Her former concerns now fully satisfied, Sophie allowed herself to relax in the Viscount’s hold, more than content just to have him shepherd her around the room, their steps perfectly matched to the hypnotic rhythm of the lilting music. Any further conversation was, as far as she was concerned, entirely superfluous; simply to find herself once more in Helstone’s arms—for however fleeting an interlude—was, to her, far more than she could ever have hoped or dreamed of. Her whole being deliciously alive to the realisation that Helstone was holding her rather more closely than was generally considered proper, she closed her eyes, tipped back her head, and surrendered herself to the supreme rapture of the moment.
Inevitably, and all too soon, the captivating rhythm drew to its close and, with a sweeping flourish, the final chord rang out across the room, bringing the exhilarated dancers to a laughing, breathless standstill. Marcus, gazing down at the still rapt expression on Sophie’s beloved face, found himself wishing that he could just lift her up and spirit her away to some secret hideout, where the pair of them could cloister themselves away from prying eyes and where he would have all the time in the world to demonstrate the true extent of his feelings towards her. The horde of fawning admirers who battled so eagerly for her attention not having escaped his notice, it had very quickly come to him that there was a very real danger of one or other of those toadying dissemblers securing Sophie’s hand before he himself was able to conjure up a suitable opportunity to convince her of his sincerity. The sudden ripple of fury that coursed through his veins at the thought of Sophie being pledged in matrimony to any man other than himself was swiftly overtaken by a feeling of sick dread as he was forced to remind himself that his cause was not yet won.
Consequently, and only because there were no other options open to him at that point, it was a very reluctant Marcus who finally returned Sophie to the bosom of her waiting court. His half-hearted attempts to soothe the still somewhat aggrieved Lord Murcheson’s ruffled feathers having been grudgingly accepted, it was with a gnawing disappointment that he then discovered that Sophie’s dance card was already filled. Her satisfyingly eager suggestion that the Viscount might care to escort her into supper, however, went some way to bolstering Marcus’s spirits, but, rather than suffer the indignity of having to stand to one side while a succession of would-be suitors made increasingly outrageous attempts to capture his beloved’s attention, he quickly excused himself and went in search of what had become a much-needed drink.
Having procured himself a glass of champagne, Marcus then quit the ballroom and wandered out into the corridor in search of the card room, in the hopes of having his mind distracted from its present preoccupation by means of a few highly concentrated hands of either faro or vingt-et-un.
Even his fervent belief that most of the apparently ardent young bloods who made up Sophie’s court were rather more likely to be interested in whatever fortune she might bring with her than they were in her personal charms brought him little solace, since he was sufficiently versed in the ways of the Ton to realise that any similar overtures on his part would be regarded in very much the same light. Not that he had ever been particularly concerned as to what the beau monde thought of him, as he hastened to remind himself. Sophie’s good opinion of him, however, was an entirely different matter, and had suddenly become utterly paramount to his well-being.
On peering into the room designated for card-playing, he was irritated to observe that all the tables were fully occupied, with several other gentlemen already standing by in expectation of taking up any relinquished places. Preferring not to add his name to that number, the Viscount then decided to venture further along the corridor, with a view to ensconcing himself in the library, the quiet comfort of which he had fond memories of having enjoyed back in his youth.
Upon entering the room which, apart from the two wall-sconces at its entrance, was illuminated only by the gently flickering flames that issued from the logs burning in the fireplace, he was pleased to find that, not only did he have the place to himself, little seemed to have changed during his prolonged absence: the high-backed soft leather chairs were still dotted around the room in abundance; the huge map table still graced the wall between the two sets of French windows that opened out on to the terrace, and the faint but unmistakable aroma of musty books coupled with stale cigar smoke still hung in the air.
With an appreciative sniff, Marcus made at once for the carved wooden box that had always stood on the mantelpiece where, to his immense satisfaction, he was to discover that Whitcombe’s well-remembered habit of keeping the box replenished with prime Havana cigars had not altered in the intervening years.
Having helped himself to a cigar, he then selected a taper from the nearby receptacle, and was just about to thrust it into the fire when his attention was caught by a soft snuffling noise that seemed to be coming from the far side of the room.
His curiosity aroused, Marcus, setting both cigar and taper down on a side-table, moved quietly across the library floor towards the source of the noise which, he was fairly certain, gave every indication of being the sound of a female in some distress. Not that he had any particular desire to intrude upon the unknown lady’s apparent grief, he told himself, but, having inadvertently been made party to it, it was more than he could do to simply stand by and ignore the plaintive whimpering.
Having judged that the sounds were emanating from one of the high-backed armchairs that nestled in a dimly lit corner of the room, he crept towards it and peered over the back of the chair, where he was confronted with the sight of the most piteous looking creature—hardly more than a girl, he concluded—who was doing her utmost to stifle her anguished sobs in the absurdly inadequate handkerchief that she had pressed against her lips.
Finding himself at something of a loss in the face of such overwhelming distress, Marcus was momentarily stopped in his tracks. But then, as commonsense prevailed, he reached down and extracted his own, rather more serviceable handkerchief from his pocket, before stepping round in front of the weeping female and attempting to thrust it into her hand—only to have the panic-stricken girl recoil in fright as she suddenly became aware of his presence.
Struggling to her feet, her tear-drenched eyes wide with apprehension, she raised both hands, as if in self-defence, and backed hurriedly away from him. Sadly, in her frantic haste to flee from the unwelcome intrusion into her wretchedness, she misjudged her step, catching the heel of her slipper in the lace-edged flounce of her gown, and, had not Marcus’s reactions been as prompt as they were, would most certainly have tumbled to the ground.
‘Do please calm yourself, ma’am,’ he begged her, as he steadied the struggling female against his chest. ‘I won’t harm you, I swear—I am merely trying to be of service. Has someone hurt you? Can you not tell me what has caused you such distress?’
At his soothing words, a fresh bout of tears overcame the girl, sending shivers of apprehension coursing through Marcus’s veins.
‘Come, please tell me what ails you,’ he urged her as, with some difficulty, he managed to pry her violently trembling form away from his own and lower her back into the chair. ‘Are you ill? Is there someone I could fetch for you? Will you not allow me to help you in some way?’
More sobs ensued as the girl gave a despairing shake of her head. ‘P-please go away, s-sir, I b-beg you!’ she choked. ‘I am b-beyond help. Beyond both help and h-hope! Oh, how I wish I were d-dead!’
‘Oh, come now,’ protested Marcus, his original sympathy beginning to evaporate somewhat at the girl’s somewhat histrionic outburst. ‘I cannot believe that whatever it is that has upset you can be so dreadful as to warrant so desperate an inclination!’
Making a valiant effort to control her sobs, the girl buried her face in Marcus’s handkerchief and, after heaving in a shuddering breath, dipped her fingers into her beaded reticule and drew out an expensive-looking pearl choker. ‘I have d-damaged the c-clasp.’ She gulped nervously. ‘It belonged to m-my husband�
�s first wife—when he discovers what I have d-done, I c-cannot begin to imagine w-what he will d-do to me!’
Staring down at the necklace in bewildered astonishment, Marcus found himself unsure whether to burst out laughing or to deliver a sharp lecture to the young woman for having allowed herself to get into such a state over a mere trinket. He rose to his feet, his irritation increasing by the minute. ‘Nonsense,’ he chided her. ‘You are exaggerating, I’m sure. I find it extremely unlikely that any sane man would stoop to punishing his wife over so paltry a matter as a broken necklace.’
‘Then it’s clear that you do not n-number my h-husband amongst your acquaintances.’ The girl sighed, as she dabbed dispiritedly at her damp flushed cheeks.
‘Possibly not,’ retorted Marcus, who was beginning to regret his impulsive attempt at chivalry and was wishing that he had never involved himself in the foolish creature’s absurd problems. ‘My name is Marcus Wolfe— Helstone, if you prefer. May I be permitted to know who you are?’
‘I am Christabel Sa—I mean Dawlish,’ she amended hastily. ‘Christabel Dawlish—wife of Sir Randolph.’
Marcus stilled, a frisson of unease trickling through him. Good God, he thought, staring down at the girl’s bleak expression in appalled silence. Randolph Dawlish! The man was old enough to be the girl’s father! Having come up against the elderly baronet on more than one occasion during his own rather too frequent expeditions into the seamier side of London’s night-life, he had become sufficiently well acquainted with Dawlish’s singularly unpleasant nature to now realise that his young wife’s fears in regard to her self-confessed clumsiness might not be entirely without foundation.
‘Randolph Dawlish?’ he repeated slowly. ‘I am slightly acquainted with him, as it happens, but I must confess that I was unaware that he had remarried.’ And his first wife barely cold in her grave, he thought contemptuously. Yet how typical of the sadistic swine to find himself another pathetic victim to vent his spite on so soon!
Unsuppressed tears gathered in the new Lady Dawlish’s eyes. ‘Just a l-little over three w-weeks ago,’ she choked, as she hurriedly turned her face away in a futile attempt to hide her rising distress. ‘You have been very k-kind, sir, but I would be greatly obliged if you would leave me n-now.’
‘No, ma’am, I fear I shall do no such thing,’ returned Marcus, with a determined shake of his head. ‘It is clear that you are in no state to be left here on your own. You must allow me to escort you as far as the ladies’ retiring room, or to call for assistance at the very least.’
‘Oh, no! P-please go, sir, I b-beg of you,’ cried Christabel, her mounting anguish clear to see as she twisted his soaking wet handkerchief between her fingers. ‘I really do not wish to be s-seen by anyone just at p-present!’
Instinct telling him that it was imperative that he get the weeping female such help as was humanly possible, Marcus tried again.
‘I really must insist that you come with me now,’ he adjured her, holding out his hand. ‘I cannot simply walk away and leave you here on your own, and you must see that it would not do for us to be found in here together.’ With more than enough problems of his own to deal with, he could hardly help being aware that the very last thing he needed at this juncture was to be discovered in a dimly lit room in the company of another man’s wife.
Thankfully, the implied threat behind his warning was enough to bring the clearly petrified Christabel to her senses. With a frightened gasp she leapt to her feet and, placing her hand in his still outstretched one, allowed Marcus to lead her across the room. Upon reaching the doorway, however, she halted and, letting go of his hand, hung back timorously, twisting her fingers together in apprehension before clutching at his arm and whimpering, ‘Not past the card room, sir, I beg of you—please!’
Biting back a withering retort, Marcus found himself at somewhat of a standstill. Having only just recently observed her husband in the gaming room, he could appreciate the girl’s concern, realising that there was every chance the pair of them might well be spotted as they passed by the doorway. Unfortunately, he was also aware that the only way they could possibly reach the relative safety of the ladies’ room was by means of the corridor outside.
He stood for a moment, totally nonplussed, as he racked his brains for a solution to the dilemma. And then, in a sudden inspiration, it came to him that if there was anyone who would know exactly what to do in such a situation, it was Sophie! His brow cleared as a simple way out of his predicament at once became obvious. All he had to do was deposit the now softly weeping Christabel back into her chair and go in search of Sophie. Having witnessed the one-time governess’s infallibility in the face of the numerous problems with which the marooned group had been beset during that freak snowstorm, he had little doubt that she would be able to come up with some sort of solution to this particular problem. In fact, it would hardly surprise him to learn that Sophie also had at her disposal some fiendishly clever means by which the damaged necklace might be fixed, thus saving the poor misguided Christabel from Dawlish’s malicious spite.
Fully convinced that the answer to his current difficulty was now well within his grasp, Marcus finally persuaded Christabel back into her chair and headed once more towards the door—only to open it and discover that the passageway was now swarming with all manner of people. The absence of music clearly signalled that the supper hour had begun. Within moments hordes of laughing, chattering guests were making their way out of the ballroom into the corridors, out onto the brightly lit terrace and into the gardens, intent upon making the most of the balmy evening air before returning to the supper room to indulge themselves in the sumptuous repast that the Whitcombe cooks had worked so diligently to provide.
Muttering a string of curses, Marcus retraced his steps, grabbed the now violently resisting Christabel’s hand and hauled her to her feet, having realised that their only hope of salvation now lay in exiting the library by way of its terrace doors. With luck, they might be able to lose themselves among the thronging crowds.
Just as they were about to step out onto the terrace, however, the library door was suddenly thrust open to reveal none other than Sir Randolph Dawlish himself standing at the threshold! With a terrified yelp, Christabel hurled herself at Marcus and buried her face into his shirtfront, whimpering, ‘Save me—oh, I beg of you, don’t let him hurt me, sir!’
Sir Randolph, a tall, spare man with thinning grey hair, whose pale and deeply lined face bore testimony to his chosen life of reckless dissipation, stood rigidly in the doorway for some moments, his thin lips twisting in a contemptuous smile as he surveyed the unfortunate scene. Then, striding across the floor with an angry snarl, he reached forward and attempted to wrench his wife away from Marcus who, despite his dismay at the baronet’s unexpected appearance, had automatically raised his arms to cocoon the ashen-faced Christabel against his chest.
‘So, madam wife!’ sneered Dawlish. ‘You think to creep off with your lover the minute my back is turned, do you?’
‘You are mistaken, sir,’ retorted the Viscount, raising his eyebrow in haughty disdain. ‘Lady Dawlish appeared to be in some distress when I came upon her. I was just on my way to seek assistance—’
‘A likely tale, sir!’ Dawlish interrupted, his lip curling in disbelief. “‘Tis common knowledge the sort of “assistance” Hellcat Helstone usually has in mind as far as the female of the species is concerned, but this time, my lord, I fear you have met your match, for I refuse to play cuckold to your scheming Lothario! I must insist that you release my wife at once, sir, and do me the courtesy of naming your seconds!’
‘Don’t talk rot, man!’ returned Marcus shortly, while doing his level best to unclasp the disobliging Christabel’s hands from the back of his neck. He shot a hurried glance at the growing crowd of curious onlookers who were eagerly converging upon the scene, in the futile hope that one or other of her friends might be among them and come to her rescue. ‘I have no intention of meeting you. I assu
re you that neither your wife nor I have behaved in any way that would require me to do so.’
‘Your assurances are worthless, sir!’ ground out the now thoroughly enraged baronet, drawing himself up to his full height. ‘I doubt that there is a single person here present who is unaware of your dubious history.’ He paused, sneering. ‘Do I take it that you are refusing to accept my challenge?’
Having finally freed himself from Lady Dawlish’s clinging embrace, Marcus now found himself on the horns of a dilemma. Whilst there was no question in his mind that his unlooked-for sojourn with the baronet’s young wife had been of an entirely innocent nature, it was not difficult for him to see how such a situation might appear to the average bystander—especially given the highly embellished reputation he had gained over the past few years. Up until about twenty or so minutes ago he would have had no difficulty in accepting Dawlish’s challenge, and taken considerable pleasure in wiping the supercilious smirk off the slimy toad’s evil visage, but now, having only just succeeded in getting himself back in Sophie’s good books, Marcus was not at all happy to find himself embroiled in a scandal that was not of his making. He could only hope and pray that word of this unpleasant event had escaped her ears.
Casting a wary glance over the assembled onlookers, he very soon realised that such optimism was doomed to failure—for there, on the very fringe of the crowd, stood Sophie, her wide blue eyes luminous with unshed tears. The Viscount was beset by a wave of despair, and only just managed to stop himself from howling out his innocence to her. This is none of my doing, believe me! his eyes strained to tell her. This is not what it seems, I swear!
Having waited for Helstone to return to the ballroom and accompany her into supper, as previously arranged, the somewhat puzzled Sophie had finally made her way out onto the terrace in search of her errant escort. Curious as to the noisy throng of guests surging outside the library doors, she had drifted towards the scene, only to find herself confronted with the appalling sight of Marcus locked in the arms of another man’s wife.
The Rake's Final Conquest Page 21
