He plucked a dangling leaf from an overhead branch. “Shall I make myself a crown of oak leaves?”
“Dionysus?”
“Some woodland god.”
“Dancing naked through the trees. Yes, please do.”
His mouth curved. “Do you like dancing?”
She put her chin on her hand and recalled the days before she’d married, when she adored parties and being admired. “When I was young, yes.”
“As if you’re not young now.”
“We are none of us as young as we once were.”
He turned his torso toward her. The oak leaf fluttered to the ground. “That, Mrs. Wilcott, is not an answer. I did not ask if you liked dancing in the past. I asked if you like dancing now.”
“I suppose I do.”
“You danced in London.”
“It was expected of me.”
“Did you not enjoy yourself?”
“We grow out of our youthful pleasures.”
“All young ladies like to dance. You, madam, are still in your youth.” He waved a hand. “Therefore, you like to dance.”
She gave him a sideways glance. “What other opinions will you declare for me? I shall make a list of them so as to have them constantly at hand.”
“Several, as a matter of fact.” He drained the last of her orangeade.
“Do go on. I should like to know what I am to think.”
He pushed her empty glass around the table, from one hand then to his other. “You have an opinion on poetry.”
“Pray tell me what it is.”
“That it is sublime.”
“Are you certain of that?”
“Yes, madam.”
“All poets or had you specific ones in mind? You named once, but I’ve forgotten.”
“Milton.” He held her gaze. “You feel Wordsworth shows promise.”
“If you say that’s so, then it must be.”
He leaned his forearms on the table. “Indeed.”
A leaf floated from the tree and landed on his hat, then tumbled to the brim where it balanced. She reached for the leaf and tucked it into the silk band. “There. You are a proper god, now.”
“And you a goddess?”
“No, sir.”
“A nymph, then, as naked as the pursuing woodland gods.”
“No nymph would run from a god such as you.”
Again, he touched her, the side of his finger across her cheek, and her breath hitched at the contact, for no good reason that she could understand. He meant nothing by it, and she took nothing from it. “No?”
CHAPTER 21
A hush fell like snow across a field when Mrs. Wilcott walked into the Glynn’s parlor. Thrale schooled himself against any visible reaction. Niall was less circumspect. Like most of the men in the room, Thrale watched her. Breathtaking. Heartbreaking. Skin pale as cream contrasted with the inky black of her hair. A spray of tiny yellow rosebuds was affixed in her hair.
This could not be the woman with whom he had sparred. Eyes bright, focused, intent. Astonishingly fast. This remote beauty was not the sort of woman who would adore her late husband’s mongrel dog nor demonstrate, convincingly, the weaknesses in his pugilistic technique.
It ought to be impossible for a woman to be that beautiful.
Full evening dress meant diamonds, paste or otherwise, what did it matter so long as there was bare skin to show them off? Predictably, she wore them to great effect. Her gown was violet and pale yellow, in the fashion for ballgowns that draped behind and had tassels and all that whatnot women wore.
It was no accident, he thought, that her gown was that precise shade of purple. Or that she’d kept her mantle close around her during the drive here. Or that she had disappeared to the retiring room upon their arrival. Her entrance was deliberate. Timed to make her the focus of all attention. He admired her statement to Mrs. Glynn and her ilk.
Someone nearby whispered, “Mercy.”
His glimpse beneath that veneer of thoughtless perfection laid waste to his indifference to her. No longer could he see her and think, yes, beautiful, and be so little moved by that beauty.
Mrs. Wilcott moved easily through the crowd, or, rather, the crowd parted for her. He watched her with new eyes, and it occurred to him that at moments like this, there was never any sign of the clumsiness in evidence when she was among intimates. She was another woman altogether. She smiled at everyone and at nothing, and as Thrale watched, he saw a woman who’d turned her beauty into a fortress.
He studied her. Constructed and reconstructed everything he knew about her until his head swam, until his chest clenched with the enormity of the truth about Mrs. Jack Wilcott. She was among the enemy here, and she had come in the only armor she possessed. The crowd made way for her, and she moved unimpeded through the crush. Perfection in that purple.
Across the room, Miss Emily Sinclair stood with the so very pretty and interesting Miss Glynn. Thomas Sinclair stood beside her, a man of distinguished appearance, yet not well liked by the men who had so far married his daughters. One could not gainsay the results of his parental duty toward his daughters. Two of them married into the nobility despite their modest antecedents, one of them at the very highest levels.
Harry Glynn was not far away, one of the few men not entranced by Mrs. Wilcott. No, he was staring at Miss Sinclair. There were a number of young men near the two young ladies. He’d been shooting with many of them now and recognized several, including the vicar, who had never once missed a shot. Not once.
By now, Mrs. Wilcott had reached his side of the room. Nothing in her expression made a man think there was anything beneath the perfection of her exterior.
Though this was nothing like a party in London where there might be a hundred or more guests at someone’s home, Withercomb Hall was nevertheless stuffed to the rafters with the local gentry from here and neighboring towns. A few of the guests were sporting men who had connections that got them entre here.
“Gar, she’s walking this way. Is my neckcloth straight?”
“No better than she ought to be, I’ll say.”
“Venus come to life.”
She stopped, and before his thoughts descended entirely into the unworthy, he thought her smile was not reflected in her eyes. That gown. He fought to start his brain functioning beyond his admiration of her appearance and managed only to stand there. Her smile dazzled, and it did so because she meant it to. It did so because she had locked away all her fear and vulnerability to become this creature of utter perfection.
“My lord.”
Habit, not presence of mind, prompted him to extend a hand to her. She placed her gloved hand on his and he, determined to make at least half as good a show of this as she was doing, lifted her hand to his lips. He owed it to his pride to do better than stand here like a lump.
“Good evening, Mrs. Wilcott. I hope you are well.”
She sighed, and that too was a thing of perfection. “I am, thank you. I hope you’re having a delightful time.”
“Thank you. Yes.” He wasn’t the sort who’d ever had difficulty speaking with women, even very beautiful ones. He did not know how to speak with this woman. More, half of him, more than half, did not wish to at all. He wanted the woman who boxed and told stories of battles and advised him how to train. He desired the woman who dared him to make her scream.
She moved into position at his side, and what was there to do but escort her to wherever it was she intended to go? “Shall I take you to your sister and Miss Glynn?”
She went oddly still. He did not like to see her suppress her spirit like that. She was too young to behave so solemnly. Whatever it had cost Mrs. Glynn to include Mrs. Wilcott among the guests, it had not been enough. He hoped the woman choked on her resentment. “Yes, please, do.”
“Your every wish is my command.”
“How flattering.”
He leaned close and whispered. “There is no reason for you to be terrified of these people.”
/> She said nothing, but he saw the flex of her throat, and, well, was she wrong? She was known here. The ruin brought down on her by her marriage was no secret to Mrs. Glynn and her confidantes. If Mrs. Glynn could not forget, how many others who had been in the same social circle at the time felt the same?
Guests made room for them as they proceeded. The phenomenon of escorting a woman like Mrs. Wilcott was not new to him. He’d done so before, with her or one of her sisters, but the sensation remained a heady one, and he disliked it a great deal. She wasn’t a prize for him to show off. Nor did he become a different man because a beautiful woman was on his arm.
Mrs. Wilcott leaned against him, a necessity given the number of people in so small a room as this. Someone jostled them, and he brought her closer. Necessary, he told himself. But he felt guilty for doing so. There were unpleasant motives one could ascribe to a man who held a woman too close, and he did not wish for anyone to think that of him. In consequence, he set her back too soon.
Someone backed into her, and if he’d not reeled her back by the simple expedient of catching her wrist, she’d have fallen. He steered them away from the crowd, and when they were clear, they separated quite naturally. Mrs. Wilcott turned her head to his, and gazed into his face, and he, who understood what she was about, found himself thoroughly distracted. “Thank you, my lord.”
Words fled his brain. His attention fixed on her face, the curve of her mouth, and then, when he tried not to be a besotted fool, he ended up staring at the strand of amber beads that followed the curve of her breasts, and all he could think was how much he’d like to have his mouth there. His hands, too.
Early in his youth, after his initial bumbling with women and sexual congress, he learned the acceptable boundaries of his preferences when he’d found himself in the arms of a woman who enjoyed what he did. He kept those urges under tight control. She threatened that control.
He breathed in and caught a whiff of her perfume. Violets. He forced himself to look away from her bosom and focus on her hair. That was no help, for he saw himself burying his fingers in raven tresses, pulling away the garland of lace and tiny silk blossoms.
A smile hovered on her mouth, and she touched his chest in a way that suggested more than might be entirely proper, which did very little for his self-possession. “You are resplendent tonight.”
He blinked.
The inanity of her smile sliced into his soul. He had heard and seen her flirt like this in London. She was infamous in that regard. She put two fingers to his chest with enough pressure to end his mental lapse. A gentle reproof. Gad, just a glimpse of the real woman, and he was enthralled. He cleared his throat, far too aware of her. Her fingertips skimmed his lapel, but her focus was entirely on his coat, one of his best, as a matter of fact. She meant nothing by touching him. Nothing at all. This was for show, this was Mrs. Wilcott, the heartless flirt. Not the woman he’d come to know.
“The work of Cynssyr’s tailor, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Yes.” Flint, upon being engaged by him, had insisted on a change in tailor and an immediate and wholesale update of his wardrobe. The man had permitted him, with great reluctance, to retain those items such as a gentleman wanted for private comfort. The battle had been hard fought.
“I prefer a less severe style for a gentleman of fashion, but this was an excellent choice.”
“If I were not such a man?” He caught her hand and willed her to be that other woman. “What then?”
“Why, then, you would be a magnificent beast.” Again, she ran a finger along his lapel. “This proclaims you to be what you are. Sober and upright. All that is admirable in a nobleman.”
“Thank you.” An ocean of ice floated between them, and he wanted to melt it away. He wanted her to be the delight she was when they talked of pugilism or maps or poetry. He wanted the woman who looked him up and down when he stood before her with fists raised.
“You’re very welcome.”
“Damn them all to hell, Mrs. Wilcott.” He bent his head to her ear and whispered, “Damn them.”
She left her palm on his chest. “I wish I could. I do. But there is Emily to think of.” With her right hand she snapped open a yellow fan, and there was, once again, nothing in her eyes that mattered, only now he knew that for a lie. How could he not admire that sort of self-control? She placed her hand on his arm and again proceeded through the room.
Harry Glynn joined them when he and Mrs. Wilcott reached Miss Sinclair, Miss Glynn, her mother, and Niall. Her mouth curved, and she was entirely beyond reach. The picture she wanted others to see.
Into the silence, she said, “Mrs. Glynn. Good evening. Withercomb Hall is more stunning than I recall.”
Mrs. Glynn’s attention moved between Mrs. Wilcott and him and her son. “Lord Thrale.” She dropped into a curtsy. “What an honor to have you here.” She extended a hand to Miss Sinclair. “What happiness I feel to see my beloved children with a dear friend such as you.”
“Thank you,” Miss Sinclair said. “I am honored to be here.”
Niall bowed. “Mrs. Wilcott.”
“Captain Niall. I hope you are engaged for all the dancing tonight.”
“I am.” He adjusted one of his cuffs. “Though I confess myself devastated by your beauty no more by the thought that I might not dance with you.”
“How charming, Captain. I’m quite sure it’s not so. And you, Mr. Glynn. I hope you are well tonight.”
He bowed. “As excellent as you are ravishing.”
“What a charming thing to say.”
She’d memorized those words. How could he not have understood that before? She’d arrived in London having in her head dozens of meaningless phrases for situations such as this, and they worked. Others saw what she intended for them to see; perfection.
Glynn bowed to Miss Sinclair. “And you, miss, you are an angel come down from heaven to walk among mortal men.”
“Goodness, Harry,” said Miss Glynn. “I’d no idea you could be so gallant. You’re never gallant to me.”
He tapped the side of his sister’s head. “Why should I be gallant to you? We both know you’ve not a single flaw, Clara.”
Miss Sinclair rocked up on her toes. “Oh, excellent, sir. Well done.” She turned to him. “We’ve heard from Mr. Glynn and Captain Niall. Now it’s your turn, Lord Thrale. Or are you excusing yourself from this contest?”
Thrale first bowed to Miss Sinclair. “My evening is complete, Miss Sinclair, now that I have laid eyes on you.” He turned to Miss Glynn. “All is perfection here as well. No gentleman could find himself in better company than yours.”
Miss Glynn curtsied. “Astonishing, my lord. I was about to say those same words to you.”
“Most excellent,” Miss Sinclair said. “You are silver-tongued.” She spread her hands wide. “We await your compliment of my sister.”
Thrale gazed at Mrs. Wilcott, and Glynn thumped him on the shoulder. “He’s stunned to silence by your beauty, Mrs. Wilcott.”
“I was about to say that Mrs. Wilcott sets the stars in the sky.”
“How enchanting, my lord.”
Mrs. Glynn’s expression had become increasingly sour as the series of exchanges continued to ridiculous heights and soon threatened to descend into giggles. “Harry, my dear boy, have you said good evening to Mr. Leverton?”
“No, Mama, but I shall presently.”
Mrs. Wilcott took a step back and then another. Subtly done, until she was several feet distant from Harry Glynn and out of his mother’s line of sight. Someone called to Mrs. Glynn, and then from the ballroom, the musicians struck a chord, and there was rather a din as everyone spoke at once, and then spoke more loudly to be heard over the noise. Meanwhile, Miss Glynn whispered something in Miss Sinclair’s ear that sent both young ladies into more laughter.
“There you are.”
Mrs. Wilcott maintained her silence.
Miss Sinclair fiddled with the fan hanging from her wrist, and her
focus went to something beyond her elder sister. “Hullo, Papa.”
Thomas Sinclair was resplendent in evening clothes. A diamond stick pin glittered in the folds of his cravat and in the buckles of his shoes. He stood between Miss Sinclair and Mrs. Wilcott, a hand on either of their shoulders and shouted, “My two best girls. And here is Mr. Glynn. Good evening and thank you heartily for this hospitality. Everything perfect, exactly as I knew it would be.” Sinclair left his daughters and clapped a hand on Thrale’s shoulder. He was not steady on his legs. The man did like his hock, but even with several drinks in him, he could shoot and ride, and who would fault a man for enjoying himself at a party?
“Miss Glynn.” Sinclair bowed. “There’s a pretty girl.”
“Mr. Sinclair.” She curtsied. “You are kind to say so.”
“Well, gentlemen, my lord.” He clapped his hands. “Clancy against Granger, Thursday coming. And not a room to be had in Bartley Green or Little Merton. Not for love nor money.”
Mrs. Wilcott coughed. “Papa. Please. Might we leave a discussion of sporting matters until a later time? I’m quite sure the gentlemen will want to find their partners for the first dance.”
“Devil take you, Lucy. You lecture me often enough on how to judge if a man is a real prizefighter. Don’t tell me this is not the time and place when it’s all anyone can talk about, and here are three men in the thick of it.”
“Papa.”
“Do you see what I must endure?” Sinclair appealed to Niall and Glynn, and to him. “Do not hesitate to apply to my daughter, my lord and gentlemen, if you need to know how to elude the authorities at a match or judge a man’s technique in the arena. She is expert.”
Mrs. Wilcott gave Glynn a brilliant smile. He doubted there were many men who could resist a smile like that. He doubted, as equally, that she meant the smile.
“Oh, Papa,” Miss Sinclair said. “Once, just once, Lucy said she thought pugilism seemed a thrilling sport, and now you believe she knows all there is to know on the subject.”
A Notorious Ruin Page 17
