Gabriel was in a foul mood.
Half hidden by a velvet drape, he leaned a hip against the polished oak handrail of the balconied corridor overlooking the great hall. Crossing his arms over his chest, he continued to scowl down at the gathering pool of ladies and their chaperones as they awaited the commencement of a guided tour of Wolverest.
One of the reasons for his current state of vexation was that Julienne Campbell had been eliminated last evening. No one informed him until the lass and her grandparents were well on their way to Edinburgh this morning. This wasn’t supposed to happen. No one was to be sent away before the night of the ball. Tristan was a damn fool.
But the second, more pressing reason for his foul mood was walking straight toward him from down the darkened corridor, matching strides with Tristan: Rothbury.
All his life, Gabriel had distanced himself from any sentimental emotions connected with women. It was a surprisingly easy thing to do. Was. The stock he once put in his indifference wavered and shattered. His hands curled into fists and all he wanted to do was pummel Rothbury to the ground, then drag the rakehell down the stairs and throw him out of the house. All this and Madelyn wasn’t even his.
Early this morning, after he breakfasted alone, he had amassed a small hunting party, which included Tristan, Rothbury, Lord Fairbourne, a local farmer and friend, and himself. The crisp air seemed to have cleared Miss Haywood straight out of his head until Rothbury started chattering away about her physical attributes. Gabriel had grinned down at his gun, thinking how easily the man could have been mistaken for a partridge.
“I wonder,” Rothbury drawled now as he approached. “Are you going to follow them about, making certain no one steals the silver?”
Gabriel answered with a grunt. Dismissing the earl, he turned to Tristan. “Why did you eliminate Miss Campbell?”
“Because she had a crooked bottom tooth,” Tristan said casually. “Besides, she bored me.”
So that’s why he wasn’t told. “You can’t eliminate them because of your asinine imagination.”
“Imagination? Every time I looked at the chit, I couldn’t help but stare at her mouth. Distracting, it was.” At Gabriel’s silent glare, Tristan added in defense, “I certainly didn’t tell her that…exactly. And it shan’t happen again. The not-telling-you-first part, I mean. Indeed, you can’t expect me to marry a woman with such an evident flaw.” Ignoring his brother’s scowl, Tristan joined Rothbury in leaning over the handrail to ogle the ladies below. “I say, what a lovely view.”
The Fairbourne twins spied them first, awarding them flirtatious smiles and a wave of their lace handkerchiefs. An eyelash-batting Harriet noticed Tristan second, followed by Laura Ellis, who giggled behind her gloved hand.
“Hmm…It seems there are two missing,” Rothbury surmised. “Shall I investigate?”
“No,” Gabriel and Tristan barked in unison.
“Let’s see,” Rothbury said, rubbing his jaw. “That would be Miss Greene and Miss Haywood?”
Gabriel grunted.
At that, Tristan straightened, his face pulled into an expression of contemplation. “Do you know, I think I quite like Miss Haywood.”
Rothbury turned to Tristan, his lips straightening to a thin line. “Is that so?”
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. Was that a quirk of a taunt he saw in Tristan’s eyes? “And why is that?” he asked, hating the curiosity niggling at him.
“Come now, Gabriel,” Rothbury stated. “As I remarked this morning, I for one quite enjoy the elegant turn of her neck.”
“And when have you had the time to gawk at her neck?” Gabriel asked.
“During dinner last evening,” Rothbury answered.
“Should’ve been there, Gabe,” Tristan replied, smiling like an imp. “Her gown was of the palest pink, her skin looked like a ribbon of poured cream.”
Gabriel took a deep, calming breath. Since when did his brother wax poetic? He thought of the scattering of dots on the back of her neck and shoulders he had spied during her archery lesson. “She has freckles,” he said in an annoyed tone. “Lots of them.”
Tristan only shrugged.
“Like me, you never liked freckles, remember?” Gabriel pointed out.
“I don’t mind them much now.” Tristan waited for his brother to look at him, then raised a challenging brow.
Gabriel nodded slowly. “So your admiration of Miss Haywood is solely founded on creamy skin and freckles?”
“There’s more,” Tristan said in defense.
“Lord, help me.”
“She smells simply delicious.”
Gabriel said nothing, bothered as he was that his brother had also noticed her alluring scent.
“And her hair is such a gloriously dark, rich red.”
“You’ve been partial to blondes since birth,” Gabriel reminded him.
Tristan responded to his comment with another shrug, but Gabriel hadn’t missed his lips twitch with a smile. It seemed that Tristan was deliberately baiting his jealousy. And he’d fallen for it like a stumbling imbecile.
“I must agree with your brother,” Rothbury interjected. “She’s quite unlike the others.”
“And I agree,” Gabriel said with exasperated certainty.
“I find enjoyment in her reservation,” Tristan continued. “She’s serene.”
“What? Serene? Reserved? She’s impudent and rash.”
Tristan grinned. “She has none of the wealth or noble connections as the other ladies and yet holds herself with such quiet dignity, it’s as if she fancies herself as superior.”
“Miss Greene can be placed in that category as well,” Gabriel drawled. “Why not count off her qualities?”
“Ah, here they are now,” Tristan replied. “I think I’ll go wish them well and express my eagerness for their return.” Turning with a grin, he bounded down the stairs to join the growing crowd.
Walking with Miss Greene, Miss Haywood looked decidedly comfortable in a light green muslin that was undoubtedly one of her own, as her breasts appeared contained. And thank God for that. Gabriel didn’t think he could handle such a delectable sight from his current vantage point, especially with Rothbury leering down at her like a starved wolf.
Rubbing his stubbled jaw in his hand, Rothbury nodded to himself, apparently making up his mind about something.
“Rothbury,” Gabriel growled, a warning in his tone.
The earl pushed off the railing. “I think I’ll be on my way.”
“Hold.” Gabriel stayed him by clamping a hand over his shoulder. “I didn’t invite them here to be ravished by you.”
Rothbury shot an affronted glare at the hand on his shoulder before shrugging it off. “I’ll not ravish them all.”
“You’ll not place a finger on a single one.”
“Come now, Gabriel,” Rothbury began, the devil in his gaze. “You know as well as I it wouldn’t hurt should I pluck one straggling sheep into a darkened corridor and sample her wares. After all, shouldn’t Tristan know if he’s choosing a cold fish or an eager student?”
“Stay away from her,” Gabriel warned. They both knew he spoke of Miss Haywood.
“Tsk, tsk. I am a guest in your house,” Rothbury taunted. “If you recall, I was invited to tour this pile of rocks along with them.” He threw what he said next over his shoulder as he sauntered away. “I heard about your little interviews. What would you do? Schedule another one and ask her if I sunk my tongue down her throat?”
An angry growl rose from Gabriel’s throat as he threw one arm out, catching Rothbury by the back of his coat and fairly dragging the man to stand before him. “If you do not want me to cut it off with a rusty broadsword, you’ll manage to keep it in your mouth.” Abruptly, he released him.
The earl stumbled back a bit, but his features yet held an amused expression. “My, my, Gabriel. A little overprotective, are we?” He dusted himself off. “Seems I’ve some competition. This could be fun.”
“I’ll
be watching you,” Gabriel said, stalking away, heading for the wide steps.
As he descended the stairs, he stole a glance at the crowd of women assembled across the hall. Before turning the corner, his eyes instantly connected with Miss Haywood’s. She was smiling at something one of the other ladies had said. She bowed her head slightly in acknowledgment of his presence, but Gabriel looked away, leaving her gesture unreciprocated.
“The restoration of Wolverest Castle began in the late fifteenth century,” the butler intoned, “and continues today with the exception of the west wing and its original chapel…”
As the butler’s bored tone droned on and on—mercilessly—Madelyn stood in the back of the crowd, pretending to admire some enormous smoky green vase of which they were told there were only three like it in the world.
She hated tours of great houses. Adversely, it was something the Greenes loved to do whenever they traveled. Throughout her adolescence, Madelyn had accompanied them to more halls, abbeys, castles, and sprawling manors than she could ever count. And if they were reputed to be haunted…well, that was all the better.
What Madelyn disliked so fervently about tours was being told where she was allowed to wander and where she was not. It was the forbidden staircase she wanted to explore, the barred dungeon the mistress of the house deemed their sensibilities too fragile to withstand, that frustrated her. Simply put, being herded into room after room in which they were allowed to observe did not fascinate her anywhere near as much as a single room they were banned from viewing.
With that in mind, she sighed, thinking of the locked doors barring them from a viewing of the Devine family’s private art gallery. When the butler searched through his ring of keys for the last time and then explained he had misplaced the one belonging to that room, Madelyn had to restrain herself from waving madly from the back of the group, volunteering to go and fetch it herself.
The crowd shuffled farther down the hall, the enthusiastic Greenes in lead with the butler. Not surprising to Madelyn, Charlotte chose to wear her spectacles for the tour, hiding them in her reticule until Lord Tristan bid them farewell. There was no way her friend would chance missing a single detail because of her silly reservations about Lord Tristan catching her with her spectacles on. Besides, he wasn’t supposed to be joining them again until supper that evening.
As the group of young women made their way into the sculpture room like a pack of sheep bored into a trance, Madelyn held back. In her mind’s eye she retraced their steps, thinking there must be at least one other door to the art gallery that might be unlocked. Making a mental map, she pieced the rooms they had visited with their connecting hallways.
“The duchess’s parlor,” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder down the candlelit corridor behind her. She recalled a pair of tall, white paneled doors behind the butler’s back as he launched into his soliloquy of the benefits of the Adam brothers’ graceful design. If her calculations were correct, those doors should lead, if not directly, to the private art gallery. It was worth a go.
She peeked around the heavy oak door into the enormous sculpture room, making certain Priscilla hadn’t taken notice of her departure. In the far corner, her stepmother stood in deep conversation with Lord Fairbourne. Satisfied, Madelyn turned back and slinked down the corridor, heading for the last room on her left. With one last glance over her shoulder, she ducked into the room.
“My dear Miss Haywood,” Lady Beauchamp exclaimed, her voice echoing loudly within the immense gold and cream parlor. “You’re not having a good time of it, are you, my gel?”
Madelyn inwardly groaned. “Aunt Lucinda,” she said in cautious greeting. Her aunt had apparently spied the row of decanters on the side table when the party visited the room earlier. Obviously, she must have thought to stay behind and sample their contents.
Giving a quiet sigh, Madelyn realized that backing out of the room, though easier than talking to her aunt, wouldn’t appease her burgeoning curiosity about those doors. She slipped farther into the shadowed room, lit only by the small fire smoldering in the hearth.
Draining the last remaining drop of wine in her glass, Lady Beauchamp settled it on a small table in front of the crimson settee she lounged upon. “Oh, how my heart breaks for you, child. Oh, a little anyway. This is a competition, after all.”
“Whatever do you mean?” Madelyn asked, when in actuality she didn’t give a hoot. She casually made her way across the room toward the pair of white doors.
“Good heavens! My meaning is clear,” Lady Beauchamp said with a drunken chuckle. “Falling in the pond, addressing His Grace improperly, and to top it all off, you argued with him and presented him with your back. By the Fairbournes’ account, you’ve done little to entice his lordship and only raised the ire of the duke by your performances.”
Her aunt laughed again. This time the movement threw her off balance and she teetered where she sat. If the woman hadn’t been sitting, Madelyn mused, she would have most probably ended up face first on the Aubusson rug.
“I’m not worried,” Madelyn replied, walking past the rain-streaked mullioned windows. “If they chose to eliminate me, so be it.”
“Oh, I hope not, child. You might not catch yourself a husband but you’ve done well giving us all something to giggle about.”
Halfway to the doors across the room, Madelyn feigned an interest in the elaborate scrollwork of the ceiling, partly because the detail was astonishing and partly because the distraction kept her from becoming irritated by her aunt’s words.
“Such visits to the country…hiccup…I find them dreadfully boring.” Lady Beauchamp blotted her handkerchief across her chest. “Awfully damp in here, is it not? That tiny fire does little to chase away the shadows, and warms the room even less.”
“Perhaps it is so because it has been raining since just after noon,” Madelyn suggested, hoping her aunt wouldn’t ask her why she was about to jiggle the handles of the set of doors. To her surprise, they turned easily. She smiled, the thrill of a pending exploration making her heart race.
“Got lost, did you?” Lady Beauchamp asked, rocking back and forth in an effort to scoot her robust frame to the edge of the settee.
“Er…yes. Do you need assistance?”
She shooed Madelyn’s question away with her handkerchief. “Those doors will lead you to a corridor connecting back to the sculpture room,” her aunt said, pausing in the act of standing so she could regain her sense of balance.
Madelyn’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Thank you,” she said politely, swinging open the doors.
“You thought those would get you inside that private art gallery, didn’t you, child?”
Eyes blinking in surprise, Madelyn turned back, catching her aunt’s conspiratorial wink.
“You’re not a very clever one are you, child? I’m sitting here chirping merry and even I could figure that one out. Maybe that’s your trouble. You need a drink.”
Simply at a loss for words, Madelyn managed a shaky nod and half a smile. The woman had been offending people for years—herself since birth. Most blamed Lady Beauchamp’s loose tongue and slanting remarks on her fondness for taking frequent dips into the brandy decanter; however, Madelyn knew her aunt, drunk or sober, simply did not have the continuity of thought to see beyond her opinions to the implied insult.
She slipped out into the dark corridor, shutting out what little light the parlor provided once she closed the doors at her back. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, a rosy glow of candlelight pooled onto the floor at the end of the hall. She strode toward it, disappointed she had to rejoin the group and cut her exploring short. The sound of hushed voices reached her ears, stalling her footsteps.
“…so blue, they’re like those of an angel…”
“He’s so tall,” someone said on a sigh. “His shoulders, strong and broad. I thought I’d swoon into his arms when he looked at me.”
“Were you not overcome with envy yesterday as he so obviously
tried to pretend not to be looking at me? A subtle flirt, he is.”
Madelyn instantly recognized the whiny tone of Miss Bernadette Fairbourne. It seemed Lord Tristan’s admiring flock was in the process of counting off his various attributes. She inhaled, preparing to clear her throat as she rounded the corner into their line of vision. The next comment stopped her cold.
“To think we’d want Lord Tristan when such an impressive specimen as His Grace is around,” Bernadette proclaimed. “His lordship’s a veritable schoolboy compared to the duke. His looks so brooding, his presence so commanding. I believe his apparent disinterest in marriage hides a deep craving for feminine attention. And I should think any one of us could change his mind.”
“Quite. At least one of us, anyway.”
There was a pause as the group did their best to smother a rush of giggles.
“Hush. She’ll hear you.”
“Who? Charlotte? She’s too busy in the corner, hiding from Lord Tristan,” Bernadette crooned. “Poor dear, it’s too bad she put on her spectacles. Did you see the look of panic on her face when he surprised us all and entered the room? It’s obvious she didn’t think he’d actually join the tour.” She paused to giggle. “He keeps turning to look at her and she keeps revolving so that he can’t.”
“Well, she can have him,” someone added with dramatic conviction, perhaps the other Fairbourne girl or Laura Ellis.
“Oh, I’m not certain.” Harriet. The high-pitched, singsong voice belonged to her cousin, Madelyn was sure. “I still prefer Lord Tristan.”
“Nonsense, Harriet,” Bernadette said with a laugh. “None of us should put much credence in the fact His Grace wouldn’t change his mind and take a bride himself. It would be too late then, should one of us marry Lord Tristan. Dreams of being Duchess of Wolverest would vanish in a pinch.”
“Still,” Harriet whined.
“Perish the thought! We need your concentration. We’ve got bigger game to fell,” Bernadette instructed. “But remember, ladies, this is a friendly competition, discretion is the key.”
At the Bride Hunt Ball Page 13
