A footman opened the carriage door and lowered the step. Cami was the last to descend. The steady trickle of arriving guests suggested that at least some of London society did not share her reservations about the evening’s entertainment. Or perhaps they were just hoping for another scandal. “What of Lord Penhurst?” she asked.
“Lady Penhurst’s son. He was at school with Stephen,” Felicity explained in a whisper. “Rather wild. I doubt we’ll see him tonight.”
He was standing beside his mother in the receiving line, however, offering up words of greeting tinged with boredom. “Will you be favoring us with a song tonight, Lady Felicity?” he asked, clearly uninterested in the answer. Cami wondered if his future bride had the misfortune to be among the performers.
Before Felicity could speak or shake her head, his mother broke in. She was a thin, sharp-eyed woman with such coarse gray curls Cami hoped they were false. “No need. She’s made her match already, as I heard tell,” she said, with a suggestive lift to her brows. The last scandal did not seem to have dulled Lady Penhurst’s appetite for gossip.
Felicity’s cheeks flushed red. Immediately following Lady Montlake’s ball, her name had begun to be paired publicly with Lord Ash’s, and tongues had begun to wag, much to her chagrin.
“Oh?” Lord Penhurst was already looking past them to the next guests. “And who is the fortunate gentleman?”
“If the rumors are true, she’s expecting an offer from Lord Ashborough,” declared Lady Penhurst in a sham whisper that carried along the receiving line. “Though it’s really not done, I invited him tonight. Strictly on your behalf, you know,” she told Felicity. “He arrived not long ago.”
The name returned Penhurst’s gaze to her face as he paled and offered her a stiff bow. “Indeed he did. I wish you the best of luck, ma’am.”
The doors that usually separated the dining room and receiving room had been opened to create one large space, and all the ordinary furniture had been removed in favor of spindly gilt chairs. In neat rows, they faced a slightly raised dais surrounded by plants and upon which sat a pianoforte, two more chairs, and a harp. As yet, no musicians occupied the stage, but the seats for the audience were filling rapidly, making the empty chairs around Lord Ashborough conspicuous.
He rose and stepped toward them, holding out an arm for Lady Merrick and smiling at Felicity. “Good evening. There are seats just here. Please, join me.”
“Mr. Fox does not accompany you this evening, my lord?” Felicity asked. Cami ached at the hopeful note in her voice.
“His sister, Lady Dalrymple, holds a weekly salon, to which he is promised in perpetuity, I’m afraid.” The words were accompanied by a sweeping glance that settled for the merest moment on Cami before he returned his attention to leading Lady Merrick to a chair.
The flash of heat, of hardness, in his eyes made Cami’s knees wobble beneath her skirts. She reached a self-conscious hand to the silk ribbon that wound its way through her hair and circled her throat. What had felt like cleverness half an hour past now felt decidedly dangerous.
Drawing a steadying breath, she looped her arm through Felicity’s elbow and pushed onward. She must do whatever was necessary to keep her cousin safe. Even if it meant throwing herself onto the fire.
* * * *
My God. Was she taunting him?
Loosely curled locks of black hair hung softly about her face and shoulders; no difficulty picturing them spread across his pillow after a tumble. A token effort to contain the mass of dark waves came in the form of a band of coquelicot silk. A collar of the same bright ribbon encircled her slender neck. His ribbon.
A possessive growl rumbled through him.
His.
The last thing he needed was a woman who inspired those sorts of thoughts. His desires were a furnace best not stoked. Carefully, he arranged the seating so as to put as much distance between him and Camellia as possible, to ward off any further temptation. Felicity to his right, her mother beyond that, Camellia at the end. Entirely out of his range of vision—unless he sat up straighter than was comfortable and leaned slightly backward in his chair to catch a glimpse of her profile. Felicity’s darting frown caught him at it more than once.
To distract himself, he called up the memory of Uncle Finch’s gray-tinged face, wheezing out his taunts. Empty threats, surely. But a timely reminder of the man’s determination to see his useless son inherit the marquessate. Gabriel could put a stop to all of it with a bride of good birth and good breeding. Better still if she was too meek to complain about the unfortunate necessity of marrying a rogue.
Forcing his attention to the program, he assessed the tortures that lay ahead. Four pieces before the interval, four afterward. Would the vocalist or the violinist screech worse? He clapped politely for the young woman who faced the pianoforte as if she had a plank stuffed down the back of her dress. He studied the reflection of the chandelier in the high polish of his boot during an overly ambitious aria, while silently praying its composer might deign to make an appearance—from the beyond if necessary—to prevent Miss Blaise from further tarnishing his good name.
The first rippling notes of the harp were soothing, a welcome change. Beside him, Felicity smiled and shifted, leaning to murmur something to her mother, who nodded approvingly. Without any contortion on his part, their movements opened up his line of sight to Camellia, who sat almost as stiffly as the piano player, the corners of her mouth turned down.
“Do you dislike the harp, Miss Burke?” he asked when they came together between the performances. It would be churlish to ignore her entirely, he excused himself. And likely to draw the notice of others.
“Camellia dislikes anything that smacks of frivolity, Lord Ash,” Lady Merrick asserted before she could answer for herself.
He expected to see disapproval in Camellia’s expression—disapproval either of the performance or her aunt’s charge. But the countess’ words seemed to have caught her off guard, so that her full lips were parted in half shock, half pout. The pose gave the very briefest of glimpses at the woman she hid behind that mask of severity.
Then those mobile lips curved ever so slightly upward at the ends and she said, “I have no objection at all to the harp, my lord. When it is well played.”
It was Lady Felicity’s turn to gasp in surprise. “You do not mean to fault Miss Cunningham’s talent, surely.”
“She plays well enough, I’m sure. Not so well as many I have had the pleasure of hearing. Those who have a sort of native feeling for the instrument, if you will,” she added. “As an Irishwoman, I cannot bear to see harpistry classed among the merely fashionable accomplishments, like painting screens or netting purses.”
“Surely you would not deny us access to your country’s finest exports?” Gabriel prodded devilishly.
“Such as linen?” she suggested, glancing from him to her aunt as she replied. “Or salmon? Or a ridiculous stage brogue at which you may laugh when you choose to while away an hour at the theatre?” Lady Merrick’s complacent nod of agreement became a frown. “Indeed not,” Camellia finished, her defiance cast as reassurance. “I would deny no one anything to which they have earned the right.”
“A patriot, eh?” Gabriel began, but her aunt’s scold cut him short.
“Really, Camellia. A fling at politics? I would expect a niece of the Earl of Merrick to know enough to keep her opinions on such matters to herself.”
“Which is to say, to have no opinions at all,” Camellia countered.
Lady Merrick made no effort to deny the claim, but instead looked toward Gabriel for confirmation. He could see out of the corner of his eye that Lady Felicity, that specimen of ideal English womanhood, had turned away, clearly and properly bored by the direction the conversation had taken.
“I have always considered it remarkably shortsighted to believe that a woman exists to cater to a man’s pleasur
e,” Gabriel said, forcing himself to look only at the countess, “but then to expect she ought to know nothing about what pleases him—what interests him, what occupies him in his daily life.”
“Indeed, my lord, his interests, his desires, should be her daily study,” Lady Merrick said. “But to form an opinion counter to his own on any matter of importance? Surely you would not tolerate—”
“A gentleman who cannot bear to have his opinions countered is not worthy of having them,” he declared. “Surely you would not require a lady to respect beliefs that cannot be defended?”
Before her aunt could reply, Camellia spoke, and he could no longer avoid her eyes. Something in them suggested disappointment—no, not that, but rather confusion, as if she were having to revise some long-held opinion and found the process trying. “What of the lady?” she asked. “Are her beliefs entitled to the same respect?”
“If they are sincerely held and can be rationally defended, then yes. But the passion of a moment, or an unthinking prejudice—”
“National pride, perhaps?” Her chin jutted forward.
“Precisely. One’s emotions must be kept under good regulation,” he insisted, wondering when he had become such an idealist. Or perhaps a fool. After all, it was emotion that had brought him to this pass to begin with. “Certainly, they have no place in the world of politics.”
“Which is why,” Lady Merrick interjected with a note of finality, clearly intending to bring the distasteful subject to a close, “God has ordained politics to be the province of rational men, and not such poor, weak creatures as we women who are too easily swayed by our hearts.”
Camellia’s lips parted again. This time, however, he suspected that the words struggling to force their way past them might cause her to lose her place entirely—or at least cause her to lose the privilege of leaving the house.
So he spoke over her. “Lady Felicity, may I escort you to the refreshment room?”
Although he would have been willing to swear that she had not heard a word that had passed among her cousin, her mother, and him, she responded with alacrity to his offer. “Yes, of course, my lord.”
Lady Merrick sent a triumphant glance in her niece’s direction, as if his attention to Lady Felicity confirmed the countess’ opinion that men preferred empty-headed females.
She could be forgiven for thinking it, he supposed. She was not even entirely wrong. There were such men, certainly.
Unfortunately for Lady Felicity, he was not one of them.
With a polite nod toward the others, he offered Felicity his arm. As her gloved hand slid along his sleeve, he could not help but wonder whether Camellia’s touch would feel similarly cool. He rather suspected it would scorch. Her indignation radiated from her in waves, like heat rising from the baked earth on a late summer day.
Never, never had he wanted so badly to be burned.
“Camellia,” he heard Lady Merrick command after they had walked a few steps away, “fetch me a lemonade.”
Ordinarily, he might have turned back and offered to bring it himself. But as he glanced toward the refreshment room, at the milling crowds awaiting the next performance, another plan began to form in his mind. A dangerous, delectable sort of plan. And he held his tongue.
“Which of the performances did you most enjoy, Lord Ash?” Felicity asked, after a moment’s silence.
“Sadly, I have no judgment in matters of music,” he said, mustering his most charming demeanor. “You must teach me which I ought to have liked best.”
Lady Felicity looked up at him, her blue gaze awash in consternation. It was not that she did not have an opinion, he realized. Any fool could see that she did. But she had been scolded once too often for offering it. He could not help but think that if someone like Christopher Fox, someone safe, had asked the question, she would have been only too eager to speak her mind.
It had been difficult enough to follow through with this marriage scheme when he had thought her dull and dumb. God help him if he were to discover she was more like her cousin than first met the eye.
“I quite liked the harp, actually,” she said at last, “until Cousin Camellia said—”
“Shall I let you in on a little secret?” He tilted his head toward her as if to impart a confidence. “Miss Burke quite liked it as well.”
“Oh, do you think so?” Her face brightened. “I found it wonderful. I would like to have learned, but Papa said the pianoforte was sufficient. And even then, I—I am not very good.” That admission was accompanied by a demure lowering of her gaze.
“Your modesty becomes you,” he said, although he suspected she was not merely being modest. “But I will not permit you to find fault with these perfect fingers,” he murmured, taking them in his and lifting them almost to his mouth as he spoke.
He did not kiss her hand. And, as was proper, she gently withdrew from his grasp and blushed as if he had. “What nonsense you speak, Lord Ash,” she protested.
Ah, God, she was sweet innocence itself, and he was the basest cad in existence for using her for it. But such a revelation would surprise no one.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Camellia waiting at the nearby table. “Yes. I fear I have quite taken leave of my senses,” he said as whatever good intentions he possessed rapidly abandoned him and set to work paving the road to hell—or at least, opening a path to the punch bowl. “In fact, I’m afraid I’ve just remembered a prior engagement. I will have to leave soon, if I am not to be late.”
“Of course, my lord. I would not wish to be the cause of your breaking a promise.”
Those gentle words were almost enough to stay him from his course.
Almost.
But they were accompanied by a slight easing of her posture. Relief. She wanted to escape as much as he did. “You are too generous, my dear.” The endearment fell from his lips with only the slightest hesitation. “May I bring you a glass of champagne before I go?”
She was tempted, he could see. “Mama never permits it.” She paused, considering, and then dutifully shook her head. “Just lemonade, if you please.”
And in another moment, he was looking down at the blue-black twists of Camellia’s hair, imagining what it would be like to untie the ribbon that held it and watch it tumble free to tease her breasts.
He leaned forward under the guise of reaching for a cup—the same cup for which she had reached. His fingers brushed hers—both gloved, this time—and then retreated. “I do beg your pardon, Miss Burke.” Her hand dropped to her side, so he picked up the cup and offered it to her with a bow. “Will you be so kind as to deliver a message to Lady Merrick on my behalf?”
She took the drink from his hand and nodded, but she did not meet his eye.
“I have just remembered another commitment and must take my leave. Please give her ladyship my regards and extend my apologies for this abrupt departure.”
“You ought to speak for yourself, my lord,” she said, straightening her spectacles with her free hand. “Are you quite certain my feeble, female brain is capable of remembering such an important commission?”
He felt a smile tug at his lips. “Quite.” Leaning forward on the pretense of taking a second cup, he spoke again, but this time, his whispered words were for her ears only. “When the music resumes, meet me in the gallery at the rear of the house.” A request he had no business making. In a tone that ought to cause her to take flight, if she truly possessed even an ounce of the good sense he thought she did. As he straightened up, he raised his voice again. “Let me take you to your cousin. You and she can return to Lady Merrick’s side together.”
A high flush of color had spread across Camellia’s cheekbones, and her eyes were focused unseeingly on the cup in her hands. For a moment, he feared he had played the wrong card and lost everything.
But those hands did not tremble. No golden dro
p threatened to overspill the rim of the crystal cup. No, he did not think he had not misjudged her desires entirely.
Long before anyone could notice anything unusual about her behavior, she was herself again, walking toward her cousin with firmness of purpose that would cause a lesser man—or perhaps a better man—to quail.
“Lord Ashborough wishes me to return you to your mama,” she said to Felicity, her voice prim and only slightly higher pitched than usual. “We should go, before the music resumes.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Felicity agreed, separating herself from a cluster of young women, including the unfortunate harpist. “I will wish you a good evening, Lord Ash,” she said as she curtsied. “I hope the rest of it proves enjoyable.”
“You are too kind, ma’am. It would be unforgiveable in me to hope for more pleasure than I have already received,” he said, bowing first to her and then to Camellia. Unforgiveable—nevertheless, more pleasure was precisely what he sought. “Lady Felicity. Miss Burke. Till we meet again.”
Camellia’s curtsy seemed slightly unsteady, and her lips were parted, as they had been earlier, weighing her words. Her tongue peeked out and swiped at their fullness, as though her mouth had suddenly gone dry. Apparently forgetting that the beverage she carried was intended for her aunt, she took a careful sip before finally and simply saying, “My lord.” Then she linked her arm with her cousin’s and walked back to Lady Merrick.
He watched them go from a spot near the entryway. Two young women he did not recognize, obviously sisters, rose and walked to the front of the room. The elder one seated herself at the pianoforte while the other readied her voice. Her preparatory scale ascended in a haphazard fashion that did not bode well for the performance. Still, Gabriel turned to leave with reluctance as other guests began to return to their seats. As he scanned the faces around him for some sign of Lady Penhurst—who, he suspected, would protest his departure; the woman did so love a scandal—his eye caught a movement farther off. A dark-haired woman slipping through one of the doors at the back, probably looking for the ladies’ retiring room. Nothing remarkable in that.
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