“Where is dear Eleanor?” Lady Shapster glanced about, as if anxious to see her stepdaughter, when Eleanor knew very well nothing could be further from the truth. “Do tell me she returned from the Continent with you. It would be dreadful if she had somehow…perished.”
Dreadful? No, for Lady Shapster, Eleanor’s demise would be a grand relief. Eleanor had never been more than an annoyance to be squashed into submission.
“Eleanor returned in good health. She didn’t come to London, though. She’ll be”—Eleanor almost choked on the words—“sorry to have missed you.”
“The dear girl. Awkward, of course, and remarkably unhandsome. She resembles you not at all, Your Grace.” Lady Shapster simpered like a girl. “But her father and I are fond of her. We’ve quite missed her.”
A large, warm hand landed on Eleanor’s bare shoulder.
Mr. Knight. The press of his fingers should have felt like a goaler’s, come to take her to Newgate.
Instead, for some reason, it felt like comfort.
“Introduce me,” he commanded, and his voice held a rough edge. “I would know who this lovely lady is.”
Did he find Lady Shapster attractive? So many men did. They never noticed the chill with which Lady Shapster watched them and weighed their value. Certainly Lord Shapster had never noticed, but then, he cared only for his own comfort, and Lady Shapster made sure he had that.
Reluctantly, Eleanor said, “Lady Shapster, this is my fiancé, Mr. Remington Knight.” Then, silently, she cursed herself. Why had she laid claim to him? It was as if she were marking him as her own, when in fact nothing was further from the truth. She didn’t want him. More important, Madeline didn’t want him. He was betrothed to Madeline. Why did Eleanor keep forgetting?
“Mr…. Knight.” Lady Shapster purred his name as she extended her hand to be kissed. “How good to know you’ll soon be one of the family.”
Why? Eleanor wanted to ask. Why would Lady Shapster want him in the family? She lived and breathed her social position. She was willing to claw and fight her way upward through the ton. Why would she welcome a commoner when so many of the aristocracy would consider the match a contamination?
Then Mr. Knight took her gloved fingers and bowed over them, and Eleanor knew why. Because he was handsome, and more than that, he had about him that indefinable air that told a woman he knew how to satisfy her.
And Lady Shapster loved to be worshipped, to provoke that kind of fawning attention that fed her conceit so nicely.
Eleanor wanted to tear them apart and stand between them with claws bared.
Releasing Lady Shapster, Mr. Knight stepped back. “How charming to meet a member of my betrothed’s family.” Taking Eleanor’s hand, he kissed it with that kind of concentrated attention that flattered—and made her nervous. Smiling down into her face, he said, more to her than to Lady Shapster, “I hope to meet Lord Shapster, and all of the de Lacy family, soon.”
Lady Shapster’s darkened eyelashes fluttered, and she spoke only to him. “And I look forward to seeing you at another, more private time.”
Eleanor flinched, feeling as if she’d been slapped.
“Bold as brass,” Eleanor heard Lady Codell-Fitch murmur.
Lord Stradling harumphed. “Shameless!”
Ah, yes. For all that Lady Shapster had been born an aristocrat and was an acknowledged beauty, few liked her and more than a few scorned her.
Lady Shapster heard the comments and stiffened, her bared, smooth shoulders so straight and pale they looked as if they might break under the strain. Indignant, she looked toward Eleanor—and her eyes narrowed. “Your…Grace?” She searched Eleanor’s face, as if seeing her for the first time. “You’ve…changed.”
Oh, dear. Oh, no. The moment had arrived. Lady Shapster had recognized her. At last she’d looked past the handsome clothing and stylish hair.
Eleanor forgot about bravery. She forgot Madeline’s advice. And she cowered.
Yet Mr. Knight was still there, still held her hand and stood too close. In a voice so quiet it should never have reached the edges of the throng, but somehow did, he said, “Her Grace is happy to greet you all, but one at a time. She needs air—and I can no longer wait to claim a dance with her.”
The sigh of approval from the ladies almost knocked Eleanor off her feet.
But Lady Shapster didn’t sigh. She was still staring at Eleanor, searching her face, seeking confirmation….
Gladly Eleanor turned into his arms. “Yes, let us dance.”
The dance floor was small, crowded, and far away, and, taking her arm, he guided her away from the crowd of her admirers. When he’d put distance between them, he said, “You don’t like that woman.”
Eleanor struggled to be polite. “I find her less than pleasant.”
“You don’t like her,” he repeated.
Eleanor couldn’t say that. She’d been taught to be nice at all times. “Lady Shapster can be tactless, and occasionally she hurts people’s feelings with her insensitivity.”
“You don’t like her,” he insisted.
“All right! I don’t like her.” Eleanor held her breath and waited for lightning to strike.
Nothing happened. No one even noticed her admission. No one except Mr. Knight, and he had driven her to that grievous offense. “But I don’t want you to think badly of her because of my disaffection.”
“Why not?” he asked impatiently. “You’re going to be my wife. Who else would I listen to?”
His blind faith took her breath away. Especially when the skin between her shoulder blades twitched, and she knew Lady Shapster was staring at her through narrowed eyes. Before the night was out, that woman would ruin Eleanor’s life—again.
They reached the dance floor and paused, waiting for the next set to form. “She’s your aunt,” he said.
“My uncle’s second wife, Eleanor’s stepmother.” And how Madeline had hated even that distant relationship!
Looking back on the encounter with Lady Shapster, Eleanor realized she should have done as Madeline would, and been harsh in her handling of that monster. Then Lady Shapster wouldn’t now be circling the dance floor, peering over shoulders, trying to get another look at Eleanor.
“She’s cold as ice,” he said.
His acumen surprised Eleanor.
“Am I wrong?”
“No, you’re right”—amazing how it got easier to be impolite once one had taken the initial step—“but most men see only her beauty.”
“Beauty’s more than a hank of blond hair and a nice pair of—” He caught himself.
Eleanor looked inquiringly into his eyes.
He smiled, a frankly amused smile. “You act like an innocent. Didn’t that fiancé of yours ever teach you anything?”
Madeline’s fiancé had taught Madeline more than Eleanor wanted to imagine. Primming her lips, she said, “I don’t know what you mean.”
Mr. Knight searched her face. “Maybe you don’t. How interesting. When I met Campion, I would have sworn red blood flowed in his veins.” The music stopped. The couples left the dance floor. Taking her hand—an English gentleman would have allowed her to place her hand on his—he led her into the forming set. He asked, “What did Lady Shapster do to make you despise her so much?”
In a voice pitched to reach only his ears, Eleanor said, “She tried to force Eleanor to wed.”
He didn’t seem surprised. The music started. They separated, circled, then returned to each other. “Eleanor didn’t like the choice?” He, too, kept his voice low.
“Eleanor was sixteen. Mr. Harniman was seventy. A quite disgusting, lecherous seventy, with that old man odor and those old man sores.” Eleanor’s stomach roiled as she remembered, and bitterly she added, “But he was wealthy, with one foot in the grave and the other on a patch of ice. That dowry would have been a fine addition to the family coffers.”
The dance separated them again, and Eleanor glanced toward the crowd around the floor. A great many pe
ople watched her and Mr. Knight; they were obviously the subject of much speculation.
They came together for long measures of music. “You’re loyal to your cousin,” Mr. Knight said.
“Yes.” Madeline had saved Eleanor from the match, and Eleanor had never forgotten. “Eleanor, who I swear is the most timid of women, sent me a plea through the housekeeper, and I came posthaste. I took her away, and she’s never returned to her father’s home.”
He located Lady Shapster with his gaze, then looked back at Madeline. “How did that woman try to force your poor cousin?”
“She used that voice of hers, and Eleanor…Eleanor cringed.” She cringed now in remembrance. How very much she’d hated those scenes when it had seemed hell’s fire was raining down on her head. Only the memory of Mr. Harniman’s groping hands had kept her from giving in. “Then, when that didn’t work, she locked Eleanor in her room and fed her bread and water. Finally, when the duchess rescued Eleanor, Eleanor was disowned.”
Eleanor had had no home. She’d had nothing except what Madeline had given her, and although Madeline had tried always to make Eleanor feel as if she was earning her way, Eleanor had known very well what she’d owed Madeline. That was why she’d agreed to come on this mad errand. And never had it seemed more insane than now, with her stepmother speaking to Horatia and gesturing in accusation.
“Why does Lady Shapster presume on her relationship to you? She must hate you.”
“She despises everyone, but she longs to take her proper place in society,” Eleanor enunciated, making it clear she was quoting Lady Shapster. “She didn’t understand the relationship between us cousins when she tried to force Eleanor’s hand, and now she regrets her actions, for she would trade on her relationship to the duke of Magnus and make much of the fact her husband is the duke’s younger brother.”
“When we’re married, we’ll make a place for your cousin in the household. Never fear, dear duchess. I will love her as you do.”
Eleanor flushed. Mr. Knight had a way of saying the right thing and lighting a glow in her heart. He would hate her when he found out the truth. But she wouldn’t let that dismal prospect ruin tonight. Tonight he belonged to her. As she moved with him, he filled her vision, soaked into her pores. Occasionally she would catch a whiff of his essence, like bracing cold air, spicy cinnamon bark…clean white sheets.
While around him, she must not think of things like pleasure and beds. It might lead to…pleasure and beds.
But of course that was impossible, for across the ballroom, Lady Shapster finished her speech to Horatia and pointed an accusing finger toward the dance floor.
The moment Eleanor had dreaded all evening long had arrived at last.
To her amazement, Horatia flung back her head and brayed with laughter. One of her friends leaned close and asked a question, and when Horatia spoke, her friend looked between Lady Shapster and Eleanor, and laughed, too. One by one, people heard. And they sniggered, staring at Lady Shapster as if she were a fool.
Lady Shapster had given voice to her suspicions and incited the mockery of the ton.
The rouge on Lady Shapster’s cheeks burned like red coals as she tossed her head and swept away, and Eleanor was trapped between a sense of triumph, for she had won, and a fear of the future, for Lady Shapster never forgot, and never forgave. Someday, somehow, she would have her revenge.
But perhaps, tonight, Eleanor should do as Madeline would do—and live for the moment. Tonight, she would abandon her fears and behave as any young lady would who danced her first dance at her first ball with the most handsome man in the room.
Catching a glimpse of the dancers in one of the mirrors, she admired one young lady who moved with grace, who dressed with flare and whose hair looked dashing and sophisticated. As Eleanor watched, the lady imitated Eleanor’s movements. She wore Eleanor’s clothing. And Eleanor realized…the dashing female was herself.
She was the one who danced like a dream. Her haircut had transformed her face. She appeared younger, joyful, strikingly modish. She looked less like Madeline and more like…like Eleanor might have looked if her stepmother had never made her appearance in Eleanor’s life.
Eleanor laughed at herself. Foolish to think a simple cut could change her, but spying herself unaware made her realize that looks were deceiving. No matter how frightened she felt inside, no one could see past the fashionable facade.
No one except Mr. Knight. He took her hand for the promenade and looked into her eyes. He had a way of dancing that was almost like…making love. With him, she felt like the finest dancer in the world. They moved together, and when the music ended, she couldn’t restrain her smile.
She was happy. Tonight, for this moment, she was happy.
From the top of the stairs, the majordomo smacked his cane on the floor and shouted, “His Royal Highness, George, the Prince of Wales.”
The ballroom turned to see a large figure of a man poised above them, smiling graciously. His light brown hair waved across his forehead, his belly rolled before him as he descended the stairs. He’d been handsome in his youth; now in his forties, he was not so handsome, but he loved a party, and it showed as he called out names in recognition. As he made his way across the floor, the men bowed and the ladies curtsied. Eleanor did the same, and as she rose, she realized he had stopped directly in front of her.
With a beaming smile, he pinched her cheek. “Lady Sherbourne—or should I call you the duchess of Magnus.” He chuckled, so she did, too. “So good to see that you’ve returned to our shores after so extended an absence. We have heartily missed you!”
She was bewildered. He had paid Madeline little heed during her debut. Indeed, Eleanor had thought him a bit afraid of her frank and vivacious cousin. So why was he singling her out now? “Thank you, Your Highness. I’m pleased to be home.”
“You must come to Carleton House and pay me a visit.” He turned to Mr. Knight. “And bring your American gentleman! He is a pleasure to know. A pleasure to game with.”
Mr. Knight bowed. “Your Highness is too good. We look for your presence at our ball two nights hence.”
“You shall have it. Indeed, you shall!” Prince George beamed. Lady Picard caught his eye, and he swerved toward her. “Capital party, as usual, my lady!”
As the crowd’s interest moved on, Eleanor turned to Mr. Knight. “What was that all about?”
“He owes me money.” Mr. Knight smiled with chilly satisfaction. “So I believe, my dear, our union has received the royal blessing.”
Chapter 12
At three o’clock in the morning, Eleanor sat on a sofa near the back of the Picards’ ballroom and fluttered her fan to create a breeze. It had grown hot, and she was very tired. What with worrying about Mr. Knight and his nocturnal intentions, she hadn’t slept well the night before, and the day had been spent in apprehension and anguish. Now her first public appearance as the future duchess was almost over, everything had gone well, better than well, and she was almost faint with relief and exhaustion. Soon she would ask Mr. Knight to take her home…but such a request held dangers, too. Mr. Knight could misinterpret it, and the consequences would be dire.
She watched his upright figure as he strode toward the refreshment table to fetch her a lemonade.
He was such a harsh man, trusting no one and nothing. She had no doubt that he had ruthlessly arranged for the prince to recognize them and give them his blessing. He had imagined that made their relationship inviolate in the eyes of the ton; but more important, the prince’s acknowledgment had made Lady Shapster’s suspicions look even more like the ravings of a madwoman. Lady Shapster had retreated to her home as soon as the prince had left. For tonight, at least, Eleanor was safe from her.
But not from Mr. Knight. He was unwavering in his pursuit of his goal, and Eleanor pitied the woman he eventually would marry. Pitied her…and envied her.
From behind her, a deep, creaking voice said, “They tell me you’re to be the new duchess of Magnus.”
Turning in her chair, she saw an old man standing there, leaning on an ivory cane. Like so many of the elderly, he wore the clothes of his youth: a white-powdered wig, high-heeled, buckled shoes, moss green satin breeches and a lace-edged silver satin vest with stiffened skirts. He was tall, very tall, and thin, so thin his silk stockings hung loosely on his legs. “If I could be so bold.” He bowed, low and graceful, like a courtier of old. “I’m Lord Fanthorpe.”
In the far reaches of her mind, memory stirred. She knew the name, although why she didn’t know. She only knew it wasn’t a pleasant memory, like biting into an apple and finding a worm.
But Lord Fanthorpe was an elder, and trembling a little from standing, so she gestured to the seat beside her. “My lord, how good to meet you. Won’t you take a seat?”
Taking her hand, he lifted it to his lips and looked down into her eyes. His narrow face looked like a gravestone, hard and angular, with a thin nose that drooped at the end. He wore pale powder and rouge on his cheeks, and a velvet heart-shaped beauty mark had been affixed above his upper lip. His rheumy eyes were kindly. “I had to come over and tell you how much I admire your pretty fan.”
“Thank you.” She opened it wider to show him the scene etched in needlepoint upon the spokes. “I worked it myself.”
His voice was faraway and reminiscent. “Yes, you are very like her. Very like her indeed.”
She recoiled. “Her?” Madeline?
“Lady Pricilla. She also was very talented with her needle.”
“Ohh.” Now Eleanor remembered where she had heard of Lord Fanthorpe. It was in conjunction with an old family tragedy. Lady Pricilla had been her aunt, her father’s sister, and Lady Pricilla had been murdered in a heinous crime.
Using his cane and the arm of the sofa, Lord Fanthorpe inched himself down beside her. “You’re aware of me. I wondered. It was so long ago. It’s hard to believe more than forty years have passed. Yes, I was Lady Pricilla’s betrothed.” His old voice quavered yet more, and his black-rimmed eyes filled with tears. “The man she left brokenhearted with her passing.”
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