by Sophia Nash
“Perhaps because you taught the lad well,” Mr. Brown said to Ata, his eyes twinkling. “Care to make one last cutting remark in my direction before I escort you inside? I know you only do it because you’re fond of me.”
Ata sputtered and the tension of the moment eased despite the anger still brimming inside Quinn.
Rosamunde ushered everyone toward the double doors, where a vast crowd of guests mingled in the beautiful ballroom, which was rarely on display. Tonight flowers spilled from every table and the gold gilt of the molding gleamed from every corner. Bejeweled ladies eagerly awaited the dancing, while gentlemen resigned themselves to an evening of sore toes. At least there would be excellent wine and brandy to dull the pain.
Quinn noticed Helston gripping Georgiana’s arm to lead her inside and it was all he could do not to fist his hands in anger. The vision of Grace’s pretty bowed head stopped him. But it did not block out the voice of one of Rosamunde’s brothers, asking Georgiana for the next set of dances. Quinn intervened abruptly before she could answer.
“Georgiana will be too fatigued to dance all evening, Miles. I daresay she will have better things to do.”
Ata laughed. “Better things to do than dance at a ball? That’s ridiculous, Quinn.”
“Well, I was only trying to—”
Georgiana interrupted him, her voice laced with deadly calm. “I would love to dance the second set with you, Miles. It’s been an age since I’ve seen you. How is your father?”
The melodic notes of a waltz began and Quinn tried to refocus his attention on the Countess of Sheffield and not on the vulturelike form of the duke. A waltz? He was certain Grace had arranged for a minuet to open the ball.
He looked at the five couples surrounding him: Mr. Brown and Ata, Rosamunde and her brother, each of the other widows paired with Rosamunde’s other blond brothers, and finally the duke looming over Georgiana. And Quinn knew without a doubt that it was that ill-mannered blackguard Helston who had arranged this outrageous waltz.
“Are you all right, Quinn?”
He lowered his gaze to find a tremulous smile on Grace’s lips, and he was mortified. “More than all right, Grace. How could I not be, with the loveliest lady in the room gracing my arms?”
“I hope you don’t mind that I arranged for this waltz. I realize it’s not quite the thing, but sometimes it’s fun to be a touch audacious, is it not? I remember your fondness for daring and I’m afraid Ata has ordered us all to be a little outrageous tonight.”
He laughed. “Why, Grace Sheffey, I wouldn’t have guessed you to be so bold.”
Her face flushed with shyness or the heat of the evening. “Sometimes it’s tiring to be so proper all the time. You know, I’m only five and twenty…no, I shall not lie to you, Quinn. I am seven and twenty, but I feel like I’ve lived a very sheltered life, an only child, then married for such a short time, and now alone in the world…except for my friends here. Everyone says I should take comfort in the great wealth left to me, but I find it cold consolation.” She paused. “Of course I would never admit as much to someone who did not share equal richesse—it just sounds too pathetic. I realize every day how very lucky I am, because I’m surrounded by other ladies who are not so fortunate. But then I suspect you know as well that riches do not guarantee happiness, do they?”
He looked down into Grace’s eyes, which were glittering with emotion. “How very true, my dear.”
And as he guided the pretty little countess into the measured whorls of the dance he realized not for the first time that a marriage to this lady could very well be the answer to so many of his dilemmas.
As a stepmother, Grace would set an excellent example for his hoydenish daughter, who had taken to the countess, if not to her twin passions of reading and embroidery. And unlike other ladies, Grace had nothing to gain by the marriage other than relief from her usually well-concealed loneliness. Why, she was nothing short of an heiress, and her character, integrity, and reputation were unblemished.
Most importantly, she was self-sufficient. She would understand the rules of a marriage of convenience. A marriage that would be very short on emotional entanglements and long on companionship.
Yes, she would do very well, he thought looking at her flawless face.
“Grace, I must thank you for spending so much time with my daughter. I know she can be a sore trial.”
“Nonsense. She’s a dear. Headstrong, yes, and so very animated.”
He sighed. “She hates to read.”
“Not as much as she loathes the pianoforte and needlework,” Grace said, laughing. “But take comfort, she might very well change. She’s still young.”
Quinn heard the familiar low, lilting sound of Georgiana’s laughter and turned. A devilish smile was carved into Helston’s hooded expression, and Quinn felt like killing the man.
“Quinn?” Grace asked so softly he had to lean down to hear her.
“Yes?”
“I realize how very improper it is of me to ask you this. But I must know. What are your intentions toward Georgiana?”
“I’m impressed by the concern and deep friendship between all the ladies in Ata’s club.” He loosed his hold on Grace’s waist. “After tonight my plans for Georgiana should be very clear. I’ve established her as a proper Ellesmere marchioness, and she will be provided for in the manner of all Fortesque widows.”
“Where shall she live? With you and your daughter, here?”
“I don’t know,” he responded truthfully. “With her father ill, all must be decided later. I’m certain you understand. But enough about Georgiana. Tell me about your childhood, Grace.”
He heard not a word she said, he realized, many minutes later when the set ended and he escorted Grace to her next dance partner, Mr. Brown. He bowed to her and turned to lead Ata into the minuet.
For the next hour and a half Quinn unconsciously performed all the functions of a host: paying compliments to the wallflowers, dancing whenever necessary—even a short jig with Georgiana that left everyone breathless with laughter, simple country dances with all the widows, and he even danced with Grace again. After the late supper, he circulated among the gentlemen in the card room and gave discreet orders to the servants during the last dance to fully open all the windows to ease the discomfort of the heated ballroom. But suddenly, he realized something was off.
Something was very wrong.
Georgiana was missing.
At first he thought that perhaps she had repaired to the ladies’ withdrawing room. But she’d been gone much longer than necessary, even if the entire hem of her gown had come unraveled.
He swung around and a cold chill hardened his spine. Helston was nowhere to be seen either, yet his duchess was surrounded by two of her brothers, her sister and the vicar.
A blinding fury swept through him, an emotion unlike any he had known before. How dare that blackguard sailor lure Georgiana away from the event that was to ease her back into society?
Beyond the doors leading to the terrace, he slipped into the heat of the inky blackness of the summer night. The air was so thick and still, surely a storm was in the making. After a few moments his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he discerned a few couples leisurely strolling through the gardens, illuminated by lanterns in the lower limbs of the trees.
He rushed down the marble stairs, heedless to everyone around him, and refused to gather his wits.
Where was she?
With long strides he descended the parterre gardens, perfumed by late summer’s roses. On the lowest level he spied a couple, half hidden by a massive oak. A large man, clearly Helston, was locked in a heated embrace with a woman who had rosebuds entwined among the locks of her hair.
His blood ran cold as his fists balled so tightly he couldn’t feel his fingers. He might just have Helston drawn and quartered after he disemboweled the adulterous swine.
Without another thought, he strode up to the man’s back and grabbed his collar to pull him off her.
The gentleman grunted in surprise and mumbled an oath. Quinn slammed his fist into the man’s jaw and a satisfying crack echoed in the night.
The next sounds were decidedly less satisfying.
The distinctive voice of Elizabeth Ashburton sent a cool trickle of reason into his disordered thoughts.
“Quinn? Is that you? What on earth? Oh, Mr. Langdon…are you all right? Your poor face.”
Quinn’s horror was complete when the bulky form of Fitzhugh Langdon, one of Rosamunde’s brothers, recovered its balance and bore down on him. Damn Langdons. They were all country-bred brawn, but he prayed they had none of famed pugilist Gentleman Jackson’s town-taught finesse.
Fitz’s head rammed into Quinn’s stomach and the two of them wrestled on the ground like two adolescents.
“Fitz…” Quinn panted with exertion. “Look, I’m sorry. Thought you were someone else.” Finally he flipped Fitz onto his stomach and pushed one of the younger man’s arms to the middle of his back.
“Let me up, Ellesmere,” Fitz muttered, his mouth buried in the grass. “Who the hell did you think I was? Miss Ashburton, you could have told me you had another admirer. Dash it all, what is a fellow to think? You led me out here, for God’s sakes.”
Elizabeth Ashburton, wide-eyed and blushing to the roots of her hair, looked at the two of them and laughed in horror, which made Quinn all the more embarrassed by his absurd actions.
“Eliza, have you seen Georgiana?” Quinn muttered. “Or Helston?”
That made her stop her infernal laughter. “Georgiana and Luc? Why, of course not. Whatever are you sug—”
Fitz stepped forward and growled, “You don’t mean to infer that my brother-in-law is…is…and not with Georgiana? Georgiana Wilde?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Elizabeth said. “I mean, really. Whatever can you—”
“I’ll kill him,” growled Fitz. “I’ll kill him and then I’ll…”
Quinn didn’t wait to hear Fitz’s plan to search the chambers in the mansion. He was making his way toward Loe Pool. It was the most isolated spot on the estate and one that Georgiana had favored during their childhood. The sharp saw grass cut his thin silk stockings below his knee breeches to ribbons as he crossed through a pasture in the moonlight.
By the time he rounded the last stand of trees, still far from the lake, he was completely winded. The sight before him made his heart stall in his tight chest.
Oh, this was worse. Far worse.
Chapter 9
They waded past the shallows and Georgiana lowered herself into the cool water. “Come, Fairleigh. That’s it. I have you. Doesn’t this feel heavenly?” The dreadfully hot evening had been considered a great success by everyone, although, thought Georgiana, it had been an unmitigated disaster for her heart. She had been so glad when Fairleigh had appeared and provided the much wished for excuse to escape the ball.
“Oh, Georgiana…you are the very bestest,” the little girl moaned in pleasure as the water reached high above her waist. “You won’t tell Papa, will you? You did promise.”
“I thought we had a bargain. We would take a secret swim to cool off and then you’ll go to bed without another minute of lurking and spying on the poor guests. Why, old Mrs. Hotchkiss nearly died of apoplexy when she saw your hand come out from under the settee.”
“Oh, pooh. It wasn’t as if it was a viper.”
“Shall we float on our backs and look at the stars? If you’re lucky you might be able to make out a shadow of geese cutting across the sky, and if we’re really lucky we’ll even see Oscar.”
“Who’s Oscar?”
“An otter with the curiosity of a cat. He loves to come out at night and scare me to death. I’m certain he does it on purpose.”
Well, if she had had to endure the torture of watching Quinn dance twice with Grace Sheffey, at least this delightful little midnight swim with Fairleigh would cheer her up. It had been stifling in the ballroom and the tension of maintaining an air of cool refinement for so long had taken its toll. She had only fully relaxed during one dance with Rosamunde’s brother, Miles Langdon, a male she had known her entire life. He had acquired an air of maturity since returning from his grand tour this summer.
But her leg ached from dancing and the cool waters felt wonderful.
“Will Oscar hurt me?”
“No, but his whiskers tickle when he swims under you.”
“Ohhh…I hope he comes. But I don’t know how to float.”
“But of course you do. If you can swim, then you can float.”
“Um…I don’t precisely know how to swim. Well, what I mean is, I know I must kick my feet and paddle with my arms, and—”
“Fairleigh,” Georgiana interrupted, “I would never have taken you here if I’d known you couldn’t swim. It’s too dangerous at night. Why, your father—”
“Show me how to float—please?”
“You’re impossible.” Georgiana sighed in exasperation.
“I know. Old Beetleface used to call me that at least once a day.” She said more quietly, “The other governesses called me dim-witted, unmanageable, stupid, and untamed.”
Cold mud oozed between Georgiana’s toes and she pulled the little girl into her arms. She just couldn’t stand hearing those words. They were too reminiscent of the phrases the village teacher had used to describe Georgiana.
“It isn’t true. You mustn’t believe those things. I haven’t known you long but you are as far from being unintelligent as they come. Now you might try to be a little less hoydenish…for example, you could try climbing trees only on Thursdays instead of every day. That’s what I do.”
“You do not climb trees!”
“No. You’ve just never seen me climb a tree. You must be unobservant on Thursdays alone, since you are the most perceptive girl I know.”
Without Fairleigh even realizing it, Georgiana had taken her in her arms and was positioning her to float. “Lay your head back now.”
Georgiana looked down onto the moonlit silhouette of the little girl and saw wonder written on her every feature. Within moments the girl was floating on her own, although Georgiana didn’t dare remove her arms. Fairleigh was a natural-born fish.
A loud masculine shout followed by a splash alerted Georgiana they weren’t alone.
For not a moment did she doubt it was Quinn bearing down on them, in smooth, long strokes cutting the surface of the lake. Lovely. And she was very nearly naked in her thin shift.
And then he was upon them and jerking Fairleigh into his arms. The moonlight played havoc with the harsh shadows slicing the furious expression he gave Georgiana as he dragged his daughter to his chest. “What on earth are you doing? Georgiana, you might have thought it fun and games when we were young to go swimming at night. But my daughter is only nine years old. She cannot swim and could easily drown.”
He hauled his daughter out of the water and ignored the girl’s squeals of protest and explanations. “No, Fairleigh. I’ve long forbidden you to swim and while I might have relented, you coming here expressly against my wishes…well, you shall never be allowed within the vicinity of Loe Pool ever again. Do you understand me?” He spoke softly, with only the hint of a hard edge to his voice. It was almost worse than hearing him bark at his daughter. Not that Quinn would ever bark at anyone.
“But Papa, I wouldn’t drown like Mamma. I know better than that.”
Drown? His wife had drowned? The obituary notice had said she had succumbed after a brief illness.
“It was so hot, Papa, I couldn’t sleep. The music was so loud. And I wanted to see all the gowns. I—” Fairleigh stopped abruptly. It seemed her father’s silence scared her more than any scolding.
Georgiana, mindless with embarrassment over her own near nakedness, strode over to the ball gown and tossed it over her head. The thin fabric immediately adhered to her wet shift and when she looked down she noticed that the pale gold fabric appeared the same color as her skin.
And just whe
n she thought the moment could not get any worse, Georgiana heard the muffled sound of footsteps in the sea grasses. Rosamunde and Luc soon appeared, running toward them, Fitz Langdon not far behind.
“Ellesmere,” the duke said breathlessly, “you had better have a bloody good explanation or I shall be slicing your kidneys for breakfast tomorrow morning.”
As he closed the gap, Georgiana noticed that one of the duke’s eyes appeared slightly closed, the skin puffy around it.
“Dibs on his giblets,” muttered Fitz, who stood with a cut on his chin, looking embarrassed beside his brother-in-law.
A very faint smile lurked at the corners of Rosamunde’s lovely mouth. “Quinn, I’m certain you’ve a very good reason for all the nonsense my brother’s been spouting. Are you all right? Why, they’re all dripping wet, Luc.”
“I don’t care if he’s bloody drowning. An idiot like Ellesmere can’t just go about sullying—”
“Luc, darling,” Rosamunde looked pointedly toward Fairleigh. “Perhaps this would be better discussed in private?”
“Oh, it’ll be in private, all right. It’ll be so damned private no one will know where to find his bones.”
“I’ll help,” muttered Fitz.
“I realize an apology won’t suffice, but I feel honor bound to offer it,” Quinn said stiffly, “to you both.”
“Why are there bruises on your faces?” Georgiana was completely mystified by the swellings on the duke and Fitz Langdon, and also hoped this line of questioning would deflect attention from her revealing silhouette.
“While I’m certain the diplomat will invent numerous excuses for his far-fetched notions, they’re certain to bore me to tears,” Luc said dryly. “If you’ll forgive me for ending this delightful tête-à-tête, I shall await Ellesmere’s brilliant resolution to this tragedy of errors in the next twenty-four hours. And if it doesn’t bloody well include at least five cases of the very best French brandy then I will stuff every damned one of his Portuguese throat torches down his gullet and light his toes. Now if you’ll excuse me…” He turned and walked away, absolute black fury dripping from his stiff posture. Fitz turned and followed him, murmuring a coarse Cornish proverb under his breath.
