“The spinster you brought back from the country has handsome enough features,” Miss Holycroft noted, sipping lemonade at his side as they waited for the next dance to begin.
“Yes, she does command attention, doesn’t she?” he replied, Miss Holycroft’s sour expression alerting him half a second too late that he should have said something to the contrary.
“Mr. Oxland seems particularly smitten with her,” she went on. “I think they suit quite nicely, don’t you?”
“Oxland? Well, he’s a bit old for her, don’t you think?”
“Is he? Oh. I suppose she might be slightly younger than she appears.”
He thought about telling her that Miss Canton was but four-and-twenty and quite full in the prime of her youth, but since twenty-four for an unmarried lady was considered aged in society terms, he refrained. Miss Holycroft was not one to play nice when other females were getting attentions that she thought ought to be hers, even if that included attentions from gout-ridden politicians like Mr. Oxland. Instead he complimented her gown.
“But you appear quite fine tonight, too, Miss Holycroft. This gown that you’re wearing, Parisian in design, I should guess.”
“But of course. This is the one I was telling you about, the one the modiste had to do over several times because Mamma said it did not show off my milky complexion just right. We had her redo the trimming time and time again. Do you know she expected us to pay for that, saying we wasted a good bit of lace? Well, Mamma refused, and rightly so. The nerve of that incompetent seamstress!”
Oh, God. He’d brought up that topic again. Now she was off and running, prattling on about fabrics and patterns and what hues did the most to accentuate her classical features. By Jupiter, what he wouldn’t give to leave this conversation and be in another.
For instance, what was Miss Canton discussing so cheerfully with Lord Archer? He watched them from across the ballroom. Her cheeks were charmingly pink, her lips curled in a most fetching smile, her eyes shone with intelligence and interest, and her chest rose and fell against the near-sheer fabric of her elegant gown. He wondered if Archer was following the conversation, or if he—like Woodleigh—was merely entranced by the speaker.
She flicked open her fan and flashed it, then trilled with bubbling laughter that carried even to this distance. She was flirting with Archer! And he, of course, was eating it up. Why, the man laid his hand on Miss Canton’s fair arm, above the glove line. He was touching her skin! And she allowed it.
Well, Woodleigh could not stand for this. He’d brought the girl here to find her a husband, not provide her with playthings. Everyone knew Archer was a bounder. Hell, he was one of Woodleigh’s best friends. He knew only too well the games that one would play. Most usually, he’d be right there playing along with him, competing in the chase.
But not now. He had propriety to think of right now. Whatever was going on between those two, he’d best stop it posthaste. If Miss Holycroft would pause in her diatribe on the various schools of thought regarding flounces and lace, he’d make his excuse and go over there, separating those two before things got out of hand.
The next set started up, though, and Archer whisked Miss Canton out onto the dance floor. It appeared this was a waltz, no less. Woodleigh seethed as Archer put his hand against the young woman’s waist and pulled her entirely too close. He’d best move quickly if he hoped to stop them.
“Come, my dear. We should dance now.”
Miss Holycroft was startled, barely having time to hand her lemonade to a passing servant, when he grabbed her by the hand and pulled her onto the dance floor. He held her very properly as the music swelled into a rousing tune, and they were swept up into the swirling crowd. He scanned the room, glaring when his gaze landed on Miss Canton and her randy partner. She seemed to be enjoying herself entirely too much.
Woodleigh knew Archer was enjoying himself, and he was about to go put an end to it. Deftly he maneuvered Miss Holycroft toward them. She voiced some dismay at his unorthodox dancing style, but he had no trouble ignoring her. Apparently that would be a skill he’d have to develop if he were to endure a lifelong marriage to her.
“Why do you shudder?” she asked. “And do keep pace with the music, Woodleigh. I won’t have my train torn by your bumbling footwork.”
“Forgive me, my dear. I’ll pay more attention,” he said, craning his neck to see Archer’s hand slide three inches too low on Miss Canton’s succulent backside.
He’d pummel the scoundrel.
The waltz continued, and Woodleigh trailed them around the dance floor. He caught Archer’s eye at one point and shot the man a warning glare that would have demoralized a lesser man, but Archer merely grinned back. Damn him.
On the next go around he caught Miss Canton’s eye and gave her a similar glare. She merely smiled at him as if thanking him for introducing her to the man of her dreams. Woodleigh swore. And he may or may not have trod upon Miss Holycroft’s toe.
At last the infernal dance ended. He did not lose sight of his amorous quarry, though, as they filtered through the crowd, hunting, no doubt, for a quiet place to conduct questionable activity. He looked for the quickest way to cut them off from escaping the room.
“Isn’t the waltz wonderful?” Miss Holycroft was saying. “It gives me permission to allow you to lay your hand on my side. Just think what you’ll be allowed to do once we are officially engaged.”
“Yes, yes…won’t that be lovely. Come, I see my friend Archer.”
He grabbed her elbow and nearly dragged her along with him. There was no time to lose. If Archer had half a brain—and Woodleigh knew that he did—he’d be inviting the flushed, smiling Miss Canton out into the garden right now. There was no telling what shameful things they could get up to out there! And with the girl’s proclivity for unbridled passion…well, he knew he’d better move quickly.
Miss Holycroft complained as they pushed their way through the crush until finally they made it closer to his friend. Archer still had his hand on the girl, he noticed. And she was still smiling.
“Ho, there, Woodleigh,” Archer said as they approached. “It appears you are towing something behind you.”
Woodleigh realized that he was, in fact, dragging Miss Holycroft, so he paused to give her a moment to catch up. She was not smiling.
“Good evening, Archer,” he said. “You seem to be having a good time.”
“Indeed I am. Your friend Miss Canton is a most excellent partner.”
“So it would appear,” Woodleigh said with a scowl.
“She’s delightfully, er, innovative in her dancing,” Archer said.
She flushed an adorable pink. “We didn’t dance much out in Beldington. Lady Woodleigh has been most gracious to bring me a tutor, but I fear I’m just making things up as I go along.”
“Well, however you do it, I like what you do,” Archer said, bowing over her hand as if he had claim to it.
The man was a cad, fawning this way in front of everyone. Woodleigh cleared his throat.
“I’m sure after the waltz we could all do with a rest.”
Miss Holycroft piped up. “I’m not winded at all. But of course, we must think of Miss Canton. At her age, exertion can be difficult, so I’m told.”
Miss Canton acted surprised to suddenly notice the other female. “Oh, Miss Holycroft, are you here? I hadn’t seen you under that gown.”
Woodleigh threw himself into the breach. “Very well then, ladies. Now that we’ve all acknowledged one another, perhaps we should adjourn to another room? We could attend cards, with my mother and her friends.”
“Miss Canton had promised me the next dance,” Archer announced. “In the meanwhile, I was just going to get her refreshment.”
“Ah, that’s a capital idea,” Woodleigh said. “Refreshment. Miss Holycroft, would you like something? More lemonade, perhaps?”
“Well, I had planned to dance more, and—”
“Excellent. You need lemonade. Archer, than
k you, my friend. How kind of you to offer. I’ll keep the ladies company while you go. Away. To fetch some.”
Archer looked confused and muttered under his breath as he wandered off in search of lemonade. Or to leap over a cliff. Woodleigh really didn’t care which.
“So…a lovely ball Mrs. Fitzmonger has put on, isn’t it?” Miss Canton said when it appeared no one else had anything to say.
“It’s passable,” Miss Holycroft said. “I suppose in Bamford you hardly have much to compare.”
“Beldington,” Miss Canton corrected, enunciating carefully. “But I understand; that’s a long and difficult word to remember.”
Miss Holycroft shrugged. “Fortunately I have no reason to remember it at all.”
“How lucky that you are so pretty, Miss Holycroft.”
“Why thank you, Miss Canton. I suppose in Bubbleton you don’t have much to compare to that, either.”
“Oh, we have plenty to compare,” Miss Canton said, her smile even brighter than before. “My father’s grooms shovel it every day.”
How fortunate that Miss Holycroft had never set foot in a stable and had no idea what Miss Canton could mean. Woodleigh thought it best to distract them.
“Perhaps we should sit down somewhere?” he offered.
“But I want to dance,” Miss Holycroft whined.
He found himself shuddering again but was saved by an uninformed puppy who apparently didn’t realize Miss Holycroft was about to be engaged. He moved into their circle and greeted her nervously.
“H-hello, Miss H-Holycroft. It’s l-lovely to see you.”
“Ah, Mr. Fish-Finglet. How pleasant.”
Woodleigh wondered how something called Fish-Finglet could in any way be pleasant, but he forced himself to maintain composure and bow politely as the young man was presented to him. He did keep a close eye on any hint that the stammering Fish-Finglet might be about to launch himself at Miss Canton, though it appeared no remedial action on Woodleigh’s part would be required. Apparently the other young lady was Fish-Finglet’s target tonight. An abrupt invitation for her to join him to dance came tumbling from the man’s trembling lips.
To everyone’s surprise, Miss Holycroft smilingly agreed. She gave Woodleigh a look that said clearly he ought to be jealous, and she trotted off, clutching Fish-Finglet’s scrawny arm. Woodleigh wasn’t sure what he felt about that, but it sure as hell wasn’t jealousy.
“Tell me again, sir, when is the wedding?” Miss Canton asked when they were alone.
Another shudder. “June. The end of June. Or perhaps July.”
“I see. Have you started to drink yet? I expect you’ll take to it quite soon.”
“Miss Holycroft is the daughter of one of the wealthiest gentlemen in London and our families have sought this connection for years,” he said firmly. “Our union is one of good sense and excellent breeding.”
“I suppose if you say so,” his companion said with a dubious sigh. “But I’ve not seen one bit of good breeding in that filly, and you know what they say about that.”
“You tend to your business, Miss Canton, and I’ll tend to yours. Er, mine.”
She was laughing at him. Hellfire, he should not feel as if squirrels were running amuck in his insides simply at the sound of the woman’s laughter! But along with her laughter there was her hair, and her lips, and those generous, round bosoms…Indeed, the squirrels were having quite the field day inside.
He would not let her see any of it, however. He would remain cool, detached, and uninterested. If only he could fool himself.
“I certainly wish you the best with your fiancée, sir,” she went on, still chuckling under her breath. “I can’t think of a more perfect mate for you.”
“And what of you, Miss Canton? Are you any closer to your matrimonial goals? You seem to be having quite a high time since you’ve arrived here.”
“Oddly enough, I have been enjoying myself, thank you. London has proven to exceed my expectations and your mother is truly lovely.”
He tried to sort through her words to find the insult he was sure must have been there, but he could find none. Judging by her smile and her bright, glistening eyes, he could only deduce she was earnest. His mother had been playing the most attentive hostess, and the ton had welcomed Miss Canton with wide-open arms. Except for his intended bride, of course, but he hoped Miss Canton had not taken that personally. Alexandra Holycroft treated everyone badly. Rival females especially.
Still, she’d not entirely answered his question.
“But what of your prospects? You seem to have plenty of beaux, but will any come up to scratch?”
She evaded his gaze, yet she answered quite smugly. “Your friend Lord Archer is especially dutiful. He has indicated he feels himself in much the same position as you.”
“What, eager to find you a husband who is not me?”
“No, increasing in years and expected to find a wife while he is yet young enough to do so. Gentlemen of title carry a certain burden for that, as I understand. To keep the line going, apparently.”
“Yes, we are rather drilled on that in our formative years.”
“Just as you are settling down, he suspects it is time for him to do the same.”
“So you assume he will settle on you.”
“I assume nothing, sir. I can, however, infer from his actions.”
“His actions? What the devil has he done to you?”
“He’s given indication of his interest, of course. Oh, look. Your mother is waving toward us. And who does she have with her?”
Woodleigh squinted to see clearly across the large room, though he suspected the girl was simply altering the topic to distract him. What the devil had Archer done to her? And how the hell had he managed to do it while Woodleigh was keeping close watch over the girl? So help him, when that plundering bastard returned with their lemonade, Woodleigh ought to…But his gaze fell on his mother. Yes, she had emerged from the card room, and there was someone with her, but who…oh hell.
“I don’t recognize that young man,” Miss Canton was saying.
“No. You wouldn’t.”
“You know him?”
“I do.”
“Well, it looks like your mother wants us to join them. Will you introduce me?”
“Absolutely not.”
“No? But who is he?”
“One of my brothers.”
And exactly the type of person Miss Canton did not need to meet. His brothers were not nearly as upstanding and temperate as he. Damn, but Miss Canton would gobble them up! If Woodleigh was to get the chit married off before she dragged them all into further scandal, the last thing he needed was his lusty younger brother sniffing after her. And she seemed to be sniffing back!
Pru tried desperately to stifle her yawn. She’d still not gotten used to these Town hours. Balls, it seemed, ran interminably late. Not that she hadn’t been having a lovely time, but it seemed the evening had dragged on and on. How many more young men must she smile at and listen to as they pored over her features, drooled on her hand, and played fool just for a morsel of her attention? Did they not realize so much effort was hardly needed? She was a captive audience, of course.
Papa’s last letter indicated he’d not been entirely honest with her. Their stables—their lifeblood—were failing. If she did not marry, there’d be nothing left for them. He only told her these things, apparently, since she’d not been entirely honest with him and had indicated in her first week’s worth of letters that she loved London and was finding the gentlemen charming and sweet.
It had been her intention to let him believe she was doing her part, then simply wait out the Season. He’d see no damage had been done to her reputation—or any other part of her—and she’d go back home, releasing Woodleigh of his duty so they could all get on with their lives. End of distasteful story.
Papa’s letter, however, had changed all that. He’d admitted how desperate he was for this gambit to work, to see her securel
y wed to a gentleman of means, to believe she was settled and happy. It broke her heart to think she might disappoint him.
It broke her heart more, however, to think she’d have to end up married to one of these trousered ninnies. Were there any that she could tolerate seeing at breakfast on a semi-regular basis? Not so far.
Mr. Delmer was ancient, Mr. Clingly was cross-eyed, and on more than one occasion she’d found Sir Dick picking his nose. Of course they weren’t all that bad. Woodleigh’s brother was dashing and clever—he took after his brother, it seemed—and Lord Archer was attractive and had something of a brain. He seemed to know how to handle himself, too. Of course, he seemed to know how to handle a lady as well, which made her think whomever he married would likely not get a lot of sleep. And try as she might, she just couldn’t imagine spending her nights with Lord Archer.
After all, he was no Woodleigh.
Drat, but she’d have to stop thinking like that! Woodleigh had been kind and attentive to her these two weeks simply because it was his duty. Why did her foolish insides keep dancing around as if it were something more? She’d met Miss Holycroft, seen for herself what Woodleigh wanted for a wife. She could never be that, not even for him.
Whatever had happened to her? What worm had crawled into her brain to leave her so fixated on Woodleigh? She simply had to find a way to get out of there. The sooner she convinced herself of his total unsuitability, complete lack of finer qualities and couth, the better she’d be. She’d been dancing with every gentleman who asked her, trying desperately to make distracting conversation and find something redeeming in each of them, but so far very few even came close. Her mind would not leave Woodleigh.
It didn’t help that he was always hovering near. He was making sure she kept up her end of the bargain and was hunting a husband, no doubt. As if Papa could ever truly make trouble for him, not with the real state of things. If only she’d known two weeks ago, she’d never have given in to this scheme!
Then again, if she didn’t go through with things now, their horses would have to be sold, and Papa would be out on the street. Not a good place for a man with withered legs. Or for her either, for that matter. She took a deep breath and smiled at her partner.
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