“I am Lady Hoarville.” The door was closed behind him with a firm thud. “Anabel. You may call me Anabel.”
“Why?”
She moved to the center of the room and faced him. “Because I like you, of course.” Her bright blue eyes became innocently round. “And I think you are coming to like me, too. Just a teensy bit?”
Calum was overwhelmed by a feeling that he had wandered into an elaborate theatrical production—a farce—and that he was being manipulated to play a part of the lady’s choosing.
“Is it simply Mr. Calum Innes?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation.
“How fascinating.”
“That I am simply Mr. Calum Innes? Or that I am here at all?”
“That clearly you are intimately known by Lady Philipa, while I do not know you at all.” She sipped champagne and looked at him through popping bubbles. “I know everybody who is anybody. Yet I do not know you.”
How very important it was for people such as Wokingham and this woman to count themselves among their select “anybody” circle. “Perhaps, my lady, I am not anybody,” he suggested, not without enjoyment. “Wouldn’t that account for the situation?”
She laughed, and Calum immediately remembered how Lady Philipa’s laugh had sounded. The comparison was as if between a penny whistle and a flute.
“Oh, Mr. Innes,” Lady Hoarville said, inclining her head to let her mass of blond ringlets trail over a round, white shoulder. “You tease me. When did you first meet Lady Philipa?”
“Tonight,” he said promptly.
“Come, come, now.” She sauntered about the room, watching him all the while, and finally posed beside a tufted chaise. “Did she pay you to dance with her?”
He was too shocked to respond. Slowly, he put his glass on a mahogany teapoy.
“Aha! I see I finally have your attention. It won’t work, you know. Not without a great deal of insight into the man, and you may be assured that Etienne doesn’t give a fig for his silly little intended, one way or the other.”
Calum opened his mouth and shook his head.
“She may think she’s won some sort of victory by gaining his attention, but she cannot steal his affections from me. Etienne and I have known each other for a very long time. This annoying betrothal was not of his making, and Lady Philipa would do well not to practice calling herself Duchess yet. Etienne and I, we are…we are like a fine musician and a perfectly tuned instrument. We belong together.”
“I see,” Calum said, sensing that the woman’s jealousy could become a useful weapon against Franchot—should a weapon ever be needed. “Might I know which of you is the, er, fine musician and which the perfectly tuned instrument?”
She tossed her head and three long green ostrich feathers floated around her hair. “How much did she pay you?”
Poor Lady Philipa. What very unpleasant people she counted among her acquaintances.
“How much?” Lady Hoarville pressed.
“Nothing.”
“Chivalry from a paid courtier?” She snorted. “How admirable. By now he will have sent her packing back to Pall Mall with the horrid old dowager. So the little charade you arranged will not have accomplished a thing, you see.”
Calum’s jaw ached from clenching his teeth. “Tell me, Lady Hoarville,” he said, “why exactly do you think Lady Philipa Chauncey would pay me to dance with her?”
“I told you. In order to try to steal the duke’s attention from me. She is jealous.”
“Why should she be jealous? Regardless of your wishes to the contrary, she is his fiancée, I believe. She is to marry him at the end of the summer, isn’t she? Surely you don’t think you can do anything to change that.”
“I think Lady Philipa fears she may lose what she has always expected to gain from poor Etienne.” Cunning entered those guileless blue eyes. “You know all this. And you arranged what happened out there.”
“You are wrong,” he assured her. “I do not know all this. And I arranged nothing. The clumsy gentleman who spilled champagne on your passionate friend has been my companion since we were children. He is Struan, Viscount Hunsingore, and he invited me to accompany him this evening. I had never seen Lady Philipa before tonight.”
“Hunsingore,” Lady Hoarville repeated. “How do I know that name?”
“You heard him announce it.”
“No, no.” She flipped her fan impatiently. “What made you decide to ask Lady Philipa to dance?”
He felt protective of Lady Philipa and immediately knew the insanity of any such feeling where she was concerned. “I asked her to dance because I found her appearance pleasing and because she was not already dancing.”
“You are not English,” she said suddenly.
Calum raised his brows. He could not say that despite his subtle Scottish brogue, he was most definitely English, that he had been born in Cornwall and that the man whose identity and origins were truly a mystery was, even now, posturing in Prince Esterhazy’s music room.
“Are you a Scot?”
He nodded. “I have lived most of my life at Castle Kirkcaldy.” The truth always simplified matters. “The late Marquess of Stonehaven was my guardian.”
“Hunsingore,” she exclaimed. “Of course! He is the younger brother of the present marquess. How are you related to them?”
So many questions. “I told you. I was the late marquess’s ward. Later I became his son’s…advisor.” It was close enough.
“But surely there is some blood tie? Through your mother, perhaps?”
“None at all. I was a foundling.” As he said it, he faced her squarely and planted his feet. “I am, my lady, nobody. Nobody at all. Now, if you will excuse me?”
“Yet you have the bearing and presence of a man very much certain of himself. And you presumed to ask a noble lady to dance?” She clucked, then perched on the edge of the chaise. “I do not think I believe you, Mr. Innes. There is much more here than you are prepared to divulge. Would it make you more talkative if I told you that I will not repeat anything you tell me to the duke?”
“I doubt it.”
“Humor me, Mr. Innes.” She paused with her lips parted. A crease formed between her arched brows. “Innes? I’m almost certain I have known an Innes.”
“It’s a common enough Scottish name.”
The closed fan was leveled at him. “We have met before.”
“It seems,” Calum said with a sigh, “that I am either most memorable or exceedingly forgettable. We have not met before.”
“And you stand by your word that Lady Philipa did not hire your services to incite the duke’s jealousy?”
“I do indeed.”
“You certainly did make him angry, didn’t you?” A dimple appeared in her left cheek. “He does so despise anyone who crosses him.”
Calum almost felt sorry for Franchot. He was dallying in malicious and greedy arms. “No man likes to feel the fool.”
“Are you wealthy, Mr. Innes?”
“I…” He had the adequate bequest left to him by the late Marquess of Stonehaven, but that was not this woman’s affair. “I am an independent man.”
“An independent poor man? Or an independent rich man? The latter is so much more appealing, wouldn’t you say?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“But you are not of the latter variety?”
“I’ll take my leave of you.”
“Not unless you want me to tear my dress and scream.”
Calum stood quite still. As he watched her, Lady Hoarville pulled the bodice of her gown down, baring her breasts.
“Madam!” He stepped backward, jamming his heel against the door to ensure it remained closed.
“I see I have overwhelmed you. It is invariably the case.” She reached up to jerk several curls loose and let them fall over the swell of one breast. Her large pink nipple thrust between shiny strands. Lady Hoarville took the tensed flesh idly between a finger and thumb, then rested her head against the
chaise. “Why don’t you join me, Mr. Innes? I know you would enjoy this even more than I.”
He could walk out on her and risk the outcome.
“Oh, I’ve embarrassed you,” she said, her voice husky.
“All I intended was to make certain I had your full attention.”
“You do,” he said shortly.
“Good. Then I think we should talk a little business.”
“There is no business that we could possibly have in common.
“Oh, but there is.” Somewhat laboriously, she got to her feet and approached Calum. “You have presented me with an absolutely marvelous solution to the biggest dilemma of my life.”
“I suggest you attend to your gown, Lady Hoarville.”
“You attend to it,” she said, coming to stand toe-to-toe with Calum, her body layered intimately against his. “You are a very handsome man, Mr. Innes.”
He stared down into her face, and lower.
“Yes,” she whispered. “You see something you want, don’t you? And you shall have it, dear man. All of it. In time.” Her fingers trailed up his thigh until she could explore the solid contours of his manhood.
Calum grunted and reached for her hand.
She squealed and rocked against him, parting her thighs to straddle one of his. “We must be quiet,” she said, giggling. “Or they will come and find us. What will you say if they do?”
He abandoned her darting hand in favor of dealing with the bodice of her gown. When his fingers passed over a crested nipple, she gave a little shriek. He pressed his lips together and dipped to grasp the neck of the dress.
“We are going to be well suited.” She sighed. “Oh, yes. But first you must do what I tell you to.”
As he hauled the lace back into place, she trapped his hand inside, molded it to her flesh and began to pant.
Several more minutes of erotic struggling elapsed before the “lady” was more or less clothed again.
“So,” she said, smiling while she made an effort to restore her hair. “Now you know how quickly and easily I can ensure your cooperation.”
He couldn’t help asking, “What exactly is it that requires my cooperation?”
“Surely you’ve guessed. You’ve given me a marvelous idea.” She slipped a hand between his legs and squeezed.
Calum’s flesh sprang harder than ever, but he regarded her unflinchingly. “No doubt you’re about to enlighten me about this idea,” he said.
“Don’t you know already?” She spun away and clapped her hands. “I want you to do what I thought you were doing. I want you to pretend to woo Lady Philipa Chauncey—Pippa, as she so strangely prefers to be called.”
The town coach rumbled over London’s cobbled streets, sending its occupants swaying against luxurious, deep red leather squabs. A white moon silvered the facades of the shops and gentlemen’s clubs on St. James’s Street. Despite the tension that turned her stomach, Pippa took note once more of the famous bow window at White’s but could not see if anyone was seated there.
“Justine should have come tonight,” she said impulsively. The Dowager Duchess of Franchot’s silence had swelled to fill the coach, and Pippa could hardly bear it. “She doesn’t go about at all.” She spoke of Lady Justine Girvin, the duke’s sister, a shy but charming woman who seemed completely terrified by London.
Pippa tried again. “I think Justine is lovely. I’m certain she would enjoy dressing for a ball. She’d be bound to draw the attention of some very suitable gentlemen.”
“Justine is four and thirty,” the dowager said in her brittle voice. “Little short of five and thirty. Hardly marriageable material. She hated balls when she came out, and to as much as consider her attending a ball now is ludicrous.”
Pippa took a breath that burned her tight throat. “I’m very grateful to her for coming to London to greet me. I can tell it’s difficult for her to be here.”
“We all must do things that are difficult when duty demands them,” the dowager said.
Like marrying a man you don’t know, but whom you are positive you will detest when you do know him, Pippa thought. She wound and unwound the tiny lace handkerchief she’d pulled from her reticule.
Who was Calum Innes?
She pressed a fist into her middle and realized with amazement that tears prickled in her eyes.
Why would wondering about a stranger make her want to cry?
She never cried.
Why had he chosen to dance with her when he could have asked someone beautiful?
The coach made the turn onto fashionable Pall Mall, and here the moon cast the white buildings in icy splendor.
“I cannot imagine what Etienne was thinking tonight, Philipa,” the dowager said. Rigidly upright, her small form was turned away from Pippa, so that her stern profile stood sharp against the moonlight. From the moment when she’d brushed the duke aside and hurried Pippa from Chandos House, she hadn’t initiated conversation—until now.
“Posturing,” she said in a thin voice. “Ordering. Demanding. All but calling a man out! My grandson and I are going to have a long discussion when he arrives home—whenever that may be.”
It could not possibly be late enough for her liking, Pippa thought unhappily.
“That young man,” the dowager said. “The one you danced with. Where have I seen him?”
“Nowhere,” Pippa said in a small voice, thoroughly miserable now. As soon as she’d first looked at Calum Innes, she’d found it impossible to think exclusively of anything or anyone else. “He simply asked me to dance and I agreed.”
“Hmph. I can’t imagine what you were thinking of, I must say.”
“Not wise, I know, but I just didn’t think. And it was a perfectly decorous dance, after…” Her voice trailed off. The waltz had definitely not been particularly decorous. Thank goodness! she wanted to shout. Thank goodness for a man so confident that he made her feel confident. Thank goodness for a man who’d made her forget she was clumsy. Thank goodness for a man who looked strong and felt strong and who had about him an air of purpose that had nothing to do with self-importance.
“Etienne must be made accountable for his behavior,” the dowager remarked. “For all our sakes, he simply must stop keeping company with that—” She stopped abruptly.
Pippa didn’t dare say what she thought, which was that the Duke of Franchot and Lady Hoarville seemed well matched and that she’d be happy to give them her blessing. Oh, if only Papa would simply give the wretched Franchots a path across Chauncey land to the port, and a right to use it without making marriage to Pippa the asking price, for goodness’ sake. She worried the strings of her reticule. She had never seen the dowager duchess so upset. Why, in the four weeks since Papa had deposited Pippa at the Franchots’ Town home, the dowager duchess had never spoken a harsh word about her grandson—until tonight.
“Such a bother,” Pippa muttered, and was grateful when the old lady showed no sign of having heard.
The coach ground to a halt before Franchot House, and the footmen leaped nimbly from their posts to place the steps, open the door and hand down the dowager and Pippa.
The butler admitted them to the building, saying in hushed tones, “Good evening, Your Grace. My lady. So early? I trust there has been no difficulty?”
“No difficulty at all,” the dowager declared.
Their evening slippers rustled on black-and-white tiles in a marble vestibule lined with Franchot family busts, each one ensconced in a blue-enameled alcove.
“Very well, then,” the dowager said, snapping the fingers of her gloves free, one by one. “It is a lady’s place to make the best of it, don’t y’know.”
“Yes,” Pippa agreed softly, knowing without being told that the second “it” referred to her future husband. “Papa alluded to that being the case. Such a bother.”
The dowager duchess gave Pippa one of her bemused stares before saying, “Yes. Well, then, you’d best go to your bed. One hopes that impossible maid your father s
upplied will have had the sense to await you.”
“Nelly is very satisfactory,” Pippa said, not caring that she sounded as defensive as she felt. “Papa always gives deep thought to matters involving my welfare.”
“As you say. I shall appeal to Etienne’s finer nature. Things will progress tolerably well then, I’m sure.”
Pippa was not sure. Pippa was suddenly deeply anxious. “Does this mean the wedding may occur sooner than expected?” She held her breath.
“Not a bit of it!” The woman’s exasperated breath sounded explosive in the quiet house. “That would be the end. All the tongues in London would wag.”
“They would?”
“They would think you—” The dowager cleared her throat. “There are still many matters upon which I must instruct you. Yes, well, then…Yes, many things. It is unfortunate that you grew up without close female relations, but I shall not shirk the unpleasant duties that befall me. I shall certainly not shirk them, since the future of the Franchots is at stake.”
Before Pippa could ask if so ominous a statement referred to anything other than the importance of her dowry, the dowager touched her cheek lightly and turned to climb the stairs. Pippa waited a discreet time to allow her future in-law to ascend to her apartments—on the floor above Pippa’s—then ran lightly upstairs and along the corridor to the bedroom that was too cold and too elegant for her taste.
Nelly Bumstead all but capered in her excitement at Pippa’s return. Smaller than her mistress and fair, with brilliant gray eyes, she shot up from a window vantage point of the street and plucked Pippa’s satin reticule from her wrist.
“You need not have waited up for me, Nelly,” Pippa said.
“Oh, go on with you, my lady.” Nelly’s broad, North Country vowels were warm and comfortably familiar to Pippa’s ear. “I’d as soon cut off me own head as not be waitin’ when you got back from that ball. Exciting, was it?”
Pippa sighed and allowed herself to be divested of her velvet cape. “All a lot of bother,” she said.
“Oh, go on with you, my lady. Surely there was a crush of the quality.” Nelly bobbed in front of Pippa to look directly into her face. “And lots of lovely gentlemen? Were there lovely red uniforms and gold braid and such? I thought when I came to you as there’d be all sorts of fancy affairs t’see, but—”
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