“It’s just . . . well, I’m afraid,” she confessed on a whisper.
“Who are you afraid of?” He was instantly alert. He scanned a practiced eye over the ballroom but saw no one who appeared unduly menacing. Unduly drunk, certainly.
“Have you seen Miss Danforth?”
He blinked again. “Yes. Are you afraid of Miss Danforth? She didn’t appear to be armed when I saw her.”
She hesitated.
“My Simon is dancing with Miss Danforth.”
Ian peered in the direction she was looking. And so he still was. Serious Simon Covington, with his long sensitive face, who was so walking-on-clouds smitten with Miss Charing, was indeed dancing with Miss Danforth.
“Isn’t she pretty?” Josephine said querulously. Attempting to be magnanimous. But sounding panicked.
“Yes. But so are you.”
“You are kind,” she said distractedly, the second time he was accused of such a thing tonight, and neither time had been entirely sincere. It was a testament to how much in love she was with young Simon that she didn’t even look at Ian when she said it, when he knew that in days of yore the compliment would have enslaved her.
“Whenever he dances with someone else, he always looks for me. Not rudely, mind you. Otherwise he might trip over his dancing partner. And he hasn’t looked for me once since this waltz began. Not once,” she repeated mournfully.
“To be fair, you’re hiding behind a plant at the moment,” he pointed out.
“It was an instinct, I fear, after he’d gone round and round with her and seemed to have forgotten I existed.”
Ian turned to scrutinize the happily rotating couple. Miss Danforth was beaming up at Simon as though she’d never seen or heard anything quite so fascinating in her life. So convincing was it that even Ian wondered if perhaps Simon possessed hidden depths he’d so far failed to see.
He frowned thoughtfully.
“Don’t worry, Miss Charing. You see, I’m given to understand that Miss Danforth is a bit timid. And Simon is mad about you. If she should make eyes at him, I’ll call her out.”
Miss Charing laughed. “I’m not timid at all,” she said, sounding relieved. “Simon says he’s happy to let me do all the talking for the both of us. He says it’s a relief.”
“A match made in Heaven, surely.”
“Thank you, Captain Eversea.”
“At your service, Miss Charing. Will you step out from behind the plant now, so Simon can see you? Perhaps you ought to have a sandwich?” He reached behind him and surreptitiously shoved the punch bowl out of her vision to take her mind off it and gestured with his chin to the sandwiches.
“I do love sandwiches!”
As she busied herself with the selection of one, he took a look at Miss Danforth and Simon again.
He couldn’t help but notice that Simon seemed to be doing all of the talking.
SIMON COVINGTON RETURNED Miss Danforth to the waiting cluster of friends, and like a shred of iron sucked into a magnet, immediately attached himself to Miss Charing’s side. Ian couldn’t help but notice he looked contemplative, however, and a bit wonderstruck, as though he’d just had a religious experience he was struggling to interpret.
What had gone on during that waltz?
He took a step toward them, tempted to investigate, when a flash of red at the corner of his eye spun him around with an unerring instinct.
A lush, dark-haired beauty appeared to be perusing the sandwiches.
He knew precisely what she was actually perusing.
He smiled, and as he spoke, aimed his gaze nonchalantly out over the ballroom.
“Good evening, Lady Carstairs. Are you looking for something to satisfy your appetite?”
He turned slightly, saw her swift little enigmatic smile without turning fully around to look at him. And she bent, just a little, to select a sandwich, which allowed him to admire the curve of her derriere outlined in garnet silk, which of course had been her intent. She was a widow and a friend of the family of the late Lady Fennimore, and she divided her time between Sussex and London.
“Presuming my appetite can be satisfied,” she said lightly. “You see, I’ve a taste for the unusual.”
“One need only make a special request to have it met,” he said gravely. “I’d be honored if you’d discuss your unique appetites with me during your visit to Sussex.”
And as she returned to her friends—without looking him in the eye—Ian reflected that it was a bit like five card loo.
If the Duke of Falconbridge was said to never lose at that game, Ian Eversea could be said to never lose at this one.
“MR. COVINGTON WAS telling me of the plans he has to build a house on the land near the . . . oh, what did you call it? The Academy of . . . the School for . . .” She paused, flustered, looking searchingly into his face, as though the answers to all of the world’s troubles could be found there.
“Miss Marietta Endicott’s Academy for Young Women,” Simon completed breathlessly, as if she’d said something too adorable.
Upon the conclusion of the waltz, Simon had escorted Miss Danforth back to where Ian stood with Miss Charing, and now the two of them were reminiscing about it.
Miss Danforth beamed at him. She swung her head to include the gathering at large. “Is he often like that, Miss Charing? Does he finish sentences for you?”
“No!” Miss Charing said, with something like alarm.
“But he’s so very clever! How do you keep up with him?”
Simon was scarlet with pleasure.
“I sometimes wonder myself,” Miss Charing said, studying Simon as if he was a stranger who’d just donned a Simon costume.
“I enjoy all of Miss Charing’s sentences so thoroughly I’m happy to let her do most of the talking,” Simon maintained stoutly. Mollification transformed Miss Charing’s features.
Momentarily.
“I must say, your gift for conversation must be contagious, Miss Charing, for I found Mr. Covington to be positively scintillating. I hesitated to say one word lest I miss one of his.” Miss Danforth smiled at him.
Simon beamed and croaked quietly, gleefully, wonderingly, to the gathering at large, “I’m scintillating!” Like a drunken parrot.
“You see, I’ve been a bit of a wallflower for some time, and it’s very helpful to me when someone guides the conversation along, for I fear I’m a bit out of practice.” She lowered her eyelashes.
“You did very well!” Simon defended. “Very well, indeed! Isn’t she doing well?” he demanded of the gathering at large again, swiveling his head to and fro.
“Very well,” Ian said dryly.
Miss Charing darted a panicked glance at Ian.
Miss Danforth looked up at him, saw the frown, and that pink rushed into her cheeks again, and she jerked her head abruptly away toward the ballroom floor. Away from him. A peculiar little thing, given to blushes and gushing, it seemed, and thoroughly intimidated by him. Such a child! Where had she been kept before she was sent across the ocean to England? Surely she hadn’t been raised in a convent?
Just then his sister Olivia, stunning in willow green silk, limped toward them, leaning on the arm of Lord Landsdowne, whose face was a picture of somber solicitousness, as if Olivia were breakable.
“What happened, Liv? Did you kick a ne’er-do-well a bit too hard?”
“So witty, Ian. It was a rather too enthusiastic turn in the reel, I fear. My ankle went one way and I went the other. I shall live to dance again. I simply need to rest it a bit. Which sadly leaves Lord Landsdowne partnerless for the next reel.”
Landsdowne promptly said, “It will be my honor to sit by your side and will your ankle to recover. I can be very persuasive.”
She smiled at Landsdowne.
And then Landsdowne turned slightly, seeming to remember his u
sually impeccable manners, and saw Tansy.
A moment of silence and stillness ensued as Landsdowne’s eyes settled on her in a bemused way. Ian could almost read the man’s thoughts: Surely she can’t be as pretty as all that.
“I haven’t yet had the pleasure,” he said slowly to her. Landsdowne was a grown man and a fairly formidable one. He wouldn’t goggle or stammer. No. He would mull. And plan.
“Forgive my manners,” Olivia said immediately. “Viscount Landsdowne, this is our guest, Miss Titania Danforth, of America.”
Miss Danforth’s lashes lowered and she curtsied, slowly and gracefully, for all the world like a petal drifting from a tree.
And Ian watched Landsdowne’s eyes follow her all the way down. And all the way up.
“How fascinating to have an American in our midst, Miss Danforth,” he said.
Landsdowne hadn’t yet blinked. Bemusement had evolved into something like wonder. His tone had gone a bit drifty.
“Oh, I’m the one who’s fascinated! To be among such esteemed company. You are the very first viscount I have ever met.” She cast those eyelashes down again.
Landsdowne smiled at this, obviously disarmed.
“And I’m the very first baron you’ve ever met!” the formerly silent Simon declared, elbowing into the conversation.
She turned, happily. “Oh, are you a baron, Simon? How very delightful.”
“Not yet, he isn’t,” Miss Charing said somewhat churlishly, which made Ian eye the level of the ratafia cup she held. “His father has to die first.”
“Do you attend many balls and parties in America, Miss Danforth?” Landsdowne asked smoothly.
“Not so many lately. I fear I’ve been a bit of a wallflower.” Those fluffy dark lashes went down again.
To his credit, Landsdowne looked somewhat skeptical. “Well, we certainly must remedy that, mustn’t we? I assume a round of gaiety is planned in order to introduce Miss Danforth to Sussex society? This party is only a beginning, Miss Danforth.”
“Miss Danforth has been taken under the Duke of Falconbridge’s wing,” Olivia explained, and Landsdowne hiked an impressed brow.
“I’ve not yet danced a reel this evening. I wonder if I remember how! I should be so embarrassed to try it in front of all of these people after such a long time.”
“I’m a patient teacher, I’m told, if you’ll allow me,” Landsdowne said. “Will you?”
“Oh . . .” Miss Dansforth cast her eyes down, then up again. “I don’t know if I dare subject you to the caprices of my dancing.”
There was an odd little silence, as if everyone thought Olivia’s blessing needed to be bestowed.
“Please do dance with him, Miss Danforth,” Olivia urged finally, graciously. “He dances beautifully and we oughtn’t deprive the assembly of the pleasure of watching him.”
This, though ironic, was positively gushy for Olivia, and Ian knew it.
Landsdowne looked wry. “Then of course I shall dance for Your Majesty’s entertainment,” he said with mock gravity, and bowed low, very low, one leg extended, to Olivia, who nodded regally, accepting the fealty as her due.
SIMON AND MISS Charing wandered off to the garden, where a kiss or two might be stolen, or Miss Charing might vomit. It could easily go either way, Ian thought.
“You ought to be dancing,” Olivia said to him.
“I like sitting with you.” Which was true enough. He was less fond of reels than of waltzes, and he recognized that it was more or less his duty as a single man to dance, but he’d decided that Olivia needed the company.
Olivia snorted.
They were watching Miss Danforth and Landsdowne dance the reel. For an alleged novice, she certainly learned the steps very quickly. She was light on her feet and danced with every evidence of joy.
“He looks almost . . . playful.” She said the word as if it were foreign and she was uncertain of its pronunciation.
Ian laughed. “Is he normally a somber chap? He seems it. Though a good one,” he added hurriedly. “I like him a good deal.”
“No, he has wit. The quiet, dry sort, however. I quite like it. He is a good one,” she said absently. “I like him.”
There was a pause.
“You like him. How torrid.”
She shot him a wry sideways glance. But didn’t expound.
His sister was passionate about nearly everything. The abolishment of slavery. The protection of the poor. The preservation of cherished historical landmarks. The color of clothing. Her tastes in nearly everything were very specific and impassioned and cleverly, usually wittily, reasoned, which was part of her charm. She was challenging and often exhausting, but never dull.
She was very guarded about Landsdowne.
And he had never once heard her utter Lyon Redmond’s name since he’d vanished. He had often thought there would always be only one man for Olivia. And that one man had disappeared more than three years ago.
Landsdowne threw back his head and laughed at something Miss Danforth, the wallflower, had said.
“What do you think of her?” Olivia asked.
“Very pretty and vapid and uninteresting. An awkward ingenue. Ought to excel at being a spoiled wife of a rich aristocrat. And no doubt will be given the opportunity to be one soon enough.”
Olivia mulled this. “I might agree with all of those words save one. I’m less convinced of the ‘uninteresting’ part. I wonder if she’s . . . strategic. The bit with the lashes. All of that.”
“I think when one is presented with a cipher, one can assign all sorts of meaning. The way we try to see shapes of things in clouds.”
“You’re likely correct.”
Another silence ensued. Miss Danforth was smiling. Her complexion was creamy, faintly gold in the chandelier light, a luxurious, pearl shade. She moved lithely, and it was strangely a pleasure to watch her hop and clap the steps of the reel. She danced as though the music was part of her, and Ian felt something in him lighten as he watched. As if joy was her native emotion.
Landsdowne laughed again when she crashed into someone and was forced to apologize profusely.
“I don’t know whether he laughs a good deal when he’s with me,” Olivia said.
Ian wondered if his sister, accustomed to being the toast of all of Sussex, and London as well, was worried.
“He’s probably too busy being fascinated by you, Olivia.”
“That must be it.” Olivia smiled at that.
Chapter 7
LANDSDOWNE RETURNED MISS DANFORTH to them at the end of the reel, both of them flushed and happy looking. Then he settled down next to Olivia; rather like a regal, faithful hound who would never leave his mistress’s side, Ian thought.
Which left him with Miss Danforth. Who wasn’t smiling, or fluttering her eyelashes, but who had suddenly gone still.
When the strains of the Sussex waltz started, he bowed, and extended his arm to a girl whose dress was so white and gossamer she might as well have written “I’m a virgin” across her forehead. Ian thought of the widow in red across the room and let his thoughts stray in her direction, half resenting the opportunity robbed from him by this little girl. He suppressed a sigh.
Miss Danforth gave her hand to him almost portentously, slowly, as if she were pulling the sword from a stone. Lucky me, to be presented with such a gift, he thought wryly.
He took it with a certain ironic gravity, and placed his hand against her waist.
He felt her breath hitch in the jump of her slight rib cage.
Suddenly, he wondered how long it had been since his touch had felt new, surprising, exciting, to a woman, and a little of that was communicated to him, too.
A rogue, fierce surge of protectiveness swept in, startling him, and then swept out again.
He looked down. Into eyes of such a singular crystal
line silver-blue color he fancied he could see himself in them. The eyes of a woman who had no midnight trysts or any other stains of any sort on her conscience.
They really would have very little in common.
He eased them into the one, two, three of the other whirling waltzers the way he would ease his horse through the traffic on Bond Street.
She hadn’t yet said a word. She was staring as though she was from one of those distant islands Miles Redmond wrote about and had never before seen an Englishman in the flesh.
He was tempted to lead off with Boo.
“How are you enjoying England, Miss Danforth?” he said instead.
“I like what I’ve seen of it so far very much indeed.”
It was delivered with such fervor, he widened, then narrowed his eyes briefly. If he hadn’t known better, if a different woman had issued the words, he would have considered that an innuendo. That, combined with the “I’d be honored to dance with you, Mr. Eversea” and the “I hope you’ll call me Tansy.” Perhaps all Americans were just a bit too forward.
But now she was looking up, gazing limpidly back at him. He was a connoisseur of women’s mouths, and hers was a work of art, he was forced to concede. The bottom lip a shell-pink pillowy curve, the top shorter, with two gentle little peaks. A bit like a heart. Both whimsical and sensual, one was tempted to trace its contours with a finger.
Her face was rather heart-shaped, too, and the heat of the crowded ballroom and the vigor of dancing had made her rosy. It was the sort of color a good bout of lovemaking put into a woman’s cheeks.
He contemplated telling her this, just to shock the living daylights out of her.
“Is something amusing, Mr. Eversea?” She said this with something like strained gaiety.
“Oh, something is always amusing. I suppose that’s my motto, if one must have one. What is yours, Miss Danforth?”
“Never surrender,” she said instantly.
He was a bit taken aback.
“That is a pity,” he tried. Murmuring. Halfheartedly sending out the innuendo as a smuggler would send a signal with a lamp from the coast, but not expecting much by way of response.
Between the Devil and Ian Eversea: Pennyroyal Green Series Page 6
