Heartbreak and Honor
Page 11
Gasps ricocheted round the room, and Aunt Bridget regarded him with the same revulsion she would a headless cockroach scurrying across her dinner plate.
Katrina clenched her hand tighter.
“Pray tell me, Your Grace, how you came to be acquainted with her?” Harrison presumed to touch Harcourt’s arm, but dropped his hand when the duke eyed him as if he were plague-ridden.
Enough of his meddling. Except by marriage, Harrison claimed no kinship to Alexa, and his brazenness set her teeth on edge.
“You assume much, Mr. Peterson. The duke owes you no explanation.” She eyed him coolly. “Need I remind you, again, I am not your concern?”
“I beg your pardon.” His terse reply and hardened gaze belied his words.
With family such as he, who needed adversaries?
“Abduction, you say? How very intriguing.” Rodent man exchanged a meaningful look with Harrison. “I should like to hear more of your recent . . . adventure.”
She sent her uncle a guarded glance.
Brittle smiles painted on their faces, Aunt Bridget and Katrina kept glancing toward the exits.
Excellent notion. Let’s be away. Now.
Alexa’s fingers grew numb in her cousin’s viselike clasp.
Eyes glinting, Uncle Hugo smoothed one side of his mustache before answering frostily. “As you’ve not been introduced to my niece, Renishaw, your question is beyond impertinent.”
Several guests murmured their consensus, and a satisfied smile wreathed Aunt Bridget’s face.
Renishaw’s face grew ruddy, and he narrowed his close-set eyes in vexation. Had he whiskers, they would have twitched spastically as would his hairless tail. He’d probably gnash his pointed, yellow teeth too.
“Quite right, Needham.” The look of distaste the duke leveled Lord Renishaw sent a chill clear to Alexandra’s shins.
Clearly not friends—not by any exaggeration.
The Duke of Harcourt offered his elbow. “I’ll claim that promised dance now, Miss Atterberry.”
Chapter 12
Lucan itched to reduce Peterson and Renishaw another peg or two, but the gratitude and relief gracing Alexandra’s face, and the swiftness with which she latched onto his arm, prompted him to remove her from the intrigued bystanders straightaway.
She must be discomfited, indeed, to prefer his company and act upon the fabricated dance promise. They hadn’t exactly parted on the most cordial of terms.
He wanted to applaud the frosty setdown she’d given Peterson, but with the ladies present, he’d been forcibly biting his tongue to keep from telling Renishaw to sod off.
“Mr. and Mrs. Needham, might I steal your niece away for the next dance?” Lucan wouldn’t take no for an answer.
At Mr. Needham’s nod of approval, Lucan turned Alexandra toward the dance floor and the bevy of nosy onlookers.
Several gawkers jerked their attention away, stumbling into one another in their haste, and a gentleman spilt his punch down a debutante’s flat-as-a-washboard chest.
A sharp reprimand from her mother cut short the girl’s strangled screech. Glaring at the hamfisted lord, then at Alexandra, the vexed mama seized her daughter’s arm and dragged her from the room.
Alexandra hummed along to the music, oblivious to the misfortune playing out. Either that or she’d mastered masking her reactions. She reminded Lucan of a child on her first outing to a fair or a confectionary. How vastly different this must be from her humble roots.
He studied her goddess-perfect profile.
Did she enjoy dancing too? Weren’t gypsies quite musical?
Roma gypsies, like Lady Warrick, claimed the trait, but Lucan didn’t know if the black tinkers possessed the same inclination. Given the penchant most Scots had for celebrating, the travellers might very well be as gifted.
He shot a covert glance over his shoulder.
Peterson and Renishaw slithered to a corner, and heads close together, conversed intently. No good could come of that. Lucan would forgo his coffee for a month to know how the two had become acquainted.
The way those culls leered at Alexandra, as if she were a dockside harlot displaying her wares, had him grinding his teeth. He almost wished one would venture too far and give him an excuse to call them out. Especially, since he still fumed about Renishaw’s loathsome bet at White’s.
Fiend seize it. He couldn’t challenge anyone to a duel, and not because they’d been outlawed, either. After Harvey’s death, Lucan vowed to Mother he would never duel, and honorable gentlemen kept their word.
Ought not to make pledges in the first place.
Nonetheless, that wouldn’t prevent Lucan from pounding Peterson and Renishaw senseless. Thrice weekly rounds at Jackson’s kept him fit and able to lay a bounder out. He knew other ways to control rubbish of their ilk too, and he held no qualms about using those means to teach the boors a well-deserved lesson.
Sidestepping rotund Lady Bellowton, Alexandra accidentally brushed her breast against his arm.
Lucan gritted his teeth to stave off the rush of lust her innocent movement caused.
She looked bloody exquisite tonight.
Russet highlights danced among the curls artfully twisted and pinned atop her head, and an intricate amethyst pendant encircled her neck. Her nape beckoned him to rain kisses along its delicate length, then gradually ever lower to her swan-like neck, satin shoulders, and the creamy mounds taunting him above her bodice.
Rather than bow her head in chagrin, she glanced around curious as a kitten, boldly meeting the assembled guests’ stares. Few people—no others he readily thought of—traipsed into a ballroom from the wilds of Scotland and endured the ton’s scrutiny without a blink.
Such lack of artifice proved refreshing.
By God, the transformation in Tasara . . . Alexandra, from a wild, exotic gypsy to a sophisticated, exquisite lady, graceful and poised, had caught him unprepared and rendered him almost speechless. His joy upon seeing her once more astounded him as well.
Reentering the stuffy ballroom, determined to dance with a prospective bride or two despite his friends’ admonishments, Lucan feared he hallucinated.
He’d been soundly chastised by Warrick and Bretheridge for his calculated approach to matrimony. Just because they’d found marital bliss didn’t mean he could afford the same luxury. He’d made a vow he fully intended to keep, and his time ran short.
Christmas loomed but a few weeks away, and while Mother’s health appeared to have calmed for now, Doctor Philpott made it clear as crystal, they had no way of knowing when she would, again, take a turn for the worse.
To divert his friends’ harping about his stupidity, Lucan had regaled them with the gypsy wench’s rescue, including her punching him.
Warrick and Bretheridge laughed until tears streamed from their eyes and still chuckled sporadically when they reentered the Rutledge’s crowded ballroom.
“Good evening. Quite a crush, isn’t there?” Alexandra smiled at a quartet. Two turned their backs and whispered furiously. The others exchanged a meaningful glance but offered a partial-tilt of heavily rouged lips.
Alexandra’s smile dimmed, and her grasp on his arm grew tense. “I should have waited to be introduced, shouldn’t I? So many bothersome rules. However do you manage to keep them straight?”
“Never mind that riffraff. Come along.” Lucan tucked her arm closer to his side and patted the hand resting atop his forearm as they wended their way through the throng.
“Thank you for asking me to dance.” Alexandra gave him a bright smile. “I feared Harrison was about to make an ugly scene. I didn’t worry for myself, but for my family. They’ve done much for me. And why rat man thinks it’s his concern is beyond me.”
Lucan choked back a guffaw. “Rat man?”
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“Curses. I knew I would commit a faux pas.” Crimson swept her face, and she hastily peered around to see if anyone else heard her. “Please forgive me. That was a dreadful thing to say. Childhood habit, I’m afraid.”
“Actually, that’s the most accurate description of Viscount Renishaw I’ve ever heard.” Guiding her past a cluster of young bucks, Lucan grinned. “By God, I like it. Renishaw the Rat, or Ratter Renishaw. Or the Vermin Viscount. Which do you prefer?”
She searched his face, wariness tinging her violet gaze. “None are charitable or kind, Your Grace.”
“I assure you, his reputation is well-earned.” Lucan’s tone hardened, a distinct bite weighted his words. “Believe me, he is not a kind man.”
“He did seem most intrusive. Thank you for rescuing me. Again.” Alexandra grinned at him, her eyes flashing with mirth.
He chuckled. “I don’t know when I’ve been taken more by surprise. Am I to presume Sethwick’s hunch had merit, Lady Atterberry?”
She inclined her head a fraction, the smooth planes of her face unreadable. “Yes, though I confess, I was as astonished as you, and I’m not a lady yet. There’s something to do with an abeyance that needs to be settled before the title is bestowed.”
“A matter of formality, I’m sure.” Lucan flattened his palm against the small of her back as he steered her along.
They’d reached an opening on the dance floor’s periphery.
“Trust me when I tell you,” she made a circular gesture in the air with her forefinger, “this is a trifle much to take in when one is used to eating outdoors with one’s fingers, bathing in streams, and sleeping in a tent or wagon.”
A vision of her standing in a shallow brook, water dripping from her glorious naked form, and her breasts—nipples puckered and raised to the sky—had him swelling in his breeches.
“And I enjoyed it, truth to tell.” Her last words held a challenge, as if she dared him to judge her upbringing or her.
Not a chance.
She intrigued the hell out of him in a way no properly raised miss ever would. He would quite like to brave the outdoors with her. Sleep in a tent. Bathe in a stream.
His groin jerked.
Damnation. Much more of this and you’ll disgrace yourself.
“Do you miss Scotland? The gypsies?” Everything she knew, was accustomed to, she’d left behind. That took tremendous courage.
“Yes.” Huskiness lowered Alexandra’s voice, and her gaze dropped to the floor. “Especially my family . . . and the heather. The hills were blanketed with the flowers when I left, though they were fading.”
Open speculation glinted in several pairs of eyes trained on her. Either she didn’t notice or didn’t care. What freedom it must be to be able to cock a snook in the haut ton’s pretentious face. Alexandra wouldn’t be caged and tamed by society’s dictates, and by God, Lucan couldn’t be more pleased.
He bent his neck and murmured, “How much does Peterson know?”
Her guileless gaze swept the crowd before meeting his. “Enough to cause a scandal, but not the entire truth. Not yet, anyway.”
It wouldn’t take much digging, a few coins greasing a palm or two, and the rest would be uncovered. Lucan expected Peterson would persist until he knew all. Hadn’t the Needhams considered the possibility and the ramifications?
A young woman of quality held captive by a band of renegade Scots for hours, let alone days, was ruined beyond redemption, no matter her social standing or familial connections. The gypsies may view things differently, but amongst the ton’s set Alexandra was soiled goods.
She needed to be betrothed or married before the ugliness became common knowledge. The sooner, the better. What a fortuitous coincidence he happened to be in the market for a bride and desired speedy nuptials as well.
Scottish, gypsy, and a compromised heiress.
What would Mother and Genny make of that?
He could almost hear the clucking and scolding already. But they’d included Alexandra on their blasted list, so they couldn’t object overly much. Except they had no idea she’d been raised as a black tinker or held captive by ruthless killers.
Lucan wanted to rub his hands together in glee. He’d found his bride, and the gypsy waif he had rescued from the Blackhall fortress would soon find herself a duchess. If everything went as he intended—and as a duke, they ordinarily did—he would be wed well before Twelfthtide.
How soon could he call on Mr. Needham and request Alexandra’s hand? Best not rush things. Woo her for two or three weeks. Lucan steered her onto the sanded floor. “How is it Peterson knows of your situation at all?”
“He’s my stepmother’s stepbrother.” Her scrunched nose and compressed lips expressed her opinion of the man. “That was her and my half-sister standing behind him. From my understanding, he has resided at Wedderford Abbey since right after my father died.”
She lifted to her tiptoes and whispered in his ear, her hot breath caressing the lucky organ. “He gives me the shivers.”
Lucan’s libidinous desires sprang into a full-on gallop.
She gave him the shivers. Delicious, sensual shudders he longed to further explore. In a tent or stream. He canvassed the room. An alcove or the terrace would do, as well.
“He always leers at my bum and bosoms.” She winked as she settled her heels to the floor.
If Jesus stood beside him, Lucan couldn’t have prevented himself from assessing those same two luscious attributes. His cock’s predictable response would soon have people pointing and snickering if he didn’t command some control over his primal urges.
Think of something else.
Miss Blankenship’s mustache.
The murderous Blackhalls.
Mother’s failing health.
Father’s infidelity—
That did it.
Lucan’s manhood wilted faster than a water lily tossed onto a Yule log.
No other lady would have mentioned her bum or bosoms to a male acquaintance. That Alexandra did, told him she trusted him. Excellent. Trust between a husband and wife was essential.
Mother trusted Father, and look how well that had ended.
Lucan pelted the thought halfway to next year.
“Did you hear that Isobel Ferguson and the Earl of Ramsbury—he’s the man who rescued her—wed?” Why he thought she’d want to know, he couldn’t say.
“I suspected as much. The way they looked at each other, they had to be in love.” Alexandra gripped his arm and, eyes glowing, gave a sage nod. “They practically devoured one another with their gazes. I’m overjoyed for them.”
Not a jot of envy or insincerity tinged her words.
“They are blissfully happy and honeymooning in Spain, I believe.”
She considered him from the corner of her eye. “I’m sorry I hit you.” Contriteness giving her voice husky depth, she lifted a shoulder an inch. “I was overwrought and not myself.”
“I deserved it, and again, beg your pardon. My behavior was intolerable.” Lucan dipped his head nearer hers, as much to breathe in her essence as to speak privately. “I had a devil of a time explaining how an imp your size managed to blacken my daylights.”
“A most challenging dilemma, to be sure.” Her lips quivered and laughter cavorted in her heather-colored eyes. “Am I forgiven then?”
“I’ve forgotten the incident.” Too bad his friends hadn’t and would continue to taunt him, for weeks. Months. “Truce?”
She gifted him a beguiling smile. “I’d like that.”
The first strains of a waltz sounded. Lucan bowed, and after Alexandra curtsied, he swept her into his arms. “Do you know the waltz?”
Wouldn’t matter if she didn’t. He possessed superb dancing skills and could easily lead her.
He pulled her nearer, not enough to be improper, but sufficient to breathe in her perfume. Somewhat musky-spicy, yet soothing too. A lot like her. “Come now, you’re being too harsh on yourself.”
“My dance master said I was his most inept pupil. Ever.” Her expression resigned, she sighed. “In three and thirty years. I am his worst.”
Lucan tried to stifle his chuckle. “A graceful, petite woman like you?”
“Your Grace, I’ve never been accused of being graceful.” Alexandra grinned again, her face lighting up. “He was amiable the first time. When I broke a second toe, less so.”
Lucan laughed outright, earning them several inquiring looks, and a few vexed as well. “More than one? What did you do? Stomp the poor fellow’s bare feet with your boot heel?”
“I didn’t tramp on him deliberately.” Her face puckered in concentration, her mouth moved silently as she swayed and counted the steps. And tromped on his foot. Twice.
He hid a wince. For someone petite, she was not light on her dainty, slippered feet.
“You’re not ungraceful.” Altogether. “You’re doing splendidly.” Exaggeration, there, old boy. “You need practice, that’s all.” Lots and lots of it. He bent his head toward her ear. “I’d be happy to give you lessons.”
She gave a little jerk, and he’d lay odds at White’s, coldness hadn’t caused her shudder. Had his breath tickled her, perhaps arousing her?
“I’d be grateful.” She pursed her plump lips, looking thoughtful. “Is it permitted, though? Would we be breaking some rule?”
Absolutely.
“I shall arrange it with your aunt and uncle.” Another inch and Lucan could kiss her ear, but to do so would surely bring immediate censure. Nonetheless, he needed to make clear his intentions to the hawk-eyed fortune-hunters eager to snare an heiress and the husband-hunting damsels hoping to don a duchess title.