by Claudia Dain
But Iveston, ever reclusive, had not come to Sandworth. The Earl of Cranleigh had.
He had not, and indeed still did not, look like anyone she had ever met before. He was muscular in the extreme, nearly like a laborer and, worse, it did not put her off in the least. His manner was rigorously contained and he appeared nearly inarticulate, which naturally made her want to break into his iron self-control and entice him to pour out his silent heart to her. But it was his eyes which captured her beyond rescuing, as blue as arctic ice, as cold and sharp as snow, and as full of unspoken shadows as to lure the most innocent of girls, which is precisely who she had been until meeting him.
He had cornered her in the picture gallery when everyone else, or most everyone else, had been in the saloon playing at cards. As she didn’t care for cards, she had wandered in nearly complete innocence a full two rooms and one hall away from the saloon to the picture gallery, and Cranleigh had followed her. She was quite certain he followed her, for how else to explain how he had found his way into the picture gallery? Naturally, she had done everything she could possibly think of to lure him to follow her, and it showed such promise for a lifetime of pleasure that he had followed her unspoken instructions so well.
The room faced east, the light was quite soft in the room, lighting the portraits of her ancestors delicately. She had looked, she suspected, quite lovely in that gentle light, for Lord Cranleigh, who never had before that instant had much to say, started talking to her.
Staring at the portraits, he compared her eyes to an aunt three generations removed.
She thought the comparison thin.
He compared her hair to a great-grandmother on her father’s side.
Perhaps there was a slight similarity.
He thought that her nose was quite that of her father’s.
Completely absurd and she told him so. As Cranleigh was standing quite close and as he had been running a fingertip down the length of her nose as he spoke, turning to argue with him had been … well, she had been innocent until that moment. Though not quite so innocent as to not understand that turning to face a man who stood not six inches off was a very good way to get kissed.
He had, without any hesitation she could discern, kissed her lightly on the mouth.
She supposed it might have been possible that the moment he lifted his mouth from hers that he would have stepped away and apologized. As she had placed her hands on his chest and looked up at him in rapture, lifting her mouth for another kiss, he had never quite had the chance to apologize, if he had been intending to at all. It was definitely not a sure thing.
He had pulled her to him, both hands around her waist, and kissed her again. She had kissed him back. Fully. Without restraint. With a great deal of ardor, truth be told.
They had kissed until the sun set, leaving the picture gallery in purple shadow. She remembered that especially, how his eyes had looked in shadow, still so icily blue that they shone almost like a wolf’s.
The sounds from the saloon had drifted to them, a changed sound, coming closer, breaking apart. They might be discovered any instant.
He’d kissed her again, almost ruthlessly. It had been … scandalous and wonderful. Not that she would ever admit as much to him. But she had thought, and it was perfectly logical to think so, that their arrangement was all but secured.
It was not, and she still could not reason out the why of it. Clearly, he was deeply in love with her. Oh, of course, there were men who were not at all honorable about things of that nature, she was not a dolt, after all, but Cranleigh, for every impossible trait he possessed, and there were more than a few, was honorable. He was most assuredly honorable.
He hadn’t offered to marry her, you see; after two years and this the start of her third Season out, he had yet to offer and, worse, was about to go back to sea.
What was she to do? Force him? Take her slender fist to his icy blue eyes and beat him into doing right by her?
No, instead she had sought out Sophia Dalby as an ally, and that was bearing most interesting fruit. She would somehow force Cranleigh into offering for her, or she would entertain an offer from one of the men on her list. If it came to that. Surely Cranleigh would not allow it to get to that point. Didn’t he, after all, have some fighting blood in him? Could he not be made to claim her? To date, his prowess seemed exclusively in bullying her about, kissing her, and not offering for her. Cranleigh really ought to have learned by now that she would not be bullied by him. But he hadn’t and so he still tried.
It was exhausting, but what could she do about it? She couldn’t stop him and he clearly wouldn’t ruin her outright; he could have done that long ago and if he had, they’d be married by now. Why, just look at how quickly Blakes had ruined Louisa. A single evening’s work and he had snared the woman of his heart. Cranleigh certainly was not cut from quite the same bolt as his brother, which was most odd.
Her thoughts must have shown on her face, giving her a most distracted air, she was sure, for into the stilted silence, the Duke of Calbourne spoke.
“Would you care to dance, Lady Amelia?”
“I’d be delighted,” she answered and, taking his arm, she allowed Calbourne to lead her onto the floor for the next set.
She could feel Cranleigh glowering behind her. That delighted her almost nearly as much as dancing with Calbourne. Perhaps more.
Sixteen
OF course, what else was Penelope to feel but that she’d stumbled and fallen badly in the conversation with the Duke of Calbourne? What was to have been a display of her wit and vivacity had turned somehow into a display of her education and logic. Men hated that sort of thing, positively loathed it. She’d have to do better if she wanted to be a duchess, that was all. Simply have to do better. She was quite confident that looking a bit stupid and gullible was not at all difficult. Logic simply screamed that it should be nearly effortless. All she had to do was keep her mouth closed and her opinions to herself. Time enough after she was a duchess to speak her mind.
The question, and she had not worked this bit out, was how to attract a duke when speaking was not actually encouraged?
She’d love to ask Lord Cranleigh, as he seemed a forward sort who might actually be willing to give her a straight answer on the subject, but as he was busy staring firebolts at Amelia Caversham and the Duke of Calbourne he did not look readily available. Though, by the look of things, it did seem that somehow it should be possible to use the clear animosity between Amelia and Cranleigh to ruin things between Amelia and Calbourne. Penelope did not see at all how this could be done, but she did feel that it ought, and indeed, should be done.
“If you hadn’t given her that shawl, she might have left by now,” Cranleigh muttered. As she was the only one standing near him and as she had been the one to loan a shawl, Penelope presumed he was speaking to her.
“I only loaned her a shawl, Lord Cranleigh,” she said as politely as possible because, after all, Cranleigh had a brother who was going to be a duke and he simply must, for that reason alone, be mollified. How stupid of Amelia Caversham to be so irritating and combative with Cranleigh. No wonder the girl had not managed to marry in two full years, coming up on three. Of course, Penelope hadn’t married either, but she didn’t have a duke for a father. With that sort of advantage, there truly could be no excuse. It really was imperative to get Amelia married off, clearing the field, as it were. “I felt I had little choice, the condition of her gown being what it is.”
“Ruined,” he whispered, staring at the dancers distractedly. At Lady Amelia? Possibly. In hatred? Distrust? Annoyance?
Penelope was far from an expert on men, but it did seem, almost, that Cranleigh watched Lady Amelia with … longing.
Longing?
Oh, dear, that could be made use of, though how she could not quite imagine. Certainly there must be some way to push Cranleigh in Amelia’s direction. Oughtn’t things somehow fall into place from there?
“Yes, it is quite fully ru
ined,” Penelope said, staring at Cranleigh’s profile. He was quite a hard-looking man, not at all the look one associated with nobility, even if he were an earl. Ah, well, men rarely looked as they ought and a woman made do with what was offered. “Did you happen to see how it occurred?”
Cranleigh turned his head slowly to look at her. It was a bit chilling. His eyes were a remarkable shade of blue, very pale, his gaze very steady.
“I believe she got herself tangled up in the roses. In the conservatory. Are they yours?”
Are they yours? Oh, the roses. Cranleigh’s eyes, his icy stare, were enough to freeze the air in her lungs. If Amelia had been studied by those eyes, small wonder she had dashed into a bed of thorns to escape them, or rather him.
“Yes, Lord Cranleigh,” she said, and they were. She had paid for them, hadn’t she?
“You have a knack for flowers.” It was not a question, which was such a relief as she might have been required to lie.
She smiled a reply. Let him draw whatever conclusion seemed logical to him.
“You were in the conservatory?” she asked.
Cranleigh almost smiled. “Briefly. It was quite impressive. Tell me, what is the name of the rose with the deep pink center? ”
Oh, dear.
“You are familiar with horticulture, Lord Cranleigh?” she asked with a charming and innocent lilt.
“No, not particularly. It merely caught my eye.”
Penelope let out a discreet sigh of relief.
“Rosa perpendicillum,” she said. That sounded vaguely Latin and should do the job.
“Rosa perpendicillum?” Cranleigh said, a disturbing twinkle in his eyes. “Interesting.”
“Yes, a very interesting, very rare variety,” she said, “but I shan’t bore you with the particulars.”
“I assure you I am not bored, Miss Prestwick,” he said. No, he did not look bored, but he did look amused. That would not serve her interests at all.
“No, you certainly don’t give anyone the impression of being bored, Lord Cranleigh, but perhaps a bit perplexed? However Lady Amelia tore her dress, you clearly did not expect her to stay.”
Cranleigh’s amused look vanished like mist at the dawn, for which she was entirely relieved.
“I should think I am not alone in that, Miss Prestwick. How often does a woman stay at a ball with a torn gown?”
“How often at a ball does a woman’s gown become torn?” Penelope answered.
“I should think, darling, that would depend wholly upon her partner,” Sophia Dalby said, having come up behind Lord Cranleigh.
Penelope was relieved. Having to manage Lord Cranleigh on her own, particularly where her roses were concerned, was a bit of a stretch. He was a man who required so much work, which was the absolute worst that could be said of a man.
“And if it’s the proper partner,” Sophia continued, smiling at the sight of Amelia dancing with Calbourne, “then she doesn’t mind at all. Don’t you find that so, Lord Cranleigh?”
“Why ask me, Lady Dalby? I am not a woman with a dress to tear,” he said in a most surly fashion. Penelope found it difficult not to take a step away from him, he was so off-putting. Sophia Dalby apparently experienced an entirely different reaction.
“Hardly,” she said with a delicate smile, “but I do think you must admit to having some experience with tears and fine muslin gowns, musn’t you? I shan’t be so bold as to say you have some experience with Lady Amelia, for that would be too forward by half, wouldn’t it?”
“It most certainly would,” Cranleigh snapped. “And you would be entirely off the mark. I am acquainted with Lady Amelia only. As you may have observed, we are not on entirely cordial terms.”
“Not entirely cordial,” Sophia repeated softly, staring up into his formidable face, “yes, I’m sure that’s true, isn’t it? How very awkward that will be if she chooses to marry Iveston.”
“Iveston? She’s dancing now with Calbourne,” Cranleigh said, staring at Amelia and Calbourne as they did their turns like he wanted to throttle one or the other of them, perhaps both.
“Well,” Sophia trilled, “what is that? A woman may dance with one man and marry another. She may even enjoy a quiet respite in a conservatory with yet another. Why not? She is a beautiful woman and beautiful women have a remarkable freedom, do they not? At least I have found it to be so.”
“Are you implying that something untoward happened in the conservatory?” Cranleigh said, his gaze averted nearly reluctantly from Amelia and Calbourne to glower down at Sophia Dalby.
Penelope was delighted in equal parts that Cranleigh was not glowering at her and that Sophia was making all kinds of malicious digs at Amelia’s reputation. What could be lovelier?
“Besides a ruined dress?” Sophia said silkily. “No, not at all. And it’s quite clear that neither Calbourne nor Iveston believe anything at all happened, beyond an unfortunate accident, which must surely leave Lady Amelia innocent of both suspicion and rumor,” and here Sophia glanced at Penelope, and Penelope, to her horror, felt her cheeks flush. “Calbourne has no hesitation in taking Amelia up and neither, darling Cranleigh, will your brother. Look now. The set has ended and she is being nearly swept away by Iveston’s attention. He will claim the honor of partnering her for the next set. And isn’t it lovely of him to do so? There is nothing quite so delicious as a gentleman devoted. Or don’t you agree?”
It was quite obvious by the look on his face that he did not. But Cranleigh said nothing. Penelope said nothing. Sophia, who had said quite enough, said nothing more, at least for the present. What they all did was watch Amelia dance with Iveston.
“CRANLEIGH is watching you, isn’t he?” Iveston asked Amelia as she passed him in the dance. To her left was Anne Warren, dancing with the Duke of Calbourne, which didn’t bother her in the least as Anne Warren was to marry Lord Staverton. Calbourne, as much as he clearly liked to flirt with Anne, was safe. To her right was one of the Earl of Helston’s daughters, which one Amelia wasn’t certain as there were four of them and they each were green-eyed brunettes. And beautiful. And unmarried.
Everyone had come to this ball; it might as well have been held in a public room.
As she, whichever one she was, was dancing prettily with the Marquis of Penrith, Amelia decided that she could and would ignore it. As long as the girl kept her eyes and her intentions off all the dukes in the room, including the Marquis of Iveston, Amelia would continue to smile charmingly and with more delight than she had ever shown at any of these affairs since her come out.
She was going to convince Cranleigh that she was determined to marry a duke. She was quite certain that she was being very convincing. All that was left was for her to make her choice. Iveston was being attentive and Calbourne had been nearly devastating in his charm, and in his insistence that he deserved another interview.
Amelia, to her horror, actually felt slightly sick to her stomach, not at all the reaction she was supposed to be enjoying at this moment of her brilliant success on the marriage mart.
“It is amusing,” Iveston said genially. “I can’t remember when a woman was as sought after as you are, Lady Amelia. It is a situation that should be enjoyed to the fullest.”
“You are very gracious, Lord Iveston,” she said when they passed near each other again. He was so elegantly tall and such a graceful dancer, not at all like Cranleigh, who danced passably but was not nearly as elegant.
“And very, perhaps excessively, polite,” one of the daughters of Helston said. She was very beautiful. She was also very rude.
“An odd sort of compliment,” Anne Warren said as she passed near, Calbourne at her side.
Amelia tugged as delicately as possible at her borrowed shawl. It was a poor substitute for a flawless line of muslin, but it was allowing her to remain at the ball and for that she thought it the most beautiful shawl ever devised, even if it was a rather unattractive shade of red. She did not look her best in red, which was likely why Miss Prestw
ick had decided this was the perfect shawl to lend her. Oh, there was no doubt as to that. It was precisely what she would have done in similar circumstances.
“Can a compliment be odd?” Penrith said as they all passed near each other again.
“Obviously it can,” Amelia said.
She was not going to share this moment with that woman, whatever her name was. She had been married, Amelia was nearly certain of that, but she had lost her husband somehow. Any woman who was careless enough to lose a husband once acquired should not go about making uncalled-for remarks to a woman who gave every appearance of soon becoming a duchess.
“As to being polite, I don’t think anyone has ever accused Cranleigh of it,” Iveston said. “Would you, Lady Amelia?”
Bother it, she didn’t want to talk about Cranleigh now, or in fact, ever. Just hearing his name did horrible things to her composure. She had ten score of images of Cranleigh, memories that had no place and yet she couldn’t expunge them. Not that she’d tried overly hard. She saw him rarely during the Season, perhaps ten or twenty times in all, and that wasn’t very much, was it? Not when he was the only one who even looked at her as if he could actually see her. As if she was a desirable woman. A woman worth wanting. A woman worth taking. Her stomach rolled against her ribs. She ignored it.
“I certainly wouldn’t, but perhaps I would if I knew him better,” Amelia said, trying to appear pleasant.
What if Cranleigh didn’t offer for her? The list was known, both Calbourne and Iveston appeared interested, indeed were insistent upon being interviewed, yet Cranleigh still did nothing. If one discounted pushing her into a bed of thorns, which she did.
She had considered that something like this might happen. She was a logical, forward-thinking girl, after all, a girl who made plans and then threw them away when the first man who looked twice at her kissed her on the mouth. Still, a logical, rational sort of girl and she had considered that Cranleigh might not be brought round to doing the right thing, that is, marrying her, and that she would be required to follow through on the promise of the duke list.
