by Olivia Drake
A man’s hand settled at the small of her back. It was large and firm and reassuring. As its heat radiated into her cold depths, she sucked in a shaky breath and glanced back over her shoulder.
Lucas stood just behind her. His cool gray irises surveyed her. Though he wasn’t smiling, the warmth of his touch eased her tension. The heavy burden of isolation vanished like a wisp of fog under strong sunlight. In its stead, a sense of well-being uplifted her.
Out of sight of the crowd, his hand glided lightly over the back of her silk gown and left a trail of sparks. She ached to lean against him and invite his embrace. That same desire flared in his eyes, too. Then it vanished in a trice. The imprint of his hand lifted from her spine as he turned back to his mother.
Lucas steered the invalid’s chair toward the edge of the ballroom. Realizing that she blocked his path, Rory stepped aside. Without another glance at her, he guided his mother through the jam-packed ballroom to a place where the other matrons were gathered.
Aunt Bernice and Lord Henry followed, continuing to banter about his mother’s debutante days. Rory lagged behind them all. She needed a moment to sort through what had just happened. That little interlude seemed almost like a dream. Had Lucas truly meant to offer her comfort? Or had she misread a simple, careless touch? Perhaps he had only intended to nudge her aside in order to clear the way for his mother’s chair.
By the time he settled Lady Dashell beside a group of matrons, Rory had herself convinced that his brief touch had meant nothing. It had been an impromptu gesture, nothing more. She had ascribed too much meaning to it because at that moment she’d been in sore need of a friend.
She studiously ignored Lucas as he stood talking to a group of elderly gentlemen who had come to pay tribute to his mother. Once again, her ladyship was flooded by well-wishers. The marchioness took gleeful pleasure in introducing Rory to a number of the guests. Rory knew that Lady Dashell wanted to prove she still had the power to manipulate public opinion, and the project seemed to be something of a success. Though no one was warmly welcoming, they didn’t dare cut Rory dead, either. Many exhibited a cool politeness, others gave her a critical stare, yet they were civil at least.
Rory recognized a few of the people, but many were unknown to her. Before that long-ago disgrace, she had been in society for only half a season. It had been too short a time to learn everyone’s names and faces. Besides, the circle of her friends had been much younger than these codgers.
Then one of her former acquaintances arrived in the company of a stout matron. The older woman said in a rather gloating manner, “You remember my daughter, Marion, don’t you, Miss Paxton? She is now Lady Bolton. Her husband is Sir Jerome Bolton.”
Miss Marion Chesterton had been Rory’s nemesis, a sharp-faced girl with brown sausage curls and a superior disposition who had always been jealous of Rory’s many admirers. Back then, Rory had attempted to befriend the girl to no avail. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Marion.”
She held out her gloved hand, but Marion pointedly ignored it. “What a pity that you have ended up on the shelf,” she said with oily sympathy. “But I suppose that is what comes of flirting with married men.”
Rory produced a sweet smile. “Is your husband here tonight? Jerome was a dear friend and I would love to renew our acquaintance.”
Marion’s eyes widened. Her mouth formed a nasty pucker. “Keep your distance from my Jerome. You will not go near him!”
Her strident voice attracted attention. People glanced over at them in curiosity. At once, Rory regretted needling Marion. Though she’d been incensed by that catty remark, it was unwise to cause trouble. She might hamper her ability to move freely in society.
Just then, a regal woman strolled to join them. She had the sort of timeless beauty that drew admiring looks. A diamond tiara glinted in the smooth coils of her coal-dark hair. The deep violet silk of her gown matched the color of her long-lashed eyes.
“Lady Milford!” Rory exclaimed. “I’m surprised you’re already back from your visit to the country.”
“I can never stay away from London for very long. I miss all the excitement here.”
She embraced Rory as if they were longtime friends. It was a masterful move. Her ladyship clearly intended to convey her approval of Rory to Marion and her mother—and the rest of society. Nothing could be more guaranteed to boost her status, Rory knew.
The other two women were suitably chastened. Marion’s mother dipped a curtsy and her daughter followed suit. They practically stuttered in their effort to please society’s leading hostess.
Lady Milford smiled. “Ah, Lady Bolton. Were you and Miss Paxton sharing old memories just now? I’ll never forget the awful mishap you suffered on the dance floor when she was kind enough to help you to your feet.”
Marion blushed crimson. “You—you saw that? I—I was terribly grateful for Rory’s assistance, I assure you!”
She and her mother stammered a few more pat phrases before making a swift retreat. Although grateful, Rory didn’t quite understand why Lady Milford had taken her side so firmly. Perhaps she just didn’t want Rory tossed out of society before finding those letters for Kitty.
“I’d forgotten all about that incident,” Rory said. “I’m surprised you would remember.”
“I never overlook a kindness. It is a great revealer of a person’s character.” Lady Milford’s eyes held curiosity as she looked Rory up and down. “What a delightful surprise to find you here tonight, my dear. May I presume things are going well?”
It was a delicate way of inquiring about the search for the purloined letters. Like Kitty, Lady Milford believed that Lucas was the blackmailer. If only they knew the truth! “Yes, certain matters are shaping up quite nicely. I’ve taken a post as Lady Dashell’s companion.”
“Indeed. You’ve worked a miracle in convincing her to rejoin society.”
“Oh, I cannot take credit for that. Aunt Bernice arrived yesterday and offered to help. She’s an old friend of her ladyship’s, you see.”
“So am I. Perhaps you can understand, then, why I am concerned about her eldest son.” Lady Milford glanced over at Lucas, who stood a short distance away, listening as a white-haired matriarch yammered about something that was inaudible in the noise of the ballroom. She added in a murmur, “I believe he aspires to higher office someday. In light of that, do you think he and Miss Kipling are a good match?”
The news startled Rory, as did the question. Her gaze lingered on his tall form as she mulled over the notion of him in a position more powerful than just another hereditary member of the House of Lords. With his serious demeanor, Lucas looked every inch the stately nobleman, and she could imagine him as a cabinet member or even prime minister someday.
If he did entertain such an ambition, he would require an intelligent, engaging wife with an interest in politics to be his hostess at dinners for high-ranking members of the government. Perhaps she would read his speeches and offer advice on policy. It all sounded fascinating to Rory, but she doubted Miss Kipling would agree. The girl seemed too young and silly for the role.
She returned her gaze to Lady Milford. “I hardly think it my place to say whom he should wed.”
“Come now, you must have an opinion.”
“She is rich and he is poor. That is the basis of many an aristocratic marriage. Or the reverse, in the case of Celeste.”
Lady Milford arched a dainty eyebrow. “Speaking of your sister, I spied her and Mrs. Paxton standing near the string ensemble. Are they aware that you were coming here tonight?”
“Celeste is, since I borrowed this gown from her. But not Kitty.”
“Ah. Well, you look quite stunning. May I add, I’m pleased you’re wearing the slippers I lent you. They should bring you good fortune.”
Rory glanced down at the tips of the garnet shoes that peeked out from beneath her bronze gown. The soft, supple feel of them made her want to twirl and dance. Yet Lady Milford’s comment was puzzling. Bri
ng her good fortune? What did that mean?
She wanted to ask. But Lady Milford already was gliding away on the arm of a distinguished older gentleman.
The stream of well-wishers began to thin out, leaving Lady Dashell with a gaggle of her closest friends. She was clearly enjoying the time of her life. “Well, Bernice, if you were worried that people might scorn you for marrying that common seaman, it was a waste of time. As you can see, only a very few even remembered you!”
Bernice chuckled as she sat down beside the marchioness. “At my age, I’m quite content to stay in the background. This is hardly my maiden voyage, after all.”
“Nor is it your niece’s maiden voyage,” the marchioness said craftily, looking up at Rory. “She’s a mite long in the tooth, but still handsome enough to nab a husband, especially one who isn’t too particular about her past. Why don’t you dance with her, Lucas? That will encourage the other gentlemen.”
Rory stood paralyzed while the intensity of his gaze focused on her. His eyes were like hot ice, heating and freezing her at the same time. They flicked downward to her plunging décolleté. Since Rory was more well-endowed than her sister, the bodice was a bit tight, pushing hills of creamy flesh above the edge of her gown. The force of his scrutiny sparked a tingling that spread from her nipples down to her privates. If not for the orchestra tuning their instruments and the cacophony of voices, she was sure that everyone would hear the wild thudding of her heart.
How she longed to dance with him, to whirl around the floor, to be clasped against his strong form. She held her breath in foolish hope.
He returned his gaze to his mother. “I’m afraid I promised the first dance to Miss Kipling.”
“Miss Kipling, bah. Bring the chit over here when you’re done, then. I want to see if she’s still scared witless of me.”
“We shall see. I shan’t make any promises on her behalf.”
With that, he strolled away, his broad-shouldered form disappearing into the sea of elegant guests. It was ridiculous to feel as if the party had lost a bit of its luster, Rory thought. She wasn’t a ninny whose happiness depended upon a man. Especially not one so irritating as the Marquess of Dashell.
Lord Henry bowed to Rory. “Since Dash has absconded, will you do me the honor of this dance, Miss Paxton?”
“I had better not,” she said, softening her refusal with a wry smile. “I don’t believe you realize just how notorious a figure I am.”
“Your notoriety will lend me a bit of cachet. All the other young bucks will be pea green with envy. Surely you won’t deny me that.”
His blue eyes twinkled with charm. He cut a devilishly handsome figure in his tailored black coat with a gold stickpin glinting in the folds of his cravat. A lock of brown hair had slipped onto his brow, adding to his rakish look. She could see how her sister might have fallen in love with him.
Rory glanced at Lady Dashell. She and Aunt Bernice were engaged in a cozy chat with several other middle-aged ladies. It didn’t seem they would even notice if she slipped away.
“All right, then,” she told Lord Henry. “I shall be happy to add a little tarnish to your good character.”
Afterward, she would have to find Kitty. By now, word of Rory’s presence would have reached her stepmother’s ears. Better to have their confrontation in the open, where Kitty wouldn’t dare make a scene.
They made their way through the hordes of guests to join the dancers. Lord Henry led her onto the parquet floor just as the orchestra launched into the strains of a waltz. Rory experienced a moment’s trepidation. “It’s been eight years. I hope I still remember the steps.”
He winked at her. “Just follow my lead. I’ll endeavor not to shriek when you tread on my toes.”
Her worry was for naught. With effortless grace, Lord Henry spun her around the dance floor, and her feet recalled the movements even if her mind did not. Lady Milford’s fine slippers created the illusion of skimming over a cloud. Lord Henry entertained her with lighthearted commentary about the other guests. He was so much more relaxed and talkative than his older brother that for the first time that evening she could simply enjoy herself. It felt wonderful to dance again, to trade witticisms, to feel the exuberance of youth. How had she lived without all this?
Her buoyant mood faltered only when she spied Lucas squiring Miss Kipling a short distance away. As they danced, he bent his head to murmur something to her. They made a striking couple, he so tall and dark and she so dainty and blond. A hard kernel of envy burrowed into Rory. He’d scarcely spoken a word to her during their one dance all those years ago.
What if he had? What if he’d used that heart-stopping smile on her? Would she have been drawn to him instead of Stefano? Would she have been saved from ruin?
It was useless to wonder. She could not change the past.
Rory resolutely turned her gaze from them. While perusing the crowd along the edge of the dance floor, she caught sight of her sister standing with her hand tucked in the crook of the Duke of Whittingham’s arm. He was chatting with another starchy old fellow and ignoring Celeste altogether.
Now there was a couple who didn’t look as if they belonged together.
She noticed Lord Henry stealing glances in that direction, too. This might be her chance to discern the depth of his emotions. “Do you see my sister standing near the orchestra? That pale pink gown certainly becomes her. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Anything becomes Miss Celeste,” he said gallantly. “She could wear sackcloth and ashes and still look pretty.”
“High praise, indeed.” She kept her voice light and teasing. “Tell me, are you sorry she’s already spoken for?”
Lord Henry made a face, the mask of charm dropping for a moment to show a hint of disgruntlement. “I’m sorry she accepted that ancient codger. All the fellows are. He’s old enough to be her grandfather.”
“I don’t believe he’s quite that old. Only forty, I’ve heard.”
“Old enough to be her father, then. Well, Whittingham is a duke, so that would make a girl overlook his other defects. But I wouldn’t have thought Miss Celeste to be the title-hunting sort.”
“She’s not. My sister isn’t covetous in the least. Although she is a bit too malleable for her own good.”
His blue eyes sharpened on her. “Do you mean her mother pushed her to accept this match?”
“I wasn’t here when it happened, but I believe that’s a fair guess.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance she might jilt Whittingham, is there?”
“Why, I don’t know,” Rory fibbed, thrilled that he would even ask such a question. “I’ve hardly had the chance to speak to her since I’ve been so busy with your mother.”
Lord Henry fell silent, though she noted his air of interest. She toyed with the notion of asking him straight-out if he was in love with Celeste. Yet perhaps it was enough to plant the seeds of action in his mind. It would be up to him to decide whether or not to try to persuade Celeste to end the betrothal.
Rory couldn’t do it for him.
The waltz came to an end, and he swept a courtly bow. “Thank you, Miss Paxton. Shall I escort you back to the old biddies?”
“Actually, I’m looking for someone. Do you remember a Colonel Hugo Flanders? He was a friend of your father’s.”
“Jolly fellow, but not your sort. Why do you ask?”
“Your mother mentioned him, that’s all,” Rory said vaguely. “I think she had something to tell him. Can you describe him for me?”
“He’s as bald as a baby’s behind and has a bushy ginger moustache to compensate. But do have a care. He preys upon beautiful women.”
They parted company, and he sauntered off to join a cluster of young gentlemen by the punch bowl. She recognized Perry Davenport’s fair features, but none of the other fellows. Of course, they had all been in grammar school when she’d been a debutante. It made her feel older and wiser by comparison.
At least her talk with Lord Henr
y had been encouraging. Maybe, just maybe, she’d nudged him into pursuing her sister. He would be able to provide for a wife once his brother married Miss Kipling.
Rory was sorry she’d thought of Lucas. She didn’t see him anywhere and she imagined him kissing his chosen bride in some private corner. Well, let him. She didn’t care what the almighty Marquess of Dashell did. While he romanced his heiress, Rory would track down Colonel Hugo Flanders.
Strolling through the ballroom, she scanned the throngs for a bald man with a ginger moustache. Some people met her eye and nodded coolly, though no one made any attempt to speak to her. Rory didn’t mind. Her purpose here wasn’t to make friends. Besides Flanders, she also needed to seek out her stepmother and smooth her ruffled feathers.
As if conjured by Rory’s thoughts, Kitty appeared through a shifting of the crowd. She had joined Celeste and the duke as they chatted with several other noblemen. A tense smile on her plump face, the woman covertly glanced around as if seeking her irksome stepdaughter.
Rory veered toward the group. It was time to reacquaint herself with the Duke of Whittingham. If he detested scandal as much as Kitty had said, then he’d be appalled to be seen with his fiancée’s ruined sister. And he might be more amenable to releasing Celeste from the betrothal.
Just as Rory drew near, however, someone grasped her wrist from behind. A firm male hand pulled her backward behind a huge pot of ferns.
Her heart cavorted in her bosom. Lucas? In spite of all common sense, her lips curved upward as she swiveled around to face him.
Her smile died a swift death. The breath stuck in her throat. Her entire body felt paralyzed, her feet rooted to the floor.
Liquid brown eyes gleamed at her from beneath a cap of wavy, raven-black hair. Her abductor had the classically handsome features and chiseled physique of a Roman god. He was every young girl’s dream of swoonworthy male perfection. His essence of exotic spice sent her hurtling back eight years.
