‘Sir,’ Crispin said, bowing, happy to comply.
Nothing gave him more pleasure than to quit his father’s presence.
He’d stop briefly to reassure his mother, perhaps look in on his sister. Then he’d head to the Lattimar town house.
If Gregory didn’t have to return immediately to Northumberland, he’d see if he could coax his friend to linger a while in London. If he were going to have to put his own priorities on hold while he endured—as long as he could stand it—the social events of the Season, having his best friend along would make the experience less dismal.
Although the end was sure. A refusal to wed, a tantrum from the Earl, and his family’s immediate departure for Montwell Glen. The only way to avoid that would be a wedding.
Not even his mother’s unhappiness would force him to that drastic a solution.
CHAPTER FIVE
Three nights later, after escorting his mother to the group of friends she’d promised to meet at the Sutterlings’ ball, Crispin scanned the room for Gregory Lattimar. When he’d called at his friend’s home after the interview with his father, though Lattimar was due to leave shortly for Northumberland, he’d managed to convince him to attend this one ball.
Spotting Lattimar at the far side of the room where refreshments were being dispersed, Crispin went over to meet him and snag a beverage of his own.
‘Good evening, Greg, and thanks for coming to help make the evening bearable. How goes it so far?’
‘The food is good, the wine is superior, and no hovering mamas have coerced me into dancing with their daughters, so it’s been fine. Have you met the Heiress yet?’
‘No. Have you?’
‘Lud, no,’ he said with a shudder. ‘Thankfully, I’m not in need of a fat dowry. When I finally marry, I’ll be looking for a female of impeccable breeding and character to help redeem the reputation of my rakish family.’
Crispin smiled. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that. Just because your younger brother married a former courtesan and one twin sister married an adventurer? After all, the other twin married an earl, and your family boasts a fine pedigree. No one as swimming in blunt as the heir to the Lattimar barony needs to worry about his standing in society.’
‘Maybe. But my formerly notorious mother is still not received by the highest sticklers, something I wish I could change. It makes me furious, since she’s done nothing scandalous for years and the gentlemen who earned her that reputation received hardly a murmur of reproof for their parts in it. But no matter. At least, unlike you,’ he added, tapping Crispin on the wrist, ‘I have no need to marry this Season.’
‘I’ve no intention of marrying either. As you well know,’ Crispin responded with some asperity. ‘So you may cease ragging me.’
‘I don’t know. Might not be a good idea to pass up the Heiress. Her sudden appearance in society has the clubs all abuzz. There are already bets being laid on how long it will take her to snag someone and just how high she might aspire to rise. Her fortune is supposed to surpass Golden Ball’s.’
Crispin was about to tell his friend—again—that despite his father’s insistence, he didn’t need money enough to resort to as drastic a solution as marriage when his mother came over. ‘Gregory, how nice to see you again. Your family is well?’
‘Very well, thank you, Lady Comeryn. You’re looking radiant tonight!’
‘You’re very kind. I am enjoying being back in London. It is such a delight to be in company again! I’m hoping to call on your mother soon.’
‘She will be happy to see you.’
‘And I, her. You will give her my best?’ As Gregory nodded, his mother put her hand on Crispin’s arm. ‘I’m afraid I must steal away my son. Unless you, too, would like an introduction to—’
‘Gracious of you, Lady Comeryn, but since I’m not in need of an heiress, I’m content to leave the field to those who are. Go on,’ Gregory said, grinning as he gave Crispin a little shove. ‘Be your most charming.’
‘Sorry,’ his mother murmured as she led him away. ‘But, as instructed by your father, I must present you to the Heiress. By the way, Lady Auberly assured me, with some surprise, that she is quite presentable. I think you should...give her a chance.’
‘Mother...’ he said in a warning tone.
‘Nothing more, I assure you! I can hardly ask more, since I’m already so indebted to you for agreeing to this.’
‘All for you, Mama,’ he said, steeling himself to be pleasant for the decent interval he must remain conversing with the girl before he could escape. Also wondering what on earth he would converse about with a young female of tender years with whom he could have almost nothing in common.
As they approached the opposite side of the ballroom where a bevy of young females and their chaperons awaited the next dance, he caught a glimpse in profile of a tall, slender lady with a crown of dark curls that shimmered with auburn highlights in the candlelight. A little jolt of shock and delight went through him.
Could it really be... Miss Cranmore? What in the world would she be doing here?
Smiling, he picked up his pace. If it truly was her, maybe he could speak with her after he’d done his duty by the Heiress.
Just then, the lady turned in his direction, and he caught his breath.
It was indeed Miss Cranmore, and she looked...dazzling! The evening gown with its wide sleeves, low décolletage and narrow waist above a wide bell of skirts seemed expressly designed to display her lovely curves, while her dark eyes were as sparkling as the jewels at her neck and ears.
As if pulled by some invisible cord, he found himself walking towards her. He was about to speak to her when he suddenly realised that his mother had halted next to him. The matron beside Miss Cranmore curtsied to him, as did the young lady, her polite smile turning radiant as she recognised him.
‘Lady Arlsley, Miss Cranmore,’ his mother was saying, ‘allow me to present my son, Viscount Dellamont.’
Confused, he frowned. Arlsley...was the name of the Baron whose wife was sponsoring the Heiress. His mother had fetched him a moment ago expressly so she might to introduce him to the Heiress.
Which meant... Miss Cranmore was the Factory Heiress?
He was dimly aware of bowing, his tongue automatically producing the required politeness, while shock was succeeded by disbelief, then by a dawning sense of anger...and outrage.
He’d thought her so unusual, so uninterested in the normal female activities and pretences. She’d professed a desire to stave off marriage as long as possible and a total uninterest in marrying to improve her station.
Yet bets were being placed at this very moment in all the London clubs, wagering on how soon she’d marry and how highly born a husband she’d trap.
Had she been playing him for a fool back in Bristol?
* * *
The polite society smile frozen on her face, Marcella turned to glimpse the clock on the faraway mantel and figure out just how much longer she had to remain at this accursed ball before she could insist that Lady Arlsley let her go home.
This second evening of her society debut was proceeding much like first. While it had not been quite as dreadful as she’d feared, it was unpleasant enough an echo of her time at Miss Axminster’s that she wasn’t sure how long going she’d be able to stand it before she held Papa to his word and insisted on being allowed to abandon the Season she’d never wanted.
The morning after her dinner with Grandda, a glacially polite Lady Arlsley had received her. The following two afternoons, she’d taken Marcella calling on aristocratic ladies who woodenly acknowledged her chaperon’s thanks for inviting her to their entertainments, those ladies looking no more enthused about the prospect than her sponsor. While so far no one had openly cut her at the two events she’d attended, few beyond the immediate circle of Lady Arlsley’s acquaintances had deigned speak with he
r and the other young ladies making their debuts had pointedly ignored her. Mercifully, she hadn’t yet encountered any of her tormentors from her time at Miss Axminster’s.
The coolness of her reception by the feminine contingent was in sharp contrast to the abject flattery she’d received from the smattering of gentlemen who had asked to be presented. All of them, she was certain, must in such urgent need of her dowry that they were prepared to overlook her lack of family and breeding. Not one of those desperate gentlemen interested her in slightest—and one she already held in aversion.
Lord Hoddleston had seemed to sense the dislike beneath her politeness. For some reason she couldn’t fathom, her inadequately concealed distaste seemed to amuse and pique his interest rather than discourage him. She’d actually had to resort to visiting the ladies’ retiring room to escape his persistent attentions at last night’s rout.
Fortunately, she hadn’t encountered him yet this evening and could only hope that good luck would hold. Since he was a baron of ancient lineage, the fact that she found him distasteful was unlikely to persuade Lady Arlsley to allow her to avoid him. Her sponsor would probably jump at the chance to marry her off to the first available candidate and be rid of a charge she’d been no more eager to take on than Marcella had been to agree to this worthless endeavour.
Her fixed gaze not prompting the hands of that mantel clock to circle any faster, she turned back towards the ballroom...and saw him approaching. Shock, delight and nervousness rushed through her in rapid succession.
Though she’d known there was a chance she might encounter Viscount Dellamont at some society event, she hadn’t really believed it would happen. But as he continued to walk right towards her, it became apparent that she was indeed going to meet him again.
He’d been arrestingly handsome that day in his well-tailored jacket, breeches and dusty riding boots. He looked even taller and more commanding in formal black evening wear. A riot of dark curls shadowing his forehead, his square-jawed face with its intense, intelligent eyes compelling above an intricate white neckcloth, he all but took her breath away.
How would he react to her being here, invading his realm? Would she sense between them the same heady spark of attraction she’d felt in Bristol?
Nearly dizzy with anticipation, her spirits soared at the possibility of speaking with, perhaps even dancing with, someone who knew the real person behind the ‘Factory Heiress’, the hated moniker with which society had saddled her.
Then he was at her side, the lady who must be his mother presenting him. She tried to order her scrambled wits to respond with the appropriate phrases while her pulse pounded in her ears and a nervous eagerness made swallows swoop and dive in her stomach.
She was dimly aware that the musicians were tuning up to resume the dancing when Lady Arlsley said, ‘So good to see you again, Lord Dellamont. I believe that’s a waltz I hear? I’m sure Miss Cranmore would be delighted to dance it with you.’
Would he be delighted to dance with her? After Lady Arlsley’s leading comment, it would be awkward for him to refuse.
And he didn’t. Bowing, so she couldn’t really see his face to gauge his reaction, he held out his arm. ‘If you would do me the honour, Miss Cranmore?’
‘Of course, my lord.’ She placed her hand on his sleeve, a tingle running up her arm as he led her on to the floor.
As the music began and he placed one hand at her waist and took her hand with the other, the rush of pleasurable sensations coursing through her body once again momentarily paralysed all thought. They’d taken several turns around the floor before she recovered wit enough to look up at his face.
With a frisson of alarm, she noted the rigid jaw, the expressionless face, and the gaze that looked not at, but through her.
Her excitement vanished as swiftly as it had arisen. If he hadn’t wished to acknowledge her, why had he consented to be presented?
Maybe she was wrong to assume he’d danced with her unwillingly. Either way, she simply had to know for sure.
Gathering up her courage, she said, ‘It was a pleasant and unexpected surprise to see you here tonight, my lord. I know you are frequently out of London.’
‘It was a surprise to see you as well. More of a shock, actually.’
She couldn’t really tell anything from his tone. ‘A shock to me, too. I certainly hadn’t intended to be here.’
‘So you said earlier. I seem to remember you telling me something about your mother’s aspirations. How you yourself had no interest in attaining an “elevated status” and preferred mathematics to marriage?’ He gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘You certainly took me in, didn’t you? Or was all that palaver just a ploy to intrigue me, knowing you were going to meet me again in London?’
She gasped with outrage. ‘You think...you think I deliberately misled you?’
‘You’re here, aren’t you? Swanning about at a society ball surrounded by company a good deal more elevated than can be found in an engineering office. With all of them knowing your goal is to trade your vast dowry for as high a title as it will buy.’
‘You think I intend to sell myself for a title?’ she asked, truly enraged now. ‘I’ll have you know I had absolutely no desire to be here in this so-called “elevated” company! And what about you?’ she asked, suddenly struck. ‘The only titled men who’ve sought introductions to me have been fortune hunters. Yet I seem to recall you pronouncing how “detestable” it would be to marry for wealth or advantage. Or were you trying to “intrigue” me, too, back in Bristol?’
She was furious—and much more hurt than she should be. She’d always known that meeting in Bristol was singular, that if he were to encounter her somewhere else, there was a good chance he’d cut her. It was because he’d induced her to hope for more from him that she was so disappointed now.
She felt a rising sense of outrage that he’d led her to talk about herself and what she found important, made her think he shared her views on industry and progress. When at heart, he’d just shown himself as cold, calculating and arrogantly dismissive as all the other aristocrats she’d ever encountered.
The fact that she’d been completely bamboozled by his charm cut her to the quick. Feeling suddenly unable to endure another moment of his traitorous hands touching her, she pulled away from him and stopped short, compelling him to halt also. ‘You will return me to my chaperon now.’
‘That would suit me perfectly,’ he said icily.
Ignoring the exclamations of annoyance and distress of the other couples who had to swerve to avoid them, he offered his arm. She could barely bring herself to place her hand on it, but did, holding her head high, willing the tears that threatened not to fall while he escorted her off the dance floor, more or less shoved her towards her chaperon, gave her a stiff bow, and stalked off.
‘What have you done? Everyone in the ballroom is staring at us!’ Lady Arlsley hissed.
The hurt and disappointment layered on top of the strain of the last few days was finally just too much. If she had to remain in this room one more minute, she would suffocate. ‘Let them look,’ she cried. ‘I... I must go to the ladies’ retiring room.’
Breaking away from her chaperon, she hurried towards the exit of the ballroom.
Only to halt as she reached the door. She might find solitude in the retiring room—or she might encounter a clutch of disdainful females who’d delight in ignoring her or offering more of the slyly insulting compliments she’d received so often these last two nights.
Worse, as soon as the dance ended, the room would probably fill with ladies eager to gossip about her sudden departure in the middle of the waltz.
She couldn’t endure that.
Suddenly her gaze caught on the brightness of a burning torch. A terrace ran outside the length of the ballroom, she realised, visible through a series of French doors. The torches burning at intervals along it
indicated the hostess had had it lighted so that dancers might escape the heat of the ballroom and refresh themselves in the cool night air.
At the moment, it appeared deserted. Heedless of her lack of wrap or escort, Marcella strode through the nearest door and out on to the terrace.
With tears falling now, she sought out the dimmest corner. Wrapping her arms around herself, she gave in to silent sobs of misery and disappointment.
She’d really wanted to meet Dellamont again, wondering how he might react. Well, now she knew.
He might have looked and sounded like the hero out of a storybook in Bristol, but in the brilliant candlelight of a London ballroom, she’d discovered what he truly was—just as high in the instep, dismissive and condescending as all the rest of them. It was probably best that her silly illusions about the sort of man he was had been shattered.
She should have known better. She knew better now.
After this, like she had with the girls at Miss Axminster’s, she would be polite but distant. Play her part, ignore the provocations, smile, dance, endure the coldness and spite of the women, dismiss the entreaties of the supplicants. For a month. Then she’d hold her father to their bargain, go back where she belonged, and shake the dust of this world from her shoes for good.
‘My, my, what have we here? Did all the adulation in the ballroom become too much for you?’
Marcella whirled around—to find herself confronted by her least favourite of all the unfavoured gentlemen. Though Lord Hoddleston was elegantly turned out, there was something about him beyond the mocking undertone of his voice that made her wary.
He was probably thought handsome, although in the brighter light of the candelabra last night she’d noted a bleariness in his eyes and lines on his face that hinted a life of excess was beginning to catch up to him. Not wanting Lady Arlsley to infer he interested her, she’d not enquired any further about his background or circumstances than the short summation her chaperon had given. But Marcella figured his finances must be truly desperate for him to be pursuing the likes of her, when she’d been told his title dated back almost four hundred years.
Harlequin Historical July 2021--Box Set 1 of 2 Page 29
