“What if I desired a different escort? Did you consider that possibility?” Cora winced at the petulant note in her tone.
“No.” Dinks cast a worried glance behind her back. “And neither did you.”
Disquiet spiked through Cora’s heart, and her muscles locked in a silent battle—turn, don’t turn, turn, don’t turn. “Is he behind us?”
“More than likely, but I don’t see him.”
Cora breathed a slow, steadying sigh of relief.
“Don’t know why you don’t just tup the man and be done with it,” Dinks said.
Raising a brow, Cora angled her body around until she faced her friend. “Tup?” Dinks no doubt already knew she and Guy had already tupped. Her wily maid was likely talking about something far more serious than making love.
“Aye. Tup.” The maid leaned forward as if she were revealing a state secret. “Need me to explain?” Her eyes glittered with mischief.
Cora’s gaze narrowed in mock reproach. “No, I do not.” It took everything she had not to laugh aloud. She enjoyed their playful battle of wills. Turning back to give the garden another inspection, she said, “You should take your own advice.”
“Bah, he’s a fine, handsome man, Miss Cora, but his lordship has eyes only for you.”
“I wasn’t talking about Guy—”
“Of course, if I were twenty years younger, I might try to steal him away.”
The confident gleam in Dinks’s eyes drew forth the laughter Cora had been suppressing since they had started this ridiculous conversation. When the convulsions in her stomach finally calmed to a soft rumble, Cora asked, “Why do you like him so much?”
Dinks picked up her needle and dug it into the delicate silk fabric. She sat silent through a half-dozen stitches, as if weighing her answer. “His lordship is a right honorable man. He’s handsome. Smart. Brave. Handsome. Kind to animals and common folk. Handsome—”
“Diiinks.” Her warning emerged as a low growl.
“And because he loves you.”
Cora’s heart paused midbeat, and her breath caught in the back of her throat, sharp and uncertain. The breeze calmed, and the birds grew silent. The pungent smell of crushed grass disappeared, and the bitter taste of fear drenched her tongue.
Not looking Dinks’s way, she swallowed down a painful knot. “Yes, he has always been a good friend.”
“I’m not talking about friend love, missy, and you know it.”
“No, I don’t know it,” Cora retorted.
“Then we need to find you some spectacles.”
She could feel Dinks studying her, but she refused to look the older woman’s way.
“Never took you for a cloud gazer.”
That did it. Cora lifted her brow. “A what?”
“A cloud gazer doesn’t allow herself to see the sun lurking just beyond the billowing gray clouds. It’s a dismal way to live, it is.”
Speech eluded Cora. Aristotle had nothing on Dinks. The woman was a constant source of amazement and amusement. “Why, Dinks, you’ve turned philosopher on me.” She had also hit on a difficult truth, one Cora tried hard to ignore.
If she stopped to see the sun’s power, a desperate hope would blossom. A hope she had cleaved from her heart four years ago when she had gazed upon Guy with the innocent yearnings of a young girl, but had followed the calling of a vengeful daughter.
“His lordship might be able to overlook your antics in France, but a man like that has certain needs and obligations. He won’t wait forever.”
“Let us for the moment ignore the fact that present circumstances have heightened our awareness of our own mortality and, given such, Guy and I might now look upon each other with greater favor—”
“Bah!” Dinks said.
Cora shot her maid a quelling look. “Forget that we are two young people caught up in a dangerous game of intrigue. Forget that we enjoy the familiarity of a decade-long friendship. When this is all over, what then? What would you have me do?”
“Besides tupping the man?”
Cora closed her eyes and prayed for an infusion of more patience.
“Marry him, of course.”
She sent Dinks a sidelong glance. “You would have me destroy him?”
“Ain’t no destroying a man like that,” Dinks said. “If you’re worried about how society will react to your union, you’re upsetting yourself for nothing.”
“And how do you think society will treat the children of a seductress?”
In a quiet, admonishing tone, Dinks said, “Do you have no faith in your man, at all?”
Your man. The possessive quality of Dinks’s reference to Guy felt both thrilling and right. But she did not lack faith in Guy; she lacked faith in society’s benevolence to those who do not fit in the ton’s mold.
“Perhaps it would be best to turn our minds back to the Frenchman who has a rather murderous dislike of me.”
Dinks shook her head and murmured something beneath her breath that sounded decidedly like “coward.” Cora chose to ignore the maid’s ill humor and peered around the empty garden with disappointment. She did not know how Valère would summon her and briefly worried she would miss his sign. In the next instant, she shook her head in disgust. He was as likely to bash her on the head and drag her off as he was to show up on her doorstep and offer her his arm for escort.
Either way, Valère was not one to go unnoticed. He thrived on attention, whether good or bad. For her, it seemed to be mostly bad.
She sighed. A head bashing it was, then.
Twenty-Eight
Cora needed a break from the suffocating confines of the Rothams’ ballroom. Lords and ladies, bedecked in their finest silks, satins, and jewels, packed the edges of the dance floor so efficiently that one would think royalty graced the room. If she could get only a bit of relief from the heat of a hundred fragrant bodies. But every time she flicked open her mother-of-pearl fan, she would whack some poor, unfortunate soul’s body part, transforming the pretty bit of silk into an effective weapon. More than one guest had sent her a look of retribution since her arrival.
One bit of pulsing heat she did not mind, though, was the Earl of Helsford’s hand resting on the curve of her lower back. She loved the possessive message his simple touch conveyed to curious onlookers. And she appreciated the air of calm his attention suffused into her jangled nerves. What she did not care for was how he commanded her admiring gaze time and again.
Guy had paid particular attention to his appearance this evening, she noted with some suspicion. He was always impeccably dressed. However, on most occasions he seemed “thrown together,” as if he had more important things on his mind. But tonight, his starched muslin cravat was tied in folds more intricate than his normal Cravate à la Maratte, and his silver-patterned waistcoat gave his somber black assemble an aura of majestic sophistication.
The most astonishing transformation, the one that arrested her breathing with every glance at his profile, was the revelation of his perfectly sculpted features. With his midnight hair pulled into a tight, sleek queue and fastened with a new leather thong, she could feel the full masculine effect of his chiseled cheeks and strong, angular jaw. He looked both seductively elegant and dangerously handsome.
The object of her considerable attention bent near her ear and said, “I need to discuss something with you.”
His solemn tone gave her pause. She peered over her shoulder to discern what the “something” might be, but she could see only resigned determination. A strange, unwanted churning developed in the pit of her stomach. Lowering her voice, she said, “Is it Ethan?”
Someone jostled against her, and Guy steadied her with one hand while nudging the gentleman away. “Take care, sir. There is a lady behind you.”
“What’s this?” the gentleman exclaimed, clearly oblivious of his infraction. “Pardon my clumsiness—” His apology stopped abruptly when his gaze fell on Cora. One thorough scan of her scarred face and chopped hair was all it to
ok for his countenance to change from contrite to disdainful. “Lady, you say?” The gentleman’s gaze shifted to Guy. “A rather broad use of such a refined epithet, Helsford.”
The cream-and-buff-colored ballroom floor rumbled beneath the thin soles of Cora’s lavender dancing slippers. With each shudder, another piece of swirled marble broke off until nothing remained but the scarce bit of flooring beneath her feet. And she knew it was only a matter of time before her tottering perch buckled under the pressure into the yawning abyss. If not for Guy’s hold on her arm, she might have fallen into a full, desperate swoon to delay the inevitable banishment.
Word of her flirtations in Paris had finally reached England’s shores—and the ears of the ton’s most discriminating peer. Cora had heard more than one hushed conversation about the fastidious marquess and his propensity toward delivering scathing comments. According to the gossip, any young lady who dared to make a misstep, either in fashion or behavior, received a harsh correction from the peer, which set off a tide of narrowed gazes and pitiless rebukes from his followers.
Briefly, Cora wondered who had betrayed her. So far she had not crossed paths with any of her Parisian acquaintances, but her abrupt departure from the Continent likely engendered a letter or two to relations in England. Then again, it could have nothing to do with her time in France. Perhaps the marquess was simply offended by her marred face and unfashionable coiffure. Although she barely took notice of either feature any longer, no amount of rice powder would completely disguise the faint line bisecting her cheek.
With long-practiced ruthlessness, she vanquished such musings from her thoughts. Neither concern mattered, for this was the moment she had dreaded since rejoining society; the moment the ton would hike up their hypocritical noses in the air at Cora and then turn their scathing sights on Guy.
“Chittendale,” Guy said in a deceptively calm tone. “I suggest you point your barbarous tongue elsewhere.”
The marquess paused in the act of sipping his claret. “Do you indeed?”
Those guests closest to their circle did not even try to mask their avid stares. One by one, they shifted their attention from the twirling dancers to the tableau before her. She yanked on Guy’s sleeve. “My lord, I am in need of refreshment.”
In answer, he drew her hand through the crook of his elbow, bringing her body close to his and curving his hand possessively over hers. Then, in a bold move that would later bring tears to her eyes when she would think on it, he bent and placed a gentle kiss on her cheek. Her scarred cheek. “A moment, sweetheart.”
When Guy lifted his black gaze to Chittendale, the marquess wore the same startled expression as Cora. “I do, sir,” Guy said. “In fact, I insist.”
Although the two men were of a similar height, and the marquess outranked her escort, Guy’s years with the Nexus had hardened him in imperceptible ways. One sensed more than saw the threat lurking behind Guy’s handsome features. He carried himself with the confidence of a man who had survived a great many trials in his life.
And the idiot had just declared himself in a ballroom full of London’s most influential men and women. A rabble of anxious butterflies flittered inside her stomach. She waited for the marquess and his followers to turn as one, presenting their backs in the sharpest cut society would have seen since a drunken Lady Bridgeview stumbled into the Duke of Devonshire’s ball some ten years ago, looking for her wayward husband and his newly pregnant mistress.
As the stares grew uncomfortably intense, Cora fought the conflicting desire to kiss Guy senseless for his heart-warming proclamation and to kick his shin as hard as her slippered foot would allow for placing himself between her and the vultures.
“I see.” The marquess handed his glass to a friend before facing Cora.
She braced herself for another snide remark, her fingers tightened around Guy’s arm. His body remained deathly still, hard to the touch. She took little comfort from the soothing circles his thumb traced over the back of her hand.
“It seems I have a case of mistaken identity, dear lady.” The marquess bowed low before her. “I hope my comment did not offend you—” He peered at Guy for an introduction.
“Miss deBeau,” Guy offered.
“DeBeau.” The marquess stiffened. He seemed to be rolling her name around his mouth as if he were identifying the subtle flavors of a fine wine. “Somerton’s ward?”
Guy nodded. “Formerly. And Danforth’s sister.”
Lord Chittendale’s thin faced blanched. “I have indeed made a mistake. Please accept my most sincere apology, Miss deBeau.”
Stunned, Cora said nothing for a full two seconds while her mind tried to understand what had happened. No matter which way she looked at the scene, she arrived at the same conclusion. One of the ton’s most notable peers just begged her forgiveness, effectively wrapping her in his mantle of approval. How could this be?
Guy squeezed her fingers in a silent command, rousing her from a fog of confusion. She curtsied. “No harm done, my lord.”
As the marquess straightened, something caught his attention beyond her shoulder. In an aside to one of his companions, he said, “Tell me young Fitzgerald did not wear his Hessians.” The same disdainful, wrinkling-of-the-nose sneer he graced on her moments ago was now redirected on poor Fitzgerald, who clearly did not realize pumps were the more fashionable choice. The marquess inclined his head toward Cora. “Please give my kind regards to Lord Somerton.” He swallowed what looked like a rather large piece of humble pie before lifting his chin in a haughty angle. “And your brother.”
Then he wove his way toward Fitzgerald, his courtiers in tow.
In a state of stupefaction, Cora watched the thicket of guests fill in behind the marquess. The whole incident could not have taken more than a few minutes, but she felt as though she teetered on the edge of disaster for an eternity. “What just happened?”
He guided her out of the ballroom to a less-crowded portion of Rotham mansion. “A rather judicious attempt at self-preservation.”
“But his rank—”
“Is nothing compared to Somerton’s power or your brother’s temper,” Guy said gently, weaving them around the last cluster of laughing guests. “Nor is he willing to test my heretofore silence about his peccadillo.”
“What sort of peccadillo?” Cora asked.
“The kind that can get a man hanged, if made public.”
Cora’s mouth dropped open. “No.”
“Yes,” Guy said in an even tone. “The marquess’s tastes run on the eclectic side, if you know what I mean.”
During her years in France, she had come across men and women who preferred the delights of their own gender. In most cases, the men tended toward a more delicate frame, and their voices carried a higher pitch. Neither was the case with Lord Chittendale.
“He did not strike me as such,” she said.
“No,” Guy agreed, entering a long gallery of Rotham ancestors. “I know only because I happened upon an interlude when we were both at Oxford.”
The emphasis he placed on the word interlude sent a wave of heat up her neck. To be caught in such a vulnerable state, at university of all places, must have been terrifying for the young nobleman. If the marquess was not so mean-spirited, she might have experienced a twinge of sympathy for him. But he was, and she didn’t.
“Were you friends at the time?”
“Not particularly,” Guy said. “Chittendale has changed little over the intervening years.”
“You never spoke of the assignation?”
“Why would I? His actions hurt no one.” His gaze took on a faraway look. “Besides, I know what it is like to be shunned. It is not a state I should wish on anyone. Not even Chittendale.”
He referred to his parents and their propensity to leave him behind or forget about him altogether. Cora’s heart sank at the implicit meaning behind his words. Had he stood up for her merely because he could not bear for her to be cast aside by society? “So your threat
to reveal his secret was nothing more than a ruse. Well played, my lord.”
“No, Cora. It was not a ruse,” he said. “If the marquess had continued down such a foolish path, I would have broken more than my silence.”
Gratitude warmed her heart. Up and down, up and down. If her emotions did not find an even keel soon, she really might become a candidate for Bedlam.
Turning a corner, Cora could see a few ladies milling around a room at the far end of the corridor. She guessed they had come across the ladies’ withdrawing rooms, which were normally as crowded as the high-ceilinged ballroom.
Guy drew them to a stop near a console table decorated with an assortment of hothouse flowers and a triple-tiered candelabra. A few feet away, the corridor ended in a charming alcove, complete with a scarlet cushioned seat.
Guy escorted her toward the cushioned seat, which rested on a raised dais. Once she was settled, he positioned himself in a manner to block curious stares from passersby. “Better?”
His look of concern helped Cora shrug off any lingering unpleasantness caused by her encounter with Lord Chittendale. Her perch put her at eye level with his chin, which meant his chest was within easy reaching distance. Unable to meet his gaze due to the nasty little needles pricking the backs of her eyes, she began fiddling with one of his gleaming coat buttons. “Yes, thanks to you.”
He said nothing, so she moved on to another silver button. “I did nothing but stand there like a buffoon.”
“Not true. You made a very diverting comment about refreshments.”
She put a bit of pout in her tone. “It is not at all humorous.”
Guy tipped her chin up with a crooked finger. “Were you trying to protect me again, Cora?”
Remembering the row they’d had last time the topic came up, she wasn’t about to answer truthfully. “No, I was merely thirsty.”
His lips twitched. “I should have called him out, or better yet, laid him low on Lady Rotham’s ballroom floor.”
“But you did call him out, didn’t you? Not in so many words, of course, but your message was as clear as his disdain.”
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