by Allison Lane
But the pace was so frenetic that she accomplished nothing, exchanging meaningless pleasantries at each stop before rushing on to the next. Despite spending most of her time with other people, she rarely talked to anyone – really talked; parroting gossip didn’t count. The purpose of all this socializing was to find a husband, yet she knew little more about her suitors than their names and ranks.
Lady Jersey was watching, so she widened her smile and suppressed another sigh.
She had acquired a regular court, much to Lady Forley’s delight. Most of the gentlemen who were seriously shopping for wives had already begun to narrow their choices, which reduced hers to those currently dancing attendance on her. One day soon she must bring one of them up to scratch. But which?
Not everyone was serious. Captain Harrington would return to the Peninsula as soon as his doctors declared him fit – probably next week. Several young sprigs just down from school occasionally hovered around her, indulging in small doses of polite society between visits to green rooms and gaming hells. Others flitted from one court to another, enjoying the variety.
Sir Alan was a different story. Lady Forley despised him, for he was only a baronet, her diatribes so obnoxious that Angela had seriously considered him for several days. But he was not a man she could live with in comfort. He cared for little beyond clothes and horses, his shallow mind incapable of original thought. If they wed, Angela would soon dominate him – not a situation she approved. She hoped her husband would consider her suggestions, but how could she respect a man who allowed her ride roughshod over him? So it was time to hint Sir Alan away.
Garwood was another whom her mother disapproved despite encouraging him to remain in attendance – a large court enhanced one’s credit. Angela had actually managed a reasonable conversation with him at the Clarkwell picnic, finding him intelligent and dedicated to his estate. And he made her feel comfortable enough that she had mentioned one of Andrew’s agriculture experiments. Though surprised, he had accepted her knowledge, indulging in a lively debate.
Yet two questions remained. Could their relationship grow beyond idle friendship? And was he in the market for a wife? No one seemed to know.
She couldn’t doubt Atwater’s intentions. He made no secret of them. Surprisingly, he had narrowed his choices to herself and Miss Hanson, a baronet’s daughter, abandoning both an earl’s daughter and a duke’s. The gossips favored her, both because of her higher rank and because Lady Forley enthusiastically approved a match.
Her mother’s pressure annoyed Angela, as did people’s assumption that she would automatically accept him because he was the most desirable parti in town. More than one girl had feigned friendship with her solely to fawn over Atwater. The gossips’ sly innuendo was even more irritating than her mother’s admonitions.
But Angela could never relax with him. Perhaps it was his incessant flattery, which had grown even warmer since her ball. Perhaps it was the way he hovered, bringing her cool drinks when she was hardly aware of a dry throat and maneuvering her near the doors before she noted a heated ballroom. Or perhaps it was his disdain. His credit was as high as Brummell’s, and he used it in the same way – raising or lowering others’ consequence by bestowing or denying his favor. She hated the way these arbiters of fashion played with people’s lives. And knowing that he could destroy her on a whim increased her tension, for she was terrified of revealing her inadequacies. She couldn’t converse with him beyond one-word responses to direct questions.
That must change. If she could not hold a rational discussion with him, then she must leave him to Miss Hanson – who clearly doted on him – and concentrate on bringing Garwood up to scratch.
But avoiding him would be difficult, she realized when Atwater arrived and headed directly to her side, passing Lady Jersey with only the barest nod. That easily insulted matron merely smiled.
“You dance divinely, my dear,” he said as they took their places for a cotillion.
She said nothing.
The figure parted them, but he kept his face turned adoringly to hers instead of smiling at his new partner. It was clear to everyone in the room that he had made his decision and would court only her from now on. Miss Hanson seemed on the verge of tears. Lady Jersey’s lips formed the words young love as she looking smilingly on.
Angela shivered.
Yet her reaction was silly. Now that he had singled her out, surely they would discuss serious subjects. Perhaps she could even figure out why Atwater terrified her while Blackthorn did not.
It was a question that had puzzled her for days. Blackthorn was the most dangerous man in Mayfair. Yet she had argued with him, insulted him, revealed interests that society would abhor, and not once considered herself in danger. And her instincts had been right. No hint had surfaced of their meeting. Yet his silence arose from neither prudence nor affection. He obviously loathed her.
She had spotted him several times since their encounter in Hatchard’s – on Bond Street, in Hyde Park, and again near Hatchard’s. Always he had caught her eye. Even from afar, he radiated anger. His appearances were too frequent to pass off as chance, so he must be watching her. Yet her reaction was inexplicable. His most ferocious glares failed to intimidate her, while Atwater’s affections invariably did.
The movement of the dance brought her back to Atwater’s side.
“So beautiful,” he murmured, staring warmly into her eyes.
“Thank you, my lord,” she managed.
“Call me Gabriel.” He deftly avoided a couple who were so engrossed in each other that they had drifted out of their own set.
“I cannot, my lord.” She could not consider such closeness. He was too much an enigma.
He nodded, looking even more pleased. “Of course not. So quiet and proper a lady must balk at unseemly familiarity. Society prefers that we wait.”
You don’t understand! But no words emerged.
Was that good or bad? Every exchange strengthened her impression that this man would not make a comfortable husband. His very presence prevented her from conducting a normal conversation on even innocuous subjects.
But she could not accept that as truth any more than she could believe society’s facade of gaiety. He might not be at fault. Lady Forley’s pressure was mounting. You must snare Atwater … flirt with him … all it will take is a few lures … fortune and title are essential in a husband … he is the catch of the Season … you will be the envy of all society … don’t waste any chances…
Her discomfort might be no more than rebellion against her mother’s manipulation. And it was manipulation. Lady Forley was being downright rude to Sir Alan and quite stilted toward Garwood. Yet she fawned over Atwater to the point of embarrassment.
But changing her mother’s behavior was hopeless. The only way to halt her antics was to accept an offer – which meant sounding out Garwood’s intentions so she knew whether she had a choice.
She stifled a sigh. Almack’s was no place for serious discussions – or even for planning serious discussions. The patronesses watched everyone like hawks, frowning at any indiscretion.
When the dance concluded, Angela found Lady Forley engulfed in righteous indignation. “Are you implying that Lord Cloverdale did not die of natural causes? Lady Sefton swore he succumbed to a chill.”
“What rubbish,” said Lady Debenham with an audible snort. “Though it has never been general knowledge, I refuse to hide the truth now that that man is creeping back into society. He actually accepted what must have been an erroneous invitation to Lady Chartley’s soiree last evening. The gall of the scoundrel!”
“Not Blackthorn!”
“Who else? He showed up, larger than life and even more devilish than usual. And Lady Chartley had the nerve to allow him inside. I was never so shocked in my life!” She furiously fluttered her fan. “But he is wrong if he thinks he can worm his way back into my good graces. I refused to speak in the past out of consideration for the families, but the truth must out.
Blackthorn murdered Cloverdale.”
Angela grimaced. Another body in the man’s wake. And not one that could be passed off as fate or the suicide of a weakling. Surely this would banish that odd glow she experienced whenever he caught her eye.
“Murdered?” demanded Mrs. Bassington, another inveterate gossip, who had been shamelessly eavesdropping.
“He might consider it an affair of honor, but I cannot.” Lady Debenham pulled herself straighter. “There were no seconds. No doctor. No witnesses. And Cloverdale was execrable with both sword and pistol. It was naught but cold-blooded murder, but without witnesses, none can lay charges.”
“Without witnesses, how do you know what happened?” asked Lady Forley, surprising both Angela and Lady Debenham.
“What else could it be?” the gossip demanded. “Cloverdale told Lord Kingsley that he was meeting Blackthorn in the morning. Kingsley assumed it was to receive the crim-con settlement. Not until the body turned up did he deduce that the meeting had been a duel. But even that is not the sum of Blackthorn’s crimes. Lord Coldstream’s death must have occurred in the same way. The two had been at odds the day before. I tell you, Blackthorn is devoid of all honor.”
“What is she going on about now?” murmured Sylvia, appearing at Angela’s side. She had accompanied them to Almack’s so Hart could keep a weary Cassie at home.
“Lady Debenham thinks Blackthorn killed both Cloverdale and Coldstream,” she whispered.
“I remember the talk about Coldstream,” said Sylvia. “He died while I was in town shopping with Cassie. He and Blackthorn had had an altercation at one of the clubs – Boodle’s, I think – the night before, though it was never clear what caused it. One rumor claimed they argued over a girl; another swore it grew out of a card game. But they supposedly patched up the quarrel without a challenge.”
“How do you know?” She moved closer to Sylvia so they wouldn’t be heard. All ears were tuned to Lady Debenham’s increasingly strident denunciations. “That is hardly drawing room talk.”
“I overheard Hart and Cassie discussing it. He shares everything with her. But there was no hint of murder. I wonder if it’s true.”
Angela bit her tongue until Sylvia’s next partner whisked her away. Why did she have such a strong urge to defend Blackthorn? It made no sense. In fact, nothing made sense. She was losing her mind.
She caught Lady Jersey’s frown from across the room and smiled, forcing her face into a vapid mask to smooth her brow.
Just that morning she had seen Blackthorn on New Bond Street when she emerged from the linen draper’s shop. He had blessed her with another of his disapproving glowers, and had even gone so far as to mouth greetings. She could still feel his eyes boring through her…
Warmth suffused her body as his image obliterated the ballroom, returning her to Bond Street. Sunlight glinted off his curly-brimmed beaver. Menace rolled from him in palpable waves. It was the closest she had been to him since that day in Hatchard’s, yet despite his antagonism, she still felt no threat.
The incongruity made her question her sanity even as a coach rolled past, blocking her view. Why did so notorious a scoundrel not intimidate her? Curiosity was an inadequate answer, though he had piqued hers since that day on Piccadilly. His silence over her misdeeds proved that he was less black than society claimed, yet his stalking supported even the worst tales. Was he playing some game with her?
Even as she grappled with his inconsistencies, their gazes locked, and she shivered.
He was a mass of seething emotion. Fury and disapproval were obvious. But his eyes contained so much more – warmth, irritation, pain, intelligence, wariness, arrogance…
An overwhelming urge to stroke that harsh face and smooth the furrowed brow graphically revealed her real enemy.
Herself.
No wonder she didn’t fear him! Her own urges were far more dangerous. Blackthorn might be an enticing enigma, but she could not afford to explore his character. Satisfying her curiosity would destroy her. If rescuing Jimmy could make her a social pariah, what would compassion for the Black Marquess do? Someone would surely lock her in Bedlam – probably her mother.
Even as he mouthed another comment, a lady pushed past her into the shop, jostling her arm and reminding her that she was visible to the entire world.
Dear Lord! She was staring at him. Again. And again she had no idea how much time had passed. Even worse, she had replied – several times. The last thing she needed was for people to think she was besotted with the man. Caroline Lamb’s obsession with Lord Byron had been the talk of the town for more than a year. Comparisons would ruin her.
Yet it was difficult to wrest her gaze from Blackthorn’s. And she couldn’t resist peeking over her shoulder as she ducked into a shop.
He hadn’t moved an inch. And his eyes still bore into hers.
Shivering, Angela forced her attention back to Almack’s. She must avoid Blackthorn, for she exerted no self-control in his presence. How could she have stared at him like a moonstruck pea-goose?
Garwood arrived to lead her into the next set. “What is that all about?” He nodded toward Lady Debenham.
“More rumors about Lord Blackthorn.” She shrugged.
“Rumors abound in London. Many are exaggerated, though in Blackthorn’s case, even the truth is severe.”
“Meaning that stories about him are not exaggerated, or that they remain grim even when shorn of editing?”
“Definitely grim, though not entirely true. Take that gambling story, for example. He fleeced Graceford, right enough. Last Season, it was. But I saw no evidence of cheating. He is a better player than people suspect, for his mind is quite keen. Graceford, on the other hand, always had a little too much luck, though no one ever caught him at anything underhanded – at least not in this country. He died in a duel with an Italian conte who did not consider Graceford’s fuzzed deck amusing. One of my friends recently returned from Naples and recounted the whole story. He witnessed the denouement.”
“Heavens! But why does Blackthorn have a reputation for losing if he is such a good player?”
“I suspect he plays for idle pleasure and cares not whether he wins or loses. But let us forget the man, for despite exaggerations, he remains a blackguard. What he did to his betrothed can never be forgiven, and Lady Cloverdale was worse. There is a new exhibit at the British Institution you would enjoy – a retrospective of Reynolds. Shall we visit it tomorrow?”
“Mother has already accepted Lady Stafford’s invitation to a Venetian breakfast. Perhaps Friday.”
“Thank you. Would your brother and Lady Sylvia care to join us?”
“We can ask.”
The arrangements were quickly made, and she moved off with Sir Alan. They had no opportunity to talk during the country dance, but afterward, when he offered to take her driving, she shook her head.
“I would enjoy it, but you should escort someone eligible to become your lady.” He jerked as if she had slapped him. Damn! Her tact was severely lacking. In an effort to soothe his bruised feelings, she continued. “You are a good friend, and I want you to be happy. But you have often mentioned that you need a wife. Honesty compels me to point out that I will probably grow into a harridan much like my mother. You would be uncomfortable with such a person.”
“Indeed I would,” he said, much struck.
Angela grimaced once he departed. She had not handled that well. Yet what would have been better? Turning down an offer he had not yet made was frowned upon, but if she had waited, it would have been too late for him to look elsewhere this Season. The harridan comment had been an outright lie, but she could scarcely tell him that he was too weak-willed, even though it was the truth. After watching her mother dominate her father, she wished to avoid any chance of doing the same.
Lord Styles was chatting with Lady Forley, promising that the rest of the evening would be annoying. His giggling daughters would make their appearance all too soon.
Lord Style
s laughed at one of Lady Forley’s comments, and she thwacked him soundly with her fan. Atwater returned Grace to her father’s side, bestowing a warm smile on Angela before moving off to find his next partner.
“I vow you are the luckiest thing,” said Grace with a sigh, her eyes glued on Atwater’s back. “I wish he would look at me that way. Isn’t he the handsomest man? Golden hair. Blue eyes. And the most sensuous lips.” She giggled.
“I suppose so,” agreed Angela. Grace compared everyone to the heroes in her favorite gothic novels. “But looks are not everything.”
“I know,” said Grace. “Title and wealth count more. But it certainly adds to the package. Do I have any chance with Lord Atwater?” she asked, turning to her sister. “He dances with me every day and always has some compliment for my appearance.”
“He only asks you because we are nearby when he claims his two sets with Miss Warren,” said Lady Hervey brutally, for once soberly honest. Her tone implied that the match was a foregone conclusion, making Angela shudder. “Turn your eyes to someone reasonable. Mr. Harley has been attentive the last few days. He may not have a title, but his uncle left him a fortune. And he’s not bad looking. With only a bit more chin, he would be downright handsome.”
“But he is such a sobersides,” protested Grace.
“Not really.” Lady Hervey understood the girl’s penchant for pranksters. “Did you not know that he was responsible for that melee last week when three muddy dogs and a cat were released into Lord Houghington’s hall just as he descended dressed for the opera?”
Grace laughed. “Lord Houghington is so fastidious that a speck of lint will send him home to change.”
“One of the dogs shook himself right in front of his lordship.” Lady Hervey giggled. “I heard his hysterics were a sight to behold.”
Angela hid a grimace. What a juvenile prank! And the girls weren’t much better. Lord Houghington might be more fastidious than Brummell, but the dogs had knocked over tables, broken vases, and started a fire that scorched the drawing room carpet. The cat had sprayed the draperies. It would be long before the odor was gone.
