by Minda Webber
“Of course,” Rae replied, laughing merrily, “my dance card is always full.” She flirted as effortlessly as she danced. And soon Mr. von Hanzen would be dancing attendance on her, his eyes alight with the fires of passion that she so easily invoked in men. She would, of course, have to rebuff his attentions. If only he were at least a baron; then she might swallow her pride and settle for less than royalty. She had to admit she would be the envy of any female under the age of eighty and older than fourteen if she could wed someone as handsome as Mr. von Hanzen. Yet his lack of a title settled it, so with ruthless efficiency, she quelled her interest.
“Yet, you danced with me,” he pointed out.
“I didn’t wish to appear rude. Besides, a clever lady always saves one dance or two.”
“Baron Schortz will be gratified to hear this.”
Rae’s smile faded somewhat. “I’m afraid he’ll be disappointed, for I have no dances left to spare.”
“Fen’s a fine dancer,” Rolpe remarked, though he somewhat questioned his friend’s choice. He found this woman rather shallow, her conversation dull and lackluster. He knew he was handsome; men and women had been riding his coattails—and other things—from the time he was fourteen. He’d lost his virginity in the Black Forest with a woodcutter’s daughter by the name of Red Helga. He could steal a maiden’s heart with a snap of his fingers, seduce her among the sweet fragrant clover with a simple smile.
Rae smiled politely, disinclined to respond.
“A good man, a widower,” Rolpe continued.
Arching her neck and turning a little to the side to display her body to best advantage, Rae imagined his appreciation of her form. Smiling a secret smile, she let him admire her all he wanted and took great pride in his inevitable interest.
Irritated, Rolpe noted the woman’s bland stare as she gazed past him. Her disinterest in his friend left a sour taste in his mouth. He tried one last time: “Fen and his late wife made a wonderful couple on the dance floor.”
Rae was getting tired of all this talk about Baron Schortz. The buffoon should be complimenting her instead. “I’m sure he isn’t as graceful a dancer as you.”
Rolpe raised a questioning brow. “How so?”
She preened a bit before answering, letting him drink his fill of her beauty. “Well, to be honest, big men rarely are graceful. In fact, I can’t tell you the number of times my poor feet have been trod upon by someone designed more for hunting than dancing.”
And just like that, all interest in her was lost, washed away like the dirt after a hard rain. No matter how lovely she was, she was wholly selfish and thoughtless. Rolpe hoped Fen would recognize these traits and steer clear of the English beauty. “How tragic for you.”
“Yes, it is, but one does what one must,” Rae said coyly. “A lady must sometimes dance with persons she’d rather not.”
“A cruel jest of fate, I’m sure.”
“You understand,” Rae said. “When a lady is sought after, she must share her attention among the many, even if she would rather it be among the few. But men so easily get their feelings hurt, and I don’t wish to do that to anyone.” She bowed her head modestly. This was too easy, once again. This poor besotted commoner was falling into her palm like a ripe plum. At least he was a well-to-do commoner, judging from the cut of his clothes and diamond stickpin. The diamond was at least a full carat. He was also notably high in the instep, which to Rae indicated good breeding.
“Well, I’ve heard people say that God has graced me,” she continued. “Therefore, I must make the most of His blessing by appearing at my best at all times. I think I’m rather like a work of art, relieving burdens and easing the heart.” Men were so easily conquered, it was almost not worth the effort trying, Rae thought smugly.
“How noble, to risk your toes for such a good cause,” Rolpe replied, assessing and dismissing her again with his eyes. No matter how lovely she was, she was a useless bit of conceited baggage. Why, she thought so much of her worth that she didn’t even realize he was being sarcastic! Ja, she was so vain, she probably thought this dance was about her.
“You, sir, most assuredly have your wits about you. Most gentlemen do not realize how difficult it is to pick and choose a dance card. I have no wish to break hearts,” she added in a sweet, innocent voice. She knew men found women who thought of others quite sweet, that sympathy was an agreeable trait for a bride. Rae had learned at a young age, from her parents’ marriage, what acrimony could do. Therefore, she well knew to show herself off as a kind, compassionate lady, which would further enflame this commoner’s senses. Which she should not do, but she could not help.
Rae fluttered her eyelashes at him as the dance ended. He would call the next day at her aunt’s house, she was sure, and she would be the envy of all for this extremely attractive man’s interest in her. He would probably send two dozen red roses to her as well. And a sweet card praising her beauty would be enclosed. She looked forward to the look on her aunt’s face upon the discovery that her niece was the belle of the ball.
“How difficult, indeed,” Rolpe agreed. And with those words, he intended to return her to her sister; but another eager dance partner met up with them and led Rae away. As she left, she flashed him that lovely smile, her dimples showing. Ignoring it, Rolpe instead listened to the sound of footsteps behind him.
“I wanted to ask her to dance, but it appears she’s taken,” Fen remarked ruefully, staring hungrily after the younger Miss Grimm. “I should call you out for dancing with her first, Rolpe! I told you I want her.”
“Have at her,” Rolpe replied, giving a shrug as they walked to an alcove near the balcony.
Fen turned to stare at him. “I thought you were interested in Miss Grimm.”
Greta, who had slipped into the alcove to compose herself after her sister’s betrayal, heard the voices and recognized them immediately. She shrank back into the shadows.
“No. Miss Rae Grimm is too rich for my blood,” Rolpe remarked. He stood, legs braced, arms behind his back, and glanced out at the dancing couples on the floor.
Inside the shadows of the curtained alcove, Greta’s heart beat faster. Should she reveal herself and leave the alcove? That would be the polite thing to do; but somehow Greta’s curiosity got the better of her, and she was fiercely glad that she had learned German as a young child from their governess. Her mother had called it a waste of time—and once again had been proven wrong.
Leaning closer to the shut drapes, Greta shamelessly listened to the two men’s conversation, a grin growing on her face. It appeared that the most handsome man she had ever seen had not been taken in by Rae’s charms. Could it mean that she might have a chance? She certainly didn’t mind his lack of a title, as his mere presence sent her heart to pounding. His deep blue eyes, the color of a stormy sky, made her feel as if she were falling into a deep well. How she longed to drown in them.
Fen braced himself against a column on the other side of the alcove. “Too rich? Why, she isn’t rich at all. I spoke to her aunt tonight, and she seemed almost proud to tell me that neither sister has any dowry to speak of.”
“I meant vain, Fen. The female is all conceit and vanity.” Seeing the look on Fen’s face, he quickly continued. “Now, don’t go and howl your head off. She’s a beautiful handful, I’m sure, but too vain for my wants. I want a wife who can talk of more than gowns and jewels. Miss Rae Grimm will want compliments—a daily litany, I do believe. She will run some man a ragged race. Besides, I’m much too young to take a wife.”
Wounded by his friend’s comments, Fen glared at Rolpe in vexation. “You merely danced with her. I ate dinner with her. It’s true she may show some conceit, but what female wouldn’t who looks as she does? And by the by, you aren’t getting any younger. Youth is a wahn in your case.”
“It’s no illusion. And I am not that old. Plenty of time yet to settle down and create little von Hanzens.”
“Hah!”
Rolpe shook his head and s
tared at Fen. His friend had been devastated by the loss of his wife four years ago, but to have Fen fall for a female so shallow was distasteful. His friend deserved better. “What about her sister? She seemed an amiable sort.”
“She’s pleasant, I guess, but she’s not Rae.”
“No, unfortunately she is but a pale imitation. Still…it must be hard, being an aging spinster with a sister like hers. Probably she is a shrew in private. Jealousy will do that to a woman.” Rolpe spoke with the wisdom of long experience. His mother had been like that with his sister, whose beauty had grown to surpass hers. There had been pouting, temper tantrums and an unsettled household all through his formative years. Rolpe still cringed when he remembered.
Inside the alcove, Greta had been jubilant about the conversation up until that moment. But his words quickly brought her back to earth. Aging spinster? Shrew? She would show him just how much his words meant to her. She lifted her hand to part the silky curtains of the alcove, intending to go out and tell this too proud jackass her opinion of him: a few choice words sprang to mind that she had heard the stable master use when one of the horses had stepped upon his foot. But as her fingers touched the crimson drapes, she froze. If she denounced him harshly, then she would prove him right. If she showed her anger and wounded dignity, he would know that he had hurt her. That, she couldn’t bear.
As she heard the two men move away from the curtain, she brushed a tear off her cheek and cursed her weakness. He was clearly an arrogant buffoon who—peeking out through the curtains, she saw—was taking his leave of the ball.
Outside, as Rolpe called for his mount, he shook his head, disgusted with both Fen and the conceited Miss Grimm. Poor Fen: he was in for a momentous hurt.
Back inside the sparkling ballroom, left to himself, Fen anxiously searched for Miss Rae Grimm. Even though Rolpe’s warnings had struck a cord, he couldn’t seem to halt his actions. He needed to be near his lovely vision. Spotting her, he quickly hurried over, asking for a dance.
“I’m sorry, Baron,” she replied, stiffly polite. “My dance card is full.”
As Rae glanced up at the big man beside her, she wished he’d just go away. She had recently met a Prince Gelb, and he had asked for a dance. It was true he was probably at least thirty-five years older than she was, and a bit thin for her tastes, but that was outweighed by other factors of grave importance. Prince Gelb lived in a palace where he had a golden room. Wondrously, everything inside was made of gold or gold gilt. He even had a golden harp! That was most assuredly enough to stir her interest.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said as that very man came to escort her onto the ballroom floor.
Rae danced with the prince, who said he would call on the morrow. Then she danced with other men. Between each partner, Baron Schortz remained persistent, sticking by her side like a lovesick puppy. It wasn’t until Aunt Vivian signaled that it was time to go home that Rae was finally shot of him.
Inside the cloakroom, Rae found that she and her sister were alone, apart from the attendant. As the little maid sought their cloaks, Rae let loose her pique: “That stupid man would not leave me alone! I wanted to scream at him to go away, but fortunately I am a lady of good breeding. But really, Greta, Baron Schortz is so vexing.”
Greta, not in the best of moods herself, snapped back, “Then tell him politely that his interest is not returned, and quit whining. I am sick of hearing it.”
Rae glanced at her sister in surprise; Greta rarely snapped at anybody. Nodding to the maid, who handed over her blue velvet cloak, Rae said with a hint of censure, “Really, Greta, it is most vexing, and I would think I was plain regarding my lack of interest. I didn’t grant the baron one dance, and I quite smoothly eased him into dancing with you when I knew he was about to ask me. I spoke little to him, and replied in a monotone. That should tell him my interest is not engaged, yet he’s still smitten! At times my looks are a curse, you know.”
“Oh, Rae, do grow up,” Greta growled. “What you did tonight was very bad manners. You should never have tricked Baron Schortz into dancing with me. I was embarrassed, and it was not well done. If I were a witch, I would turn you into a worm.”
Rae actually shivered at her sister’s condemnation. Not to mention, she despised worms and all squiggly things that hid in the earth. “Well, at least you got to dance,” she snapped. Greta had no cause to berate her. “And I saved you from dancing with Mister von Hanzen. Just plain mister. It’s too bad he’s not a prince; I would snap him up in a minute.”
“I can manage to find my own dance partners!” Greta cried. Her sister was so self-involved, she didn’t understand anything. Even now Rae had her head in the clouds, where all was silver and gold, and an entire contingent of male angels was spouting odes to her beauty. Perhaps she should relay what Mr. von Hanzen had said about her. Greta was sorely tempted, as her own pride had been lacerated by the man’s rude remarks.
Greta thought hard about putting her sister in her place. A few hard truths and a cold dose of reality would work wonders. Still, Greta knew this was not the time or place; nor did she want to spend the rest of the night listening to her sister’s tears. She remained quiet, remembering Mr. von Hanzen’s cruel words.
Tying the bow of her scarlet cloak, she shook her head, fighting off her annoyance. “No, Mr. von Hanzen is certainly no prince. He’s too rag-mannered for that!” she couldn’t help adding. Then, thinking of the aging roué of a prince Rae had discovered, she shook her head. “But you did meet a prince tonight, didn’t you? Prince Gelb. I found him to be rather sly.”
Rae noticed the expression in her sister’s eyes, and could read it as disgust. It hurt when Greta gave her that look, and she received it much more frequently than she felt she deserved. She knew she was a trifle vain, and she wanted to be more considerate, like her eldest sister. But it was very hard when one looked as she did. She also wanted to be cleverer than Greta every once in a while, since Greta was highly intelligent, and on the odd occasion to converse about something beside herself; but people rarely let her. “Well, he is a prince,” she remarked.
“He’s older than our father. If I were you, I’d think carefully. A baron in hand is worth two princes in decline. Besides, that old prince…I say, the way he looked at you was verily obscene.”
“How so? He merely seemed smitten to me.”
Greta shuddered. “Leering, pure and simple.”
Rae giggled. “There is nothing pure about lechery.”
Greta shook her head, amused. “Touché. But beware that old coot. His mind’s in the bedchamber.”
Rae gasped, then frowned. “Thankfully he’s not the only prince in Prussia. And he is rather stooped. But at least he still has a handsome mien.”
“If you discount his wrinkles and squishy lips.”
Rae glowered at her sister. “I do beg pardon, but he still has a full head of hair. Champagne-colored, it was. And he dressed well. Did you see the Baron Scwills’s jacket? At least four years out of date. How he dared show his face in such a jacket is beyond me.”
“Baron Schortz,” Greta corrected. “And perhaps he is a wise but poor man who spends his money on his estate,” she speculated. “He appeared to be a man of intelligence when I danced with him.”
“Estates! Why would anyone spend their coin there instead of dressing as befits their station? Oh, never mind. Enough about him. I can hardly wait to see Aunt Vivian’s face. I was the toast of the ball tonight. Men were eating out of my hand,” Rae recounted.
“You make them sound like hungry hounds,” Greta grumbled.
Rae glanced at her sister. “Men and hounds have many things in common: they like their dinners on time and adore being petted.” Her voice quieted as they walked outside to meet their aunt, who was busy gossiping with several older ladies while waiting for their carriage.
Inside, a somber-faced figure opened the door to the smoking salon, which was attached to the anteroom where the cloaks were kept. His dark gray eyes
were filled with anger, turning them an even deeper smoky color, and his lips twisted down; his soul was wounded. He had heard the Grimm sisters’ conversation. It appeared that Rolpe had been right after all: Miss Rae Grimm would not do at all for his “great hulking self.” Apparently his looks were dismal, his title unworthy and his fortune in question.
Once the Snowe carriage had left the premises, Fen walked outside, his scowl foreboding and his heart heavy. Miss Rae Grimm might think him stupid, but he was not. And he was certainly not some mongrel, forever to be at her beck and call.
“Why, for that comment alone, Miss Rae Grimm should be turned over on her pretty stomach and her bottom blistered till she can’t sit for a month! Hound dog, indeed!”
Retrieving his massive chestnut mount from the stable, he quickly saddled it. His thoughts were as morose as the night sky was dark. He had touched the light briefly, and for one solitary night he had felt he might just begin to live again. But cruel fate had put him back in his place. Life was hardly a fairy tale when it involved the Grimms.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Grumpy Guardian
