms. And the baron? Ah! He was standing by a ficus tree near the doors to the garden.

  She felt the same jolt seeing him now as she had when she’d been standing on the ballroom landing, and this time he wasn’t even looking at her. What was it about him that started this convocation of butterflies in her stomach? Not that the sensation was confined to her middle. Oh, no. She felt a fluttering in her chest as well as—she blushed—other, unmentionable places.

  Were all the women in the room similarly affected? How could they not be—though no one else appeared to be staring at him as she was.

  They should b
e staring. If this room were a painting, Lord Dawson would be the subject. Everyone else, all the other men, women, everything surrounding him was incidental, background and setting for him.

  He stood quiet and alert, alone. Would he look her way? She felt breathless with anticipation—

  Silly. She was not going to stand here waiting for him to notice her. She needed to speak to him; she could not leave that conversation to chance. She started to make her way around the room’s perimeter, but she couldn’t move quickly enough. She watched him slip outside.

  No matter; she would follow him. She would not be deterred by something so minor as a few plants and the evening sky, no matter what Aunt Kate said. Aunt Kate was a chaperone—it was her duty to worry. She was old enough to make her own decisions.

  She sidestepped an elderly woman with a cane and an excess of plumes, avoided the eye of a portly gentleman, and reached the door.

  Had Lady Oxbury and her niece left the ball? He’d looked for them the last ten minutes and had seen no sign of either of them.

  David resisted the urge to take out his timepiece once more. He’d been getting far too many interested looks from Alvord’s guests—particularly those of the feminine persuasion; he didn’t wish to cause everyone to speculate why he kept pulling his watch out of his pocket. Best to try for patience. If they hadn’t left—and God, he hoped they hadn’t—they would have to appear in the ballroom eventually.

  He stepped to the other side of a ficus tree to avoid a very intent-looking mama and her debutante daughter.

  He should not be avoiding them—he should be speaking to them and to all the other ladies in the room. He should not be concentrating on Standen’s daughter. Alex was right—life would be much simpler if he could find a pleasant woman without a history linked to his blasted father.

  Yes, he liked Lady Oxbury’s niece’s appearance—Zounds, how he liked her appearance! He was growing shockingly enthusiastic just thinking of her appearance…but he hadn’t met her. She might smell of garlic or have a voice as shrill as a fishmonger’s wife.