“His entire life has been a scandal, Miss de Lacey,” said Miss Cuthbert in answer to her question. “That is all you need to know.”
Margaret glanced at Clarissa. “What sort of scandal?”
Her companion looked down her nose. “It is unseemly to discuss it.” Behind her, Clarissa’s eyes were twinkling brightly, and she winked.
Margaret smiled. “Very well. I wouldn’t wish to be unseemly.” Not when Clarissa was so clearly willing to discover and tell her everything she wanted to know. She took Miss Cuthbert’s arm. “Let us return to the party. I promise to observe every stricture of modest and decent behavior from now on.”
But only for today.
CHAPTER SIX
Frederick Eccleston was much as Clyve described him. Middling tall with a head of bushy brown hair that resisted powdering with impressive tenacity, he was an easy, amiable fellow a little younger than Rhys. When Clyve introduced them, Rhys made a great effort not to say anything at all of his interest in Margaret de Lacey, but Eccleston appeared impervious to any shade of subtlety. He liked to talk, and it took only a question or two to spawn a rambling discourse on everything he knew of the subject.
Clarissa Stacpoole, Rhys learned, was inclined to gossip more than she should. Eccleston was very fond of his fiancée, but freely admitted her weaknesses. “O’ course all women talk,” he explained in his Yorkshire drawl. “Clarissa can chatter them all into the grave. Her mama tried to tell me it was nerves, but I know better. Known her since she was a girl, and she’s been the same. If Clarissa hears something interesting, she has to tell someone.”
“Even if sworn to secrecy?” Rhys asked in amusement.
Eccleston paused, looking surprised. “I don’t know. Never tried asking.”
Rhys told himself to speak cautiously in front of Miss Stacpoole. “I ask because I find it hard to believe she would share confidences from her friends.”
“Now, that’s fair to say.” The other man nodded. “Once she takes up friends with someone, she’s devoted. Say one word against her younger brother and she’ll skewer you through the gut.”
“She appeared quite devoted to you when I met her.”
Eccleston grinned in pride. “Did she? Clarissa’s a good girl. I expect we’ll get on well enough after the wedding.”
That sounded like a rather modest goal, but he soberly wished Eccleston the very happiest of futures. Every man must be allowed his own version of paradise, and if Eccleston wished only an amiable contentment, so be it.
For himself, though, Rhys wanted more. He had quite forgotten his reluctance to pay court to any heiress because Margaret de Lacey was no ordinary heiress. I was happy as I was, she had told him, and he believed her. Her father had been a gentleman, but of much more modest circumstances than those she now enjoyed. Rhys had heard enough gossip about the de Laceys’ sudden good fortune to know she and her brother weren’t being welcomed with open arms by everyone among the nobility. Since he knew first hand how quickly and capriciously society could turn on a person, changing from indulgent to disdainful in the blink of an eye, he realized how awkward her position was: If she kept up her old friendships, her new society would never accept her, but the size of her dowry isolated her from noblewomen who might have become her new friends. Until she married, Miss de Lacey would no doubt find herself rather lonely.
And she wasn’t meant to be alone. She blushed when he commented on her reasons for wearing so fashionable a gown, and he caught the flicker of pain in her eyes when he asked if she didn’t want passion in her life. He meant everything he told Margaret at Lord Feithe’s: He wanted more from her than her money. Far from his original reluctance to meet any heiresses, he had leapt straight to wanting Margaret herself. A sensible, clear-eyed, attractive woman who longed for passion—and in possession of forty thousand pounds. It was beginning to appear Divine Providence itself had directed him to her.
Accordingly he wasted no time the next evening in approaching the lady, once more found with her friend and Mr. Eccleston. “Good evening, Miss Stacpoole, Miss de Lacey. Eccleston.” He bowed to each lady.
“Good evening, Lord Dowling.” Miss Stacpoole looked at him with amused curiosity. Miss de Lacey eyed him with cool suspicion and said nothing. “Freddie, I didn’t know you were acquainted with His Lordship.”
“And why not?” replied Eccleston, to Rhys’s surprise. “We’re both Emmanuel man.”
“Quite right,” he said easily. How fortunate Eccleston had been in his own college at Cambridge. “And I shall presume upon on it. Miss Stacpoole, may I beg the honor of a dance?”
Margaret, who had braced herself for that very question, blinked. Clarissa’s eyes opened wide, and she stared at the earl without blinking. Oh, he was a canny one, she thought in irritation. He wasn’t even looking at her, his attention fixed on poor Clarissa, who had gone as pale as snow beneath her freckles. Margaret remembered all her friend’s ruminations about how wild a Welshman might be, and wondered if Clarissa was truly frightened.
“Er . . . Yes, sir.” Clarissa’s voice was higher than usual as she bobbed a clumsy curtsey and laid her hand in Dowling’s waiting palm. “Freddie . . .” She looked at her fiancé in mute appeal.
“Go on,” he said with a good-natured smile. “I trust Dowling—but I’ll be waiting right here, eh?”
“Of course.” Smiling nervously, Clarissa let Lord Dowling lead her to join the dance without a glance backward. The earl didn’t look back, either, and Margaret caught sight of that slashing dimple of his as he said something to Clarissa.
“I expect I’ll never hear the end of this,” said Mr. Eccleston at her side, watching them. “Heaven help me if Dowling’s a better dancer than I. Would it be wrong of me to hope he treads on her toe?”
Margaret snapped open her fan. “As long as you wish for him to tread lightly on her toe, I see no harm in it.” Eccleston laughed. For a moment they stood in silence, watching the dancers step through the elegant minuet. To her disgust, the Earl of Dowling appeared to be a fine dancer.
“Are you old friends with Lord Dowling?” she asked, telling herself it was to make conversation, and not from rampant curiosity about the earl, that she asked.
“Not lifelong, no. But he’s a fine fellow, that one.”
Was he? She watched how he smiled at Clarissa, and how her friend’s cheeks flushed as bright as cherries. She was unaccountably irked—at him, for charming her friend, and at Clarissa, for succumbing to it. Even more annoying was how attractive he was while doing it. Some gentlemen were beginning to wear their hair unpowdered, but no one else did it with such brazenness. His hair was as black as coal, with long loose waves any woman would weep to have. In a room of snowy white coiffures, he caught the eye and held it—her eye, at any rate. It didn’t hurt that he was tall and broad-shouldered as well, standing above all the ladies and most of the men. She savagely hoped he did step on Clarissa’s toe, quite heavily, and then wondered at herself for wishing such hurt on her friend.
When the minuet finished, Lord Dowling escorted Clarissa to them. “Eccleston, I’m in your debt.”
Mr. Eccleston laughed. “As long as you brought her back to me, Dowling! Well, well, Clarissa, have you decided to abandon me for this rogue?”
Clarissa smiled. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks were almost glowing. “Don’t be silly! We all know Lord Dowling has other interests. But oh my heavens, sir, you are the most divine dancer! I have never felt so light on my feet. It was . . . oh, my . . . quite a pleasure!” She groped for her fan and plied it vigorously.
“I would not be satisfied with anything less than your pleasure,” said Dowling with one of his sinful smiles.
“Hmph,” said Mr. Eccleston, although without any real anger. Margaret was amazed and a little indignant over his careless attitude. “You’d better dance with me now, so I don’t get a fit of jealousy.”
“Oh, Freddie.” Clarissa made a face at him, but Margaret could see she was enormously plea
sed. Clarissa Stacpoole had probably never in her life had two gentlemen wanting to dance with her and tease her.
“Very nicely done, sir,” she said to Lord Dowling as Mr. Eccleston led Clarissa to join the dancers.
“Was it?” He flashed her a small smile. Standing right beside her, hands clasped behind his back, he was nearly overwhelming. “She’s very light on her feet. Very accomplished in the minuet.”
“Yes,” said Margaret with some surprise. “She is.” And Clarissa loved to dance. When Mr. Eccleston wasn’t in attendance, she sighed more than once over the fact that no one else would ask her to step out. Perhaps it was a kind thing Lord Dowling had done after all. “I hope you haven’t stirred up trouble by asking her.”
“Nonsense,” he said with a grin. “Eccleston has nothing to fear from me; he’s exceptionally fond of her, and from her conversation, I gather she feels the same for him. I wouldn’t dream of dividing them.” He paused and gave her a sideways look. “They belong together, you know.”
Precisely what he’d said to her about the pair of them. She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “And you are qualified to sit in judgment, deciding who must marry whom?”
“You give me too much credit. Perhaps it’s more divine than that; perhaps God himself designed the one to suit the other, and it would be a violation of natural law for them to be parted.” He inclined his head, clearly enjoying himself greatly. “I merely have the discernment to see it.”
“You must be one of the few,” she said dryly. “I can see no fewer than a dozen violations of natural law in this very room, if suitability of marriage partners qualifies as a sin.”
“It is such a shame when fathers and brothers ignore God’s will.” He lowered his voice. “How fortunate you are, to have secured your own choice in the matter.”
“Is this part of your plan to coerce me into marriage?”
He tilted his head, looking at her, and then turned to face her fully. “No, Miss de Lacey. I would never attempt coercion. I’m content to wait until you see how right we are for each other.”
She waited, but he said nothing else, to her annoyance. Then she was annoyed with herself, for realizing she had been waiting all this time in expectation of an invitation to dance, and that she would have accepted it, no matter how impertinent he was. Part of her, like Clarissa, yearned to dance with such a man. “Are you not even going to ask me to dance, then?” she asked, striving for lightness. “For if not, I beg you go away. Your presence is keeping all the other gentlemen at bay.”
“And are you sorry for that?” His eyes glittered with sly amusement.
“If it means I shan’t get to dance, yes,” she said, lying very boldly.
“I see.” He made a very elegant bow, giving her a good look at his well-shaped leg. “I bid you good evening then, since I wouldn’t dream of denying you any pleasure.” And he turned and walked away, leaving her gaping in astonishment at his back.
And so it went for more than a fortnight. She saw him everywhere, and he made a point of speaking to her each time. He was amusing, insightful, and thoughtful, much more so than she would have expected. Before long she began looking for him—she suspected Clarissa was letting him know, through Mr. Eccleston, which events she planned to attend—and she never again made the mistake of telling him to go away. But he never asked her to dance, or to stroll with him in the garden, or even if he might call on her. It was maddening. Everyone, from Miss Cuthbert to Mr. Eccleston, was certain he was planning to propose to her. But aside from some offhand references to pleasing her, he never said anything even remotely connected to marriage or love.
Finally she could bear it no more. One evening at Vauxhall, where he joined her in the elegant supper box Francis had taken, she turned to him and asked bluntly, “Are you courting me?”
His eyebrows went up, but she would swear he was pleased. “Miss de Lacey,” he said softly. “How forward you are.”
“Don’t tell me you’re surprised to discover it now.”
He smiled at her dry tone. “I never said I was surprised. In fact . . .” He shifted in his chair, maneuvering closer so he could stroke one fingertip over the back of her hand, lying folded in her lap. “It is one of the many things I like about you.”
“You would, impertinent rogue.” But she couldn’t help smiling.
“Shh,” he murmured. “Miss Cuthbert will send me away if you appear to enjoy my impertinent ways.”
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Miss Cuthbert had slowly warmed to him; now her warnings that Lord Dowling was ineligible sounded rote and dutiful instead of worried or even sincere, and she had stopped fretting and frowning every time he spoke to her. Dowling had the knack of charming women with simple decency, Margaret thought. Clarissa, whom he danced with regularly, was fully converted. So far from whispering in horrified fascination about his Welsh wildness, now she rhapsodized about his grace, his thoughtfulness, and his dark good looks, which were, in her opinion, too appealing by half, especially when coupled with that faint Welsh accent. Margaret had given up trying to disagree.
“I think you are avoiding my question, sir.”
He looked at her a moment. Francis had abandoned them as soon as he showed their silver admission token at the gates, Miss Cuthbert had excused herself a few moments earlier, and Clarissa had pulled Mr. Eccleston into the opposite corner, where they sat very close together in deep conversation. She and Lord Dowling might almost have been alone, as long as they kept their voices low. “Would you like me to court you?” the earl finally asked.
Yes. She smoothed her hands over her skirts to keep from confessing it aloud. “I would like to know if you are,” she replied. “Or what your intentions are, if you aren’t.”
“My intentions . . .” His slow smile acted like a torch held to her skin. She felt prickly with heat and yet transfixed by the glowing allure of it. “I intend to have you, Maggie, in every way a man can have a woman. I want your hand in mine while we dance. I want you laughing beside me in the theater. I want you lying naked in my arms at night. And I want you standing beside me in church, saying ‘I will.’ ” His gaze scorched her. “What are your intentions?”
Margaret’s mouth was bone dry. She couldn’t have answered if she’d known what to say. She wanted all that, too—she even wanted it from him—and if he wanted her dowry, too, well, why shouldn’t Francis’s money be appreciated? It wasn’t as though her other suitors didn’t want it.
She wet her lips and forced her throat to work. “Come with me.” She got to her feet and moved toward the door, shooting a look at Clarissa when her friend glanced up in surprise. Clarissa’s eyes darted to Dowling, on his feet and following close behind her, and she gave Margaret a tiny smile brimming with glee.
Outside the box, Lord Dowling offered his arm, and she laid her hand on it very properly. They strolled along the gravel walk, well lit by a profusion of oil lamps hung among the branches of the trees. Behind them the orchestra played, and the murmurs of conversation from other supper boxes didn’t quite drown out the singer. Margaret took a deep breath and sighed with pleasure at the sight. She had always liked Vauxhall, even though Miss Cuthbert sniffed at its lack of exclusivity. Her parents had brought her to Vauxhall during her long-ago debut, and those trips figured among her happiest memories of that time. Ranelagh was more fashionable, but there was something a bit easier and less restrained about Vauxhall, where the lowest maid in London could walk out with her beau and make as merry as any heiress.
The path grew dimmer, the lamps less numerous as they moved through the Grove. Dowling seemed content to let her lead, and she searched carefully for the right spot. She took care not to wander too far from the path, mindful of being pursued by Miss Cuthbert, but wanted some privacy for what she had to ask of him.
Finally they reached a darkened turn of the path. This far from the orchestra and main walks, the cooing of thrushes and a pair of nightingales murmured around them. She stopped and
faced Lord Dowling, suddenly nervous but trying to hide it. They had spent a great deal of time together, but never truly alone. “If you intend to marry me,” she said, “you’d better kiss me first.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Now?” he murmured in his dark, raspy voice.
“Yes.” She swallowed. “Please do.”
He continued to look at her mouth. “You haven’t answered my question yet, about your intentions. I hope you don’t plan to tease me and seduce me, only to refuse me later, madam.”
The notion of her seducing him was so—so—tempting—no, not tempting, ridiculous— She took an unsteady breath. “You claim we suit each other. Prove it.”
Rhys took a step closer. Prove it. He longed to prove it to her, to kiss her until she moaned in his arms, to carry her deeper into the woods and show her just how much he wanted her and how well he could satisfy all her longings. His blood was coursing hot and fast in anticipation, but he kept a tight leash on his visceral reaction to her bold demand. “Is this the last question in your mind? Your last doubt?”
Her expressive lips parted. The silver pendant on her choker winked at him, fluttering ever-so-slightly on the rapid throb of her pulse. “No, not quite the very last,” she said. “But it is an important one.”
Dimly he supposed the last one was still about the money, that damned dowry that cast every suitor in a shady, avaricious light. Courtesy of Miss Stacpoole’s wagging tongue, he knew three other men had already proposed marriage to Margaret, and she had turned them all down. Two were acknowledged fortune hunters, but one was a decent fellow with expectations. He had steadfastly resisted the urge to ask her about other suitors, but that third refusal gave him hope. He could tell she liked his attentions. His strategy of charming her friends had done wonders to thaw her opinion of him. He even found he liked Miss Stacpoole and her Freddie, which was fortunate; it seemed clear they would be part of his life for as long as Margaret was.
I Love the Earl Page 5
