Merry Widows 02: Just One Of Those Flings

by Candice Hern

  Beatrice tried not to scowl at the provoking man. Must he be so stiff and reserved? Emily didn't seem to mind. She continued to smile and preen, trying to attract his attention. His rank and fortune and good looks were enough for her, it seemed. It didn't matter that the man might be a haughty prig or a stern autocrat. It mattered to Beatrice, though. She knew firsthand what it meant to be married to an intractable husband. She hoped for more warmth and affection in her niece's marriage, and the marquess, at first acquaintance anyway, did not seem to be the man to provide it.

  And yet, how contrary was it that such an aloof man could send a little flutter of heat low in her belly when he looked at her? Beatrice really had to rein in these absurd fancies and inappropriate physical reactions.

  Damn that maharaja for awakening her sexual desire. It would surely be the death of her.

  Chapter 5

  It was not enough, apparently, that Thayne be introduced to young women at appropriate social occasions. Now his mother was bringing them home to meet him.

  Miss Thirkill was certainly pretty enough to capture any man's attention, though she did seem to be rather too aware of her beauty. The duchess would have approved her connections before parading her before him, so he did not question her breeding. Her aunt was a countess, after all. And the girl had pretty manners, even if she was a bit forward. But Thayne knew he was seen as a good catch, so he could hardly fault a young woman for trying to draw his attention.

  The aunt was an attractive woman, and as he did with all attractive women, he examined her for hints of Artemis. Lady Somerfield had blue eyes, but so did more than half the female population of London. Her hair was a rich shade of red and pulled back sleek and straight beneath a lace cap that was more stylish than matronly. It was lovely hair, but not the wavy brown he'd been seeking. Besides, she sat stiff-backed and prim as a governess, without a hint of sensuality. And she had the air of a fierce mother hen guarding her chick. It took only a moment to dismiss her as a potential Artemis.

  He glanced again at Miss Thirkill, who lowered her eyes demurely, then slowly raised her lids halfway to gaze at him through the screen of long lashes. The girl was a flirt, by God. Intriguing.

  She was more than merely pretty. She was, in fact, quite stunningly beautiful, with a heart-shaped face, guinea gold hair, a perfect complexion, a Cupid's bow mouth, and large blue eyes set off by darker lashes and brows. And she was well aware of her beauty. Every glance and gesture invited him to admire it.

  And he did, in a dispassionate sort of way. She was too young to truly interest him as a person. But he did consider how she would look on his arm, and how handsome their children might be.

  Burnett, on the other hand, appeared thoroughly moonstruck. Although friendly and charming as ever when addressed, he remained a step behind Thayne, not putting himself forward in any way. He knew Miss Thirkill was there for Thayne's inspection. If Thayne had known his mother's summons had been for the purpose of meeting a young lady, he might not have dragged Burnett and the duke with him. But they had been enjoying a hookah together and it had seemed quite natural for all of them to wait upon the duchess.

  Thayne hated these introductions. He hated the whole ordeal of finding a wife among the Season's latest crop of young women. He had to don his best lordly manner, to demonstrate pride and arrogance appropriate to his position, for the young women and their mother hens were interested in the marquess, heir to a dukedom, and he must act the part. It was not an unnatural or a difficult role, to be sure. He was born to it. A certain level of arrogance and entitlement had been bred in him from infancy. But he'd discarded some of it the past eight years during his travels, and he was somewhat out of practice at

  playing The Marquess. He made the effort for his parents, who expected him to do his duty.

  He glanced again at his mother's latest candidate. Yes, Miss Thirkill was definitely worth serious consideration. Assuming she did not turn out to be a complete ninny. He did not expect, or even want, a bluestocking for a wife. But he did expect a certain degree of conversation. He could not abide a silly woman.

  He listened politely as the duchess continued to speak about the masquerade ball. The topic was one he would rather avoid, as it brought to mind images of yellow silk and powdered hair and uninhibited desire. Thayne made an effort to bank the heat brought on by such recollections. It would not do to embarrass himself in his mother's drawing room. He glanced at Lady Somerfield while his mother chattered on about costume possibilities for her and the duke, and about memorable masquerades from her youth. The countess kept her eyes on the teacup she held, but a slight frown furrowed her brow as though she, too, was remembering a masquerade, but much less fondly than the duchess.

  His mother rose and said, "Perhaps we should show you the ballroom now, Lady Somerfield."

  In a perfectly orchestrated maneuver, the duchess walked ahead with Burnett, and the duke walked alongside Lady Somerfield, leaving Thayne to escort Miss Thirkill.

  "It is very kind of your mother," the girl said, "to allow my aunt and her friends to use the ballroom."

  "I am sure she is pleased to oblige." He did not offer his arm, but walked with his hands clasped behind his back and kept his eyes straight ahead.

  "I will have to have a new costume made, of course," she said. "Everyone has seen the pink shepherdess costume I wore at the last masquerade I attended. What costume do you think I ought to wear?"

  "I am sure I do not know. Whatever pleases you."

  "And what would please you, Lord Thayne?"

  By Jove, she was a determined little flirt. "I am sure whatever you choose will be very pretty. Wear whatever you like, Miss Thirkill."

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw her give a little shrug. "You are right," she said. "It really doesn't matter. The effect will be the same regardless of my costume." She gave a resigned sigh. "I don't mean to draw attention, but I always seem to find myself surrounded by gentlemen. I suppose I should be pleased to be so popular, but it really is a trial at times."

  What a cunning little vixen. Did she really think his interest would be piqued by knowing that she was pursued by other men? Or was she trying to inspire a spirit of competition?

  "I understand you are staying with your aunt for the Season."

  "Yes, I am," she said in a bright tone. "She has been acting as my chaperone since Mother was injured in an accident and could not take me about herself."

  "An accident? How dreadful. I trust it is not too serious an injury, and that she is recovering."

  Miss Thirkill leaned toward him and lowered her voice. "She fell off a horse and broke her leg!"

  She seemed to find her mother's misfortune amusing, as she began to laugh. It was a musical laugh, similar to one he remembered hearing on a dark night in a particular garden. Was he destined to be reminded of that sweet interlude at every turn? By every laugh and every pair of blue eyes, even when they belonged to an innocent who could not possibly have been his Artemis?

  He steeled himself against the memory by employing his best Marquess of Thayne manner—polite, but haughty and formal. "I am glad it is nothing more serious," he said. "And how fortunate that you were not forced to postpone your Season, that Lord and Lady Somerfield were able to take you in."

  "Oh, but there is no Lord Somerfield," she said. "I mean, there is, but he is not my uncle. The previous earl, my uncle Somerfield, died several years ago. Didn't you know? I thought everyone knew my aunt is a widow. She is, after all, a trustee of the Benevolent Widows Fund, the charity supported by the ball she wants to hold here at Doncaster House."

  So the aunt was a widow. Not that it mattered, but he cast a glance in her direction as she walked ahead with his father. A certain sway of hip gave him pause for an instant, sent a brief jolt of fire through his loins, but only because it reminded him of another pair of hips that swayed in a similar manner.

  Damnation. He had no business lusting after Miss Thirkill's chaperone. He could not go on much
longer without finding his Artemis. She had stirred him in a way he hadn't been able to forget, and he saw hints of her in every pair of blue eyes, in every graceful arm, in every sinuous hip. He wanted Artemis and still meant to find her, and yet here he was wanting, even for an instant, someone else who only vaguely reminded him of her. He did not have the time for such distractions. He had other matters of more pressing urgency. He had to settle on a bride.

  For all he knew, she could be walking beside him at that very moment.

  The duke peppered Beatrice with questions as they made their way to the ballroom. He was obviously trying to discover if Emily would be a suitable bride for his son. His interest was gratifying. Beatrice provided all the points in Emily's favor, avoiding any

  mention of her mother's debts and sometimes rash behavior. Emily's extraordinary beauty was a significant asset, but breeding and connections were more important to a duke. One would expect the heir to a dukedom to marry much higher than a baronet's daughter, but His Grace seemed enchanted enough with Emily to pursue the matter. Thankfully, he was unacquainted with Ophelia. But he showed a keen interest in Sir Albert.

  "Something of an archaeologist, is he not?"

  "Indeed, Your Grace, an avid amateur."

  "I do believe I have read an article or two by him. Am I thinking of the right man? Articles on Roman antiquities found in Britain?"

  "Yes, that's Sir Albert. In fact, he was unable to come to town because of an excavation he is supervising. He found the remains of a Roman mosaic floor on his property in Suffolk."

  "Did he? How exciting for him."

  "Yes, you may imagine how thrilled he is. The delights of the London Season cannot compare with such a find."

  The duke smiled. "I should think not. I spent some time in Rome when I was a young pup on my grand tour, and I quite fell in love with ancient ruins. I trust I shall have an opportunity to meet Thirkill, and his lady, one day soon."

  Beatrice smiled. The duke seemed satisfied with Emily's background, despite the lack of blue blood in her family tree. Perhaps it was sufficient that her late uncle Somerfield had been an earl and her grandfather, Beatrice's father, had been a viscount. If the duke approved of Emily, and he certainly appeared to do so, then his opinion would surely carry some weight with the marquess. This excursion to Doncaster House was turning out to be more successful than Beatrice could ever have dreamed.

  If only Lord Thayne were not so rigid and unapproachable. She could not imagine a girl of Emily's temperament being happy with such a man. But perhaps she was being unfair. She'd only known the marquess for a few minutes and was no doubt rushing to judgment. There might be more to the man than met the eye. She must get to know him.

  "Here we are," the duchess announced, as a liveried footman—there seemed to be an army of them— opened the door to the ballroom.

  For a brief moment, Beatrice forgot her concerns about the marquess. The room was magnificent, surely the largest and most imposing of all that had ever hosted a Widows Fund ball. The ceiling coved to a great height, and was elaborately coffered and gilded, with plaster medallions in the four corners. The long central compartment of the ceiling held three large, slightly concave circles that gave the appearance of shallow domes. Enormous crystal chandeliers hung from each of them.

  The glint of gold was everywhere: on the coffered ceiling and the floral frieze below it, the overdoor pediments festooned with garlands of fruit and flowers, the ornate gilt frames of a set of enormous mirrors that lined two walls and made the room appear even larger. The fireplace, of white marble, was topped with a carved and gilded panel depicting the Three Graces that reached the edge of the ceiling frieze.

  The only furniture in the room was a group of very fine chairs in the French style, upholstered in gold brocade, that had been placed along the walls.

  "Well, what do you think?" the duchess said. "Will it do?"

  "It is surely one of the most beautiful rooms I have ever seen," Beatrice said. "The ceiling quite takes my breath away."

  Her Grace beamed with pride. "Yes, the ceiling is one of the treasures of the house. We added the chandeliers when we converted it to a ballroom."

  The duke also puffed up a bit, equally proud of the room. "I am not sure how the second duke, who built the house, would have felt about them," he said, "but I think the chandeliers look rather splendid."

  "They do indeed." Beatrice turned in a circle and gazed all around her. "They must look especially beautiful when fully lit and reflected in the mirrors. Oh, this is marvelous. Perfectly marvelous. You are so kind to lend it to us for one night. It will surely be our grandest ball ever."

  "We will do our best to make it so," the duchess said. "And you, Miss Thirkill? Do you like the room, as well?"

  Emily was staring up at the ceiling with an awestruck smile on her face. No doubt she was imagining one day being the mistress of such splendor. Beatrice did not blame her. Who cared about the man when there was all this?

  "My goodness," Emily said in a breathless voice, "it is quite spectacular, is it not? I don't think I've ever seen anything so wonderful. Everywhere you look, there is some perfect detail. What do the medallions represent?"

  The duchess smiled and took Emily's arm. "They are various scenes from Greek mythology. Let me show you."

  The duke joined them, as did Mr. Burnett, but Beatrice held back and stood beside the marquess. She was determined to discover what sort of man came with the spectacular house. Who lurked beneath that regal presence?

  "You must have missed all this," she said.

  "I beg your pardon?" He actually glared down his nose at her.

  Beatrice was tall, for a woman, and though he had several inches on her, he did not tower over her. But the upward tilt of his chin gave the impression of greater height. She suspected he would have appeared tall even if he were a head shorter than she. It was all a matter of bearing. That aristocratic carriage.

  Perhaps he was simply accustomed to people kowtowing to him. How would he react to someone who did not?

  "I understand," she said in a breezy voice, "that you have been away for quite some time, Lord Thayne."

  "That is correct." His tone was clipped, almost brusque. "I have been out of the country for the last eight years."

  "Eight years?" It was no wonder he was such a novelty this Season. He had not been seen in all that time. Had he come home to marry? And if so, would he put roots in English soil or gad about the globe all his life? "My goodness, such a long time. I cannot imagine being away from home for so many years. Were you traveling for pleasure, or perhaps on government business?"

  His eyes narrowed slightly as he continued to look down at her. "A bit of both."

  She bit back a groan. Clearly he was not going to be forthcoming with details. What an odiously taciturn man. "It must have been interesting to see different countries. I should love to travel, I think. I have never been beyond our borders, I'm afraid. Unless one counts Scotland as a foreign country, which, of course, it often seems to be. Especially the farther north one travels. The Highland accent can sometimes sound like a foreign language. What parts of the world did you visit?"

  "India, mostly. And the Punjab, Persia, Afghanistan, Java, Burma. Central and South Asia for the most part."

  "Heavens, how exotic! It must have been fascinating."

  "Yes."

  "But after such a long time away, it must feel good to be back on sturdy English soil. And to be back in this grand house."

  "Yes, it is good to be home."

  "Do you plan to settle in England now?"

  He arched a dark eyebrow. He did not misunderstand her probing. "I hope I have the opportunity to travel again one day. But yes, I plan to stay in England and . . . settle."

  "Do you have a home of your own, Lord Thayne, or will you continue to reside here at Doncaster House?"

  The other dark eyebrow lifted to join the first. "So many questions, Lady Somerfield."

  And so few answers
.

  "Forgive me, my lord. I do not mean to be impertinent. But I am . . . interested in such things, you understand."

  His eyes glinted with the faintest hint of amusement. "I do understand. You are a doting aunt to Miss Thirkill, I believe."

  Beatrice felt her cheeks heat with a blush. She really was being an impertinent busybody. But it was worth it just to see that tiny crack in his reserve.

  "But I shall tell you what you wish to know," he said. "I have an estate of my own in Northamptonshire. It is not quite as grand as the ducal seat at Hadbury Park, but large enough. And I have purchased a town house on Cavendish Square, which is in the process of renovation. I have fortune enough to support both houses . . . and a family. I plan to take my role in Lords seriously and hope one day to have an official position in foreign affairs. I collect art, primarily sculpture. And I enjoy hunting and shooting. There. Now you know all there is to know about me. Do I pass inspection?"