“Being a mama myself now, I can assure you how inadequate such messages would have been. And even those came rarely. You’ve…you’ve not seen her yet, then?”
He sighed. “No. I shall post down to Sandiford Court soon, I suppose. My batman handled things after Waterloo, but ’tis time I inspected the wreckage for myself. Both tasks, I must admit, I’ve been putting off.”
“She’s in London now. Indeed, I thought you might see her here tonight.”
“London!” Anger flared. “How can she imagine I could support the expense of a London house?”
“She’s staying with friends. Lord and Lady Avery, I believe.” Sarah bent a reproving glance on him. “Really, Sinjin, you mustn’t always be thinking the worst of her. She seems…much subdued of late.”
“You’re right, of course. You have her direction? I shall have to call on her, I suppose.”
“Do it soon, please, Sinjin?” Sarah touched his sleeve, her eyes appealing. “She must have learned you’ve returned to London. It will grieve her mightily to know you are here and have not cared enough to see her.”
He squeezed her fingers briefly, savoring the bitter-sweetness of that fleeting contact. “As you wish.”
She nodded, then looked up. “Nicholas, you found Clarissa?”
“In the card room. Colonel, if you’ll follow me? I’ll return in an instant, Sarah.”
“As Clarissa came with us, our departure will leave her stranded. You will escort her home, Sinjin? Number 10, Grosvenor Square,” Sarah said.
“If she wishes, though I should think one of her usual suitors would sue for that honor.”
“Perhaps, but if not, I trust you’ll see her there.” Sarah pressed his hand. “I’m sure Clare will introduce you to so many lovely ladies, your most difficult problem will be deciding which one you prefer.”
When pigs fly, Sinjin thought, and bowed.
“In here,” Englemere said as he ushered Sinjin into a crowded room. “Only three or four devoted suitors hanging about, so you should have an opportunity to converse.”
“Before an audience of only three or four?”
Englemere chuckled. “Clare will send them to the right-about if she so chooses. A lady of considerable spirit, is our Clare.”
Vain, spoiled, temperamental, Sinjin translated.
An assortment of small tables were set up, around which groups sat about playing cards. Sinjin repressed a shudder. Gaming. Yet another reason not to take an aristocratic wife.
Englemere led him across the room to where several fashionably attired young bucks leaned over a lady’s chair. As they wove their way through the crowd, Sinjin got a glimpse of a satin-clad back, the sparkle of a jeweled clasp, and an artful arrangement of thick auburn curls. “Ho, Clare!” Englemere called. “Here we are at last.”
They halted behind her. The young woman looked over her shoulder, fixing on him large, luminous and somehow familiar green eyes. Which then widened, her half smile fading even as the greeting Sinjin had been about to deliver withered on his lips.
“You!” she exclaimed. And burst out laughing.
Chapter Five
Her laughter stinging his ears, Sinjin closed his eyes and fumbled for words. Before he could decide in what manner to address a lady to whom he’d recently been unpardonably rude, the said lady spoke.
“No need to stand on ceremony. As I expect you’ve surmised, I’m Clarissa Beaumont, Colonel. Delighted to meet you—officially. And please accept my apologies! No wonder you were so short with me.”
“Miss Beaumont.” Gritting his teeth, Sinjin bowed. How could he not have considered that a lady pausing before Sarah’s house would doubtless be an acquaintance? True, Miss Beaumont’s distinctive red hair had been concealed under a hat and veil, but surely he ought to have recognized Sarah’s striking green-eyed friend. If he hadn’t let his senseless fury master his sense.
Furious again at having made such a fool of himself, to avoid the acute eyes that undoubtedly were sizing up his considerably altered appearance, Sinjin glanced over to the marquess. And then away from the amused speculation on Englemere’s face.
“You are already acquainted with Lord Sandiford?” that gentleman asked Clarissa.
“We, ah, met while riding.”
Englemere lifted a quizzical brow at him.
“In a manner of speaking,” Sinjin said shortly.
Meanwhile, Miss Beaumont addressed the men who had reluctantly risen when they arrived. Still flustered, Sinjin focused on them. Within a few moments he had been introduced, Miss Beaumont begged the other men’s pardon, and then waved them away with the airy statement that Lord Englemere brought her a message from his wife.
“Neatly done, Clare. I’ll let you two chat. I’m leaving with Sarah directly—no, don’t be alarmed, she’s merely tired. If you don’t mind, I’ve asked Lord Sandiford to escort you home.”
“If that will not be inconvenient, Colonel? Come sit beside me, then,” she invited, gesturing him to a chair.
After bowing to the departing Lord Englemere, who walked off sporting a cat-in-the-cream-pot grin he longed to smack off that handsome face, Sinjin sat. Unable to avoid it any longer, he looked directly at Miss Beaumont.
He’d known by reputation and assorted glimpses of her that Sarah’s friend was a striking woman. That intellectual concept did not prepare him for viewing, from the distance of a hand’s touch, the lady he’d previously seen only glancingly. He gasped, then forgot to breathe.
Doggedly, his brain tried to remind him he scorned beauty and all its spendthrift frivolity. His body was having none of it.
The candles set gold flecks dancing in the flame of her hair, mesmerizing as the flicker of firelight. A scent of roses stole over him, conjuring up summer heat and the petal-soft touch of bare skin. Those remarkable emerald eyes flanked dainty earlobes and a lush lower lip that called out for a man’s tasting. His dazzled gaze sank down a swan’s sweep of neck to softly rounded shoulders and, Heaven forfend, such a temptingly lavish display of bosom that his temples grew moist and the hands at his sides cupped of their own accord, fingertips tingling. His tongue seemed swollen to the size of his neck cloth in a mouth gone too dry for words, while inevitable and unbidden reactions occurred in other parts of his anatomy.
After a struggle, his mind finally wrested back control. He jerked his gaze from contemplating what lay beneath the polished satin at her hips to her face.
To siren’s eyes that gleamed in self-satisfied acknowledgment of the response she had just evoked in him.
Her knowing look tossed a welcome dash of cold water over his ardor. How many hapless men she must have tormented with that body, how many expensive trinkets wheedled out of besotted suitors. Or intended in future to wheedle out of a husband whose wits had descended to his nether regions.
Vain, he forced himself to whisper into the dizzy ringing in his ears. Obviously vain, unquestionably spoiled, and by all reports, exceedingly temperamental.
Though his sense of fairness tried to argue she had excellent cause for vanity, he managed to ignore it.
“So you’ve returned to England for good, Colonel?”
“Yes.”
“You will be staying in London for the Season?”
“I expect.”
“You must allow me to introduce you to several friends, then. Now that some of the regiments are returning from abroad I imagine you shall encounter fellow-officers, but ’tis always more comfortable to have a larger acquaintance, do you not think?”
“I suppose.” Lud, where had his reason wandered? Disgusted, he tried to dredge up some semblance of conversation and remembered it was unnecessary. He had no intention, however long he must remain in town, of frequenting such gatherings as this.
“That’s kind of you, Miss Beaumont, but I shall not be mixing much in this society.”
That caught her attention. She tilted her chin and inspected him, as if he were a specimen for study. “Indeed? I was under the i
mpression that you were desirous of making the acquaintance of…eligible ladies. And I am quite certain such ladies will be most anxious to meet such a handsome and gallant officer.”
“Former officer,” he corrected. “I thank you again for the offer, ma’am, but I sincerely doubt in my…circumstances, of which you are undoubtedly aware, I would be of any interest to your friends whatsoever.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You do wish to marry, do you not? Or was I misinformed?”
That was rather blunt, and he felt himself flushing. “It is my intention to seek a wife, yes. But I expect to look…elsewhere for her.”
Her lip quirked in some amusement. “Elsewhere, my lord? Balls such as this may include guests not, ah, useful for your purposes, but they are, I guarantee, more comfortable than the gauntlet of hopeful mamas you will run at such a Marriage Mart as Almacks.”
Once again she tilted her head and watched him. Wishing to bring the conversation to an end as expeditiously as possible, he said nothing.
When he remained silent she continued, “Given your wartime service, I would not have expected you to avoid beginning a task merely because you judge it…unpleasant. Indeed, the more undesirable it be, the better to accomplish it speedily.”
Her facile advice irritated him even more than her presumptuous assumption there existed no society other than the exclusive one she herself frequented. His answer was therefore blunter than he might have wished.
“I intend, Miss Beaumont, to seek a bride from among the merchant class.”
She was quick-witted, at least, for her reaction was more curiosity than confusion. “Whatever for? Despite the current state of your finances, given your lineage and reputation you would still be accounted an eligible suitor for ladies of your own class. As you must know.”
Could she not simply say “Indeed, my lord” and leave it at that? ’Od’s breath, intelligent as she appeared, surely his reticence clearly conveyed his desire not to pursue this matter further.
Annoyance sharpening, he said through clenched teeth, “I do not think a lady of my—your—class would meet my requirements.”
“And what might those requirements be?”
Uncertain even a sharp set-down would curb Miss Beaumont’s unladylike persistence, Sinjin grudgingly took the more polite path of answering. However, not having yet progressed in his own mind from what he didn’t want to what he did, he had to grope for a reply.
“Modesty. Simplicity. Temperance in all things.”
“And ladies of breeding are not modest, simple, or temperate?” she asked in a silky voice.
“You force me to be unchivalrous, but in my observation, generally not.”
“I see.” Long lashes swept down, concealing her expression. She picked up a deck of cards and idly began to shuffle. “Any other strictures?”
He eyed the cards with distaste. “An aversion to throwing away hard-won money at games of chance.”
She looked up, a little smile playing at the corner of her lips. “Oh, but cards are so amusing. And we ladies normally play for chicken stakes. I can’t recall ever losing more than four or five hundred pounds of an evening. But your list interests me, my lord. What else would you seek in a bride?”
He recalled her smug satisfaction at his reaction to her looks, the casual way she dismissed her court. “Beauty is a highly overrated attribute—a mere accident of birth, is it not? Of much greater value are lack of vanity and flirtatiousness. A lady content to remain at home of an evening, not forever gadding about vying for the attention of men. One educated enough to make pleasant conversation, perhaps possessing some skill at an instrument.” Warming to the task now, he added, “Naturally, given my circumstances, she must be clever at household management, possess a cheerful disposition and be not so toplofty that she considers honest labor beneath her.”
“Generous, wise, modest, and thrifty?” she summarized. “And, of course, innocent of all the vices of aristocracy.”
Suspicious of her mild tone, he eyed her frostily. “Such attributes would not come amiss.”
She shuffled the cards and cut them with a snap, then looked up, green eyes glittering. “My dear Colonel, you seek not a wife, but a saint.”
The chit was mocking him. This rich, idle woman with the body of a temptress and the arrogance of a queen was mocking both his predicament and his expectations.
The very idea caused his simmering temper, uncertain all evening, to boil over.
“A modest woman of sense a saint? Perhaps. At any rate, ’tis surely something you—and other ladies like you—will never be. I shall trouble you no further. Your servant, madam.” Swiftly he rose to his feet and gave her an exaggerated bow.
For the second time in their renewed acquaintance Clarissa was left with her mouth agape while Colonel Lord Sandiford stalked off without a backward glance.
She took a deep, steadying breath and reined in her own temper. After a moment, he would realize how rag-mannered he’d been and return to apologize.
Knowing how his fortune had been lost, it was rather bad of her to tweak him about gambling. But the devil, she had apologized for mistaking him for a groom, hadn’t she? Not that he’d shown the least appreciation for her admitting that quite understandable error. And she’d generously offered to assist him in his quest for a wife. She, a belle of the ton, had agreed to act as practically a…duenna, for Heaven’s sake!
And what thanks had she gotten for her efforts? Her temper fraying further with each adjective, she mentally counted off the damning description of what he supposed she was not. Modest. Generous. Temperate. Intelligent. As for what she was—he’d all but called her an irresponsible gamester and a vain, shallow flirt!
Worst of all, she had felt his exploratory stare burn over every inch of skin he inspected. Though she was doubtless less experienced in the arts of love than the Colonel, she was no dewy-eyed innocent. She’d tasted kisses from a few select suitors, even a bit more, and thoroughly enjoyed the forbidden thrill of it. But this, tonight, had been far more than thrill.
His gaze set her smoldering with an unprecedented desire to take the hands he held so rigidly at his sides and draw them to her breasts. To tease open with her tongue that stern censorious mouth.
Heat scorched her face. She was accustomed to inspiring and controlling passion in men, not being singed by it herself. Damn the bastard for looking so tall, hard, muscled…delicious.
And rude. Unforgivably rude, she reminded herself, fanning her warm cheeks. He had better be most eloquent when he came to beg her pardon.
Praise Heaven, he was not indifferent to her. She smiled slightly. When he did apologize, she was going to make him grovel.
It occurred to her she’d been sitting there some few moments and the colonel had yet to reappear. Thankful the gamesters occupying the surrounding tables were too engrossed to have noticed the unusual spectacle of Miss Beaumont all alone, she slipped to the door.
Perhaps he’d been detained. He’d met one of his fellow officers and been drawn into conversation. As she escaped into the hallway, she saw Grenville, Mountclare and Lord Alastair walking toward her.
“Ah, our goddess is finally free!” Grenville exclaimed.
Lord Alastair took her arm. “Saw Englemere leave. And that starched-up Colonel fellow, what’s-his-name?”
“Sandiford,” she replied absently before the meaning of his comment jolted her alert. “Did you say Lord Sandiford left the ball?”
“Stiff as if he had a poker up his back. Greeted him politely but the fellow just ignored me and walked out the door.” Alastair shook his head over such bad ton. “Glad I never went into the Army, if it turns a fellow into such a mannerless care-for-nobody.”
Slowly her brain comprehended the reality. Lord Sandiford had departed. Without apologizing. Without even arranging her escort, he who had been entrusted with seeing her home!
The temper she’d just congratulated herself on managing rather well flared from spark to infe
rno.
The room went fuzzy in a red haze of rage beyond articulation. She scarcely felt Alastair patting her arm, did not hear the words exiting Mountclare’s moving lips.
That pompous, rag-mannered, prudish military oaf! How dare—how dare he insult her, dismiss her as flighty and flawed with scarcely a second glance. He thought women feebleminded, yet he would judge her with no knowledge of her character whatsoever. Warm, generous, caring, Sarah had described him? Either war had changed him completely, or this precious Colonel Sandiford was an imposter.
She would give him the cut direct. No, that was too civilized. She would skewer him with the cleverest, most cutting words her tongue could summon. Then she recalled another use to which a few moments ago she’d felt moved to put her tongue and her rage refired.
She would murder him.
Gradually the faces around her refocused.
“I say, Miss Beaumont, are you feeling quite the thing? You look faint!” Grenville was saying.
“Let me assist you to a chair,” Alastair urged.
She shook off his arm, unable at that moment, thinking of him, to bear another’s touch. “Nonsense, I’ve never fainted in my life. I’m…I’m restless. I must walk.”
“Let us come along. Wouldn’t want you to—”
“—As you wish.”
Her courtiers trotting alongside, mystified but docile, she marched down the hallway, breathing deeply and willing herself to calm. As she pivoted to return to the ballroom, a man walked out of an anteroom into her path.
“Miss Beaumont!” Lord John Weston halted abruptly. Apparently observing her now-flushed cheeks and air of agitation, he remarked in his unctuous voice, “You seem to be quite in a taking this evening.”
Lovely. With her as furious as she could recall being in recent memory, who must she encounter but the one person in London she truly detested. “Lord John,” she said coldly, wishing it were possible to squash this nasty, waspish man like the insect he was.
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