“Any rumors you may have heard of my imminent financial collapse are grossly exaggerated, my dear,” Englemere said at last. “I assure you there will be no need for my wife to earn her bread on the stage—or the street.”
Clarissa stiffened. “You are offensive, Englemere.” In one fluid motion, she scooped the shawl from the floor and flung it about her shoulders. “Do get up, Mama. Timms will be bringing our cloaks.”
Englemere placed a hand on her collarbone. “No, ’tis you who offend, my dear.” He ran his fingers up the bare skin to her chin and tilted her face toward him. “You’ve had your little joke, shocked your poor mama and made Miss Wellingford miss half the duchess’s ball. ’Tis time to behave. You have twenty minutes to change into something suitable and present yourself back downstairs.”
Clarissa set her teeth and glared at him. “The gown was commissioned for this ball and I mean to wear it. If you dislike the style, ’tis your own fault. You should have stayed at the modiste’s until we made the final selection.”
“You can’t imagine I would have approved this.” The marquess met her glare. After a fraught moment, and despite her obvious anger, Clarissa dropped her eyes.
“Twenty minutes. Considering how little there is of it, ’twill be no great piece of work to remove. Lady Beaumont, if you please, send Miss Wellingford to assist.”
Timms entered, the ladies’ evening cloaks draped over his arm. The marquess turned to him. “Have the housekeeper summon Miss Clarissa’s maid—Lizette, is it? She is to be discharged immediately.”
Clarissa had been walking with sulky reluctance toward the door, but at this, she whirled around with a gasp. “How dare you presume to dismiss my servant?”
Ignoring her, the marquess continued, “Since ’tis already dark, the girl may stay the night, but I want her gone first thing in the morning. She may approach my housekeeper in Curzon Street for her wages.”
Clarissa stormed up to him. Englemere silenced her with one contemptuous look.
After the butler withdrew, he drawled, “My dear, you can hardly expect me to nursemaid you through every social engagement. Since you’ve demonstrated so little sense of your own, you must have a proper dresser.” He paused for a sip of wine. “I cannot permit my wife to employ a maid lack-witted enough to send her mistress out dressed like a Covent Garden drab.”
Lady Beaumont moaned, and Sarah caught her breath in dismay. White-faced with fury, Clarissa stood stock-still, two bright spots of color burning in her cheeks. She made a movement with one hand. Englemere trapped her wrist.
“Don’t even try,” he breathed.
Clarissa jerked her hand free. Turning on her heel, she swept from the room and slammed the door.
In the hall Sarah heard the crash of splintering crockery. She wondered with numb detachment which of the Chinese vases had been sacrificed to Clarissa’s wrath.
She started at a touch to her arm. “We leave in twenty minutes,” the marquess said softly, and Sarah was struck again by his air of weariness. “If Clarissa chooses to stay home and pout, she may do so, but please do come down yourself.” He gave her an apologetic flicker of a smile. “I shouldn’t wish you to miss the ball entirely.”
Quietly he moved to the sideboard. “Dear Lady Beaumont, you must need a restorative.”
The door opened before she reached it, revealing a wooden-faced Timms and three footmen hovering in the hall. Jagged shards lay scattered about the marble floor.
Sighing, Sarah mounted the stairs once again. The state Clarissa would be in when she arrived didn’t bear thinking of. Why could the marquess not have chosen to delay schooling his bride until after the wedding?
To Sarah’s surprise, Clarissa completed her change with unusual speed, in even more unusual silence. However, anger radiated from her in palpable waves, and Sarah was unhappily certain that before the night ended, she would explode.
The marquess and Lady Beaumont awaited them in the entry, already garbed in their evening cloaks. As the two friends descended, Lord Englemere extracted a pocket watch from the folds of his cloak and made an elaborate show of consulting it. “So you can be punctual when you wish,” he announced. “An encouraging sign.”
Clarissa, engaged in adjusting the cape the footman had thrown over her shoulders, did not reply. Englemere strolled over to her. “Late as it is, shall we go?”
Clarissa looked through the marquess as if he weren’t there. Ignoring his proffered arm, she walked past him to the door. Lady Beaumont and the footman both inhaled audibly, and even Timms’s hands faltered on the door handle. Sarah thought she saw the flicker of a smile on Englemere’s lips before he shrugged and gave his arm to Lady Beaumont.
The receiving line had long since disbanded when they finally arrived at the duchess’s ball. Before they could attempt to find their hostess, a blond bear of a man accosted them.
“Thank God you’re here, Englemere! Thought I’d mistaken the date.”
“Sorry, Hal. Ladies, let me present my good friend Mr. Henry Mountbanke Waterman. Hal, Lady Beaumont, Miss Clarissa Beaumont and Miss Sarah Wellingford.”
Clarissa turned on him a smile so radiant the young man’s jaw dropped. “Charmed to meet you, Mr. Waterman. I’m in a positive fury to dance. Shall we?”
Before she could offer her hand, Englemere scooped it up. “Hal will be delighted to squire you later, my dear. First we must greet the duchess and settle your mama.”
Clarissa tried, unsuccessfully, to pull her hand free. “Come along, my dear,” the marquess said in the cajoling tone with which one humors a sulky child. He patted his friend’s shoulder. “Hal, why don’t you take Miss Wellingford for a turn? He looks ferocious,” he said to Sarah with a smile, “but he’s really quite tame.”
Though Clarissa cast him a furious glance, the marquess bore her off. ’Twas one more match waved near a smoking fuse, Sarah thought as she smiled at the blond giant.
Mr. Waterman managed to cease gaping, but hadn’t yet progressed to speech. With practiced ease, Sarah filled the gap. “I’m sure Clarissa will dance with you later.”
Mr. Waterman shuddered. “No, thank you, ma’am! Don’t like Beauties. Acid tongues, most of ’em. Like m’mother. Came to dance with you.”
“Me?” Sarah echoed in astonishment.
“Nicky told us that bounder Findlay was making up to you. Said you needed some camfo—camfla—”
“Camouflage?”
“Yes, that’s it. Nobody can see around me, you know. Avoid balls as a rule, but had to come. My best friend.”
“Lord Englemere?”
“Why, yes. Did you think I meant Findlay? Bad man, that. Ought to avoid him.”
With that sage advice, he led her onto the floor. “Big lummox, but I dance well. No conversation, though. Nicky said you wouldn’t mind.”
“There’s no need to converse if you prefer not to.” Sarah craned her neck up. Though his face and form were larger than an ordinary man’s, her massive escort was quite handsome, once one adjusted to the sheer size of him.
If he were inarticulate, he also seemed kind. Curiosity got the better of her, and despite her assurance, she had to ask, “Why do you avoid balls, Mr. Waterman?”
“Women. Girls, actually. Terrified of ’em. So little and frail. Afraid I’m going to step on a foot, or hold an arm too tight.” He peered down at her in sudden alarm. “You ain’t fragile, are you? Nicky promised you wasn’t.”
“I’m quite sturdy,” Sarah assured him.
“Worse ’n that, they want to marry me. Oh, I know I’m not much to look at—or too much, rather.” He smiled with self-deprecating humor. “Don’t matter, though. Least not to the mamas. Rich, you see.”
Sarah felt a rush of sympathy. “Mr. Waterman, if you are pursued, I’m sure ’tis not for your wealth. I find you quite attractive, and I expect other ladies do as well.”
He missed a step and looked at her in amazement.
Sarah nudged him back in rhythm. “Your m
anner is, ah, comforting, and I find your size very—manly.”
The tips of his ears reddened, but he shook his head. “Nicky said you was a right’un, but that’s doing it too brown, ma’am. Why, my valet’s always complaining. Can’t stuff me into any sort of fashionable rig. Sad disappointment to her, m’mother says,” he added gruffly.
“How unfeeling,” Sarah cried. Catching herself, she continued, “’Tis not my place to criticize, of course. I expect mothers always wish the best for their children. I’m sure I’m often a disappointment to mine.”
“Couldn’t be,” he returned firmly. “Not much in the bone-box—” he gestured to his head “—but Nicky’s a downy one. He likes you, and Nicky’s never wrong.”
Suddenly Mr. Waterman stiffened. “Lord, m’mother! She’ll try to push some little chit on me. Have to bolt.”
He began to dance her rapidly to the opposite side of the room. “Promised Nicky I’d turn you over to Ned. Must go then. No offense taken?”
Sarah gave him her warmest smile. “Not at all, Mr. Waterman. Thank you for a lovely dance. And you’re wrong, you know. You converse quite nicely.”
“I do?” He looked startled, then a slow grin lit his face. “Tell m’mother, would you?”
“Why would Miss Wellingford wish to converse with your esteemed parent, Hal?” asked a quiet voice at her elbow. “Go on, introduce me,” the man prompted.
Mr. Waterman grinned and bashed the newcomer on the shoulder. “Don’t mind Ned. Always ragging me. Sir Edward Austin Greeves, Miss Wellingford. Guard her well, gallows-bait. Findlay’s in the far corner.” Nodding in that direction, he froze. “M’mother. Must dash. ’Servant, Miss Wellingford.” With a speed unexpected in so large a man, he wheeled on one foot and fled.
Sarah froze too, and in spite of herself her glance went to the distant corner. As if waiting, Sir James caught her eye and made an elaborate bow.
Sir Edward grasped her trembling hand. “Shall we dance, Miss Wellingford?”
She stuttered something and followed him, taut as a bowstring at the knowledge of Findlay’s scrutiny. The baronet simply stood, the mocking smile she hated fixed on his lips, watching them like a predator.
She forced herself to concentrate on Sir Edward. “Did Lord Englemere really send you? How singular of him.”
“Nicky is a staunch friend, as I have good reason to know,” he replied. “With his support, you need not fear—” his glance drifted briefly to Findlay “—unpleasantness.”
In that instant she realized the full import of Mr. Waterman’s terse words. Clarissa’s quixotic betrothed had deliberately directed two eligible bachelors to attend, protect—and court her? A blaze of hope flared, as swiftly dying. Even had that been his intent, she had no time to ensnare a new suitor. Still, Englemere couldn’t know that. Gratitude, regret and a simultaneous despair brought her close to tears.
“I don’t recall seeing you before in London, Sir Edward,” she said, forcing her mind to less dismal channels. “Do you, like Mr. Waterman, avoid balls?”
Sir Edward seemed to note her distress, and steered her so she could not see Findlay. “I don’t trouble myself to attend often. At the risk of lowering what little credit I may have with you, I must admit I seldom spend the Season in London. I’m a simple countryman.”
The last was said with the slightest touch of defensiveness, as if he expected her to take him to task for so unfashionable an admission. To Sarah, though, the country meant stability, security and peace. “How fortunate you are! I should thank heaven daily, could I but spend the rest of my life at Wellingford.”
Her vehemence seemed to startle him, and she lightened her tone. “Where are your estates situated, Sir Edward?”
“In Kent. I breed horses and cultivate several thousand acres. But you can’t be interested in that.”
“But I am. Since our steward retired, I’ve managed Wellingford. Do you know anything of Mr. Coke’s methods?”
“Why, I attended his fall session at Holkham just last year.” His face lit with surprise and a dawning respect. “Shall I describe it?”
For the next few minutes Sarah drank in details of turnips and tares, barley and wheat, cattle-grazing and sheep. So absorbed was she that she forgot Findlay until she nearly collided with him at the edge of the ballroom.
“Miss Wellingford, good evening.” Sir James bowed over her hand. “Our waltz awaits.”
“The lady is thirsty, sir,” Sir Edward interposed. “I am escorting her to the refreshment room.”
“Then I shall take her, and claim my waltz after she is ‘refreshed.’” The baronet extended his arm.
Sir Edward retained her hand. “Miss Wellingford and I are in the midst of a discussion. You may waltz later.”
Instead of retiring, Findlay planted himself in their path and clapped a hand on Sarah’s shoulder. “I, also, have much to discuss with Miss Wellingford. Our acquaintance being of longer standing, I insist on taking precedence.”
Findlay’s fingers bit into Sarah’s shoulder until she winced. Sir Edward’s gaze narrowed to Findlay’s hand, and he took a menacing step toward the baronet. “If you choose to be impolite, sir, this is not the place to resolve the matter. I will be happy—”
“Please, gentlemen,” Sarah broke in, indicating a gathering group of curious onlookers. “Let us not quarrel here. Sir Edward, I shall look forward to resuming our conversation soon. For now, I…I will go with Sir James.”
“You need not,” Sir Edward said quietly.
“At the moment, I think it—wiser.” With reluctance, she withdrew her hand from Sir Edward’s arm. Findlay’s sardonic smile at her capitulation, though, provoked her to add, “I do thank you, Sir Edward, for the most interesting and enjoyable conversation I’ve had since coming to London.”
He caught her hand and kissed it. “The gratitude is mine. When Nicky claimed he would present to me a lady I would find as intelligent as she was lovely, I bet him a monkey he couldn’t. Never have I so thoroughly enjoyed losing a wager.” He directed a hostile look at Findlay. “Your servant, Miss Wellingford, and do not hesitate to call upon me at any time.”
Findlay pulled Sarah from the room. In the relative solitude of the hallway, he extracted a lace-edged handkerchief and dabbed at his nostrils. “I never see that man without smelling the stables. I can’t imagine what you could have found to converse with him about.”
“The stables.”
“How droll. No doubt you were secretly delighted by my rescue, then. ’Tis naughty of you to try to make me jealous,” he said in a caressing tone that caused her teeth to clench. “You nearly succeed, I vow. Though it is, you must grant, rather late for these last-minute champions.”
“’Tis all a game to you, is it not?”
“But of course.” His smile became almost a smirk, and her fingers itched to slap it off his face. “A game, my dove, I fully intend to win. Oh, yes, I remember,” he said, raising a hand to forestall a protest. “‘I have not asked, nor have you answered.’ Yet.”
His face darkened with irritation. “For some reason, Englemere intervenes. ’Tis no matter. You couldn’t truly consider either of his friends, even had you sufficient time to enslave them. The first, in addition to his inelegant bumptious self, has a mother who makes the shrew you call friend appear an angel of amiability, and Greeves—! I’m astonished the man knows how to open a door that doesn’t lead to a barn.”
“I happen,” Sarah grated out, “to be quite fond of the country, and find Sir Edward knowledgeable and amusing.”
“Indeed? Perhaps a very long, bucolic wedding trip is in order. I find myself envisioning it with anticipation.”
Findlay abruptly steered her into a small antechamber.
Alarmed, Sarah halted. “Sir James! You must not—”
“Compromise you, my dove? You closeted yourself with Englemere willingly enough. ’Twould never answer, you know. He’s too slippery a fish to be caught by such tricks.”
�
�Compromise Englemere? I should never!” Sarah protested hotly as she retreated from him, stopping before a pair of French doors leading into the garden.
Findlay nodded his head in mock approval. “Wise of you. Should Silence Jersey herself discover Englemere’s hand up your gown, he’d not be trapped into wedlock.”
“How dare you—!” Sarah gasped, her cheeks flaming.
“Oh, I dare much for you, my dove. Have I not already sent two suitors packing?”
He pressed closer, until she felt the door handles against her back. Trapping her hands, he drew her to him. His glance traveled over her with insolent slowness, from her face down her bare throat to the modest décolletage of her gown. Deliberately he dropped his gaze lower, to rest on the breasts concealed under the thin veiling of muslin. “You are mine, and no one else shall have you.”
Sarah held herself rigid, refusing to struggle. But when he raised a hand and traced her lips with a gloved finger, she had to fight the urge to flinch.
“No other man could appreciate you as I do. Your slender silver beauty. And that quick wit, my dove. One has only to suggest, and your nimble mind leaps to the accurate conclusion. I find the possibilities…arousing.”
He leaned closer still, his eyes glowing with unmistakable heat. She feared he meant to kiss her, and nausea coiled in her stomach. Though she knew she must not reject him, a desperate need to delay him seized her.
“Sir James,” she choked out, “I find it fantastical that you go to such extraordinary lengths to pursue me, when you must know I, ah, cannot return your regard.”
“Love? Hate?” He shrugged one elegant shoulder. “They are but two edges of the same slim blade. I could slice from one to the other in a heartbeat.” He smiled at her, and the chill struck bone. “I will teach you, little dove, and such pleasure it will bring us both.”
She pushed at him. “You flatter yourself.”
He laughed softly. “Of course I will please you. Without pleasure, there could be no shame.” His breath quickening, he brushed his lips against her hair. “And I will teach you to please me.” He dragged her resisting hand up, peeled down her glove and forced her wrist to his mouth. The hot wetness of his tongue stroked her naked skin. Her resolve forgotten in a mindless panic, she tried to wrest her hand free.
The Wedding Gamble Page 5
