A Summer Seduction (Legend of St. Dwynwen)

by Candace Camp

  “I am looking forward to this evening,” she told the older man as she settled her gossamer evening wrap about her shoulders. “I have heard that Mrs. Cummings’s return to the theater is quite the event.”

  “Indeed.” The banker offered her his arm, and they walked out. “She has been absent now for almost two years, and the company has not been the same without her. There were those who feared she might never return, but I never believed she would stay away. Love is all very well, but…” He shrugged eloquently.

  “Yes. It rarely lasts, does it?”

  There was, perhaps, something in her tone that made the older man glance at her, a faint frown forming on his brow. “My dear, I did not mean to—”

  “Nonsense.” She smiled brightly. “I know you did not. It is very true, of course. Love is not enough.” Her thoughts went to her friend Thea back home in Chesley, now so happily married to Lord Morecombe and an instant mother to his sister’s child. “Well, except for a select few. I told you, did I not, that my friend Miss Bainbridge has made a love match?”

  “Yes, indeed. I have met Lord Morecombe, an excellent man.”

  He handed her up into his carriage, a glossy black equipage, and they settled back into the plush maroon leather seats, chatting pleasantly as the vehicle rolled through the streets. Damaris had always enjoyed the older man’s company. Having known her all her life, he was aware of her circumstances, which made it easy to talk to him, and he treated her with both affection and respect.

  He realized, for instance, that despite her pleasure in the sophisticated delights the city had to offer, Damaris was rather constrained in her opportunities to enjoy them. Her visits to the milliner’s or modiste’s and other stores could, of course, be respectably carried out with the accompaniment of her maid or even alone. However, she could hardly attend such entertainments as the theater or the opera without an escort, and the only people in London she knew were the men who handled her business affairs. Her social life since she had been in the city had, frankly, been less full than it was in the country.

  She was grateful, therefore, that Mr. Portland was perceptive and kind enough to offer her his escort to an evening at the theater. If a man who was the closest thing she had to a fond uncle was not the male companion she would have most wished for, Damaris refused to let herself think about the escort she might prefer.

  Damaris glanced around as they walked inside the grand theater. She was not, she told herself sternly, looking for anyone in particular. Least of all the Earl of Rawdon. If it had, once or twice, occurred to her that she might run into him in London, she was not naïve enough to believe it was likely. They did not move in the same circles… or even in ones with any possibility of overlapping. Indeed, she had just received a letter from Thea, written only a week ago, which said that Rawdon was at the Priory.

  It was unlikely he had even left Chesley yet. And if by chance he had arrived in London, he did not seem the sort to attend the theater tonight simply because everyone was talking about the return of a popular actress to the stage. Rather, she suspected, he was more likely to refuse to come to it simply because it was the popular thing to do.

  So when she had been seated and her gaze fell upon a familiar blond head, she nearly gasped, her heart suddenly racing. It was Rawdon; she was certain of it. There was no mistaking that pale shock of hair, a trifle longer and shaggier than most gentlemen wore theirs, or the high, wide cheekbones that gave his lean face such a fierce and distinctive aspect. It was impossible, of course, to see the compelling pale blue of his eyes from this distance, but Damaris remembered it well. Indeed, his icy gaze made him almost impossible to forget.

  He was seated at the nearest end of one of the loges, and beside him was a young woman whose light blond, almost silvery hair and patrician face suggested to Damaris that she was related to Lord Rawdon. To her other side was a much older woman of regal bearing—a mother, or even grandmother, perhaps.

  Damaris realized that she was staring and hastily turned her gaze away. How awful if Rawdon were to catch her gaping at him like a moonstruck girl! She folded her hands demurely in her lap and turned to talk to Mr. Portland, determinedly refusing to even glance around the theater again. It was a relief when the curtain went up and she was able to focus her gaze on the stage.

  All through the first act, she found it difficult to concentrate on the actors, for her mind kept returning to Lord Rawdon, and she had to fight the urge to turn and peer through the darkness at him. She wondered if he had happened to see her, too. If he had, would he approach her during the intermission? Damaris knew that her face and form attracted many men, but she was not sure that Lord Rawdon was one of them. He was a cold, proud man, and it was also clear that his heart—if he had one to give—had been claimed by Gabriel’s sister, Jocelyn.

  Still… there had been a flash of something in his eyes once or twice that set her stomach to fluttering. Of course, there was always the possibility that the flutter had been only on her part. In any case, she was not about to seek him out or angle to place herself in his path. She considered not even promenading through the theater lobby during the intermission, but when the act ended and her companion offered her his arm, she took it. It would, after all, appear odd if she insisted on remaining glued to her seat. But Damaris was careful not to look around as she and the banker strolled along. If Lord Rawdon saw her, he would have to seek her out.

  Mr. Portland had just started to inquire whether she wished a glass of Champagne when Damaris heard a deep voice say, “Mrs. Howard?”

  A frisson of excitement darted through her, and Damaris was glad she was not facing in Rawdon’s direction because she suspected her face revealed that fact. Pulling her features back into their usual composure, she turned around, but she could not hold back a smile when she saw him.

  “Lord Rawdon. What a pleasant surprise.”

  She had been sure that her memory had exaggerated how tall he was and how squarely his shoulders filled out his jacket, but she could see now, with a little fillip of appreciation, that she had not. He was a large, lean man, and his looks were well suited to his severe black suit and contrasting snowy-white shirt. A signet ring decorated his right hand, accentuating his long fingers and the bony outcroppings of his knuckles. He was not exactly handsome; there was something too gaunt and predatory about the angular structure of his face and the slightly coiled tension in the way he stood. Yet Damaris could not deny that every time she saw the man, a ripple of something raw and tantalizing ran through her.

  “The pleasure is mine, I assure you.” The slight movement of his mouth could hardly be called a smile, yet it shifted the planes of his face and lit his pale eyes in a way that was distinctly warmer. His gaze held hers a moment longer than was strictly polite before he shifted and went on. “Pray, allow me to introduce you to my sister, Lady Genevieve Stafford. Genevieve, this is Mrs. Howard. She is a friend of Lady Morecombe. We met in Chesley.”

  “Mrs. Howard.” The fair-haired woman on Rawdon’s arm nodded toward Damaris. Her attractive, strong-boned face was as smooth and difficult to read as her brother’s, but Damaris was certain that it was curiosity she read in the other woman’s blue eyes. “I am afraid I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting Lady Morecombe. My brother speaks highly of her.”

  Damaris smiled at the thought of Thea. “He is quite right to do so. Lady Morecombe is delightful. I hope you will become acquainted with her soon. Please, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Portland.”

  There was another exchange of pleasantries. Damaris was very aware of Rawdon’s gaze on her throughout. She wondered what he was thinking; it was impossible to tell from his face. Finally the polite greetings and comments regarding the weather and the play dwindled down, and a lull fell upon the conversation. Genevieve glanced at her brother, then faintly cleared her throat. Damaris wondered if Rawdon was not paying attention or was simply refusing to take the girl’s hints. Damaris started to say something in order to keep them ther
e a moment longer, but Rawdon spoke first.

  “I was recently at the Priory,” he told Damaris. “Lord and Lady Morecombe send their regards.”

  “How nice. Thank you. And did you find Master Matthew well?”

  His smile was more definite now, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Indeed. Hale and hearty. He is walking.”

  “Oh, yes.” Damaris chuckled. “He leads everyone in a merry chase. I find I quite miss him.”

  “Have you been in London long?” Rawdon asked.

  “No. Only a fortnight. I have taken a house for a month.”

  “Indeed? So short a time?” Did he looked disappointed, or was that merely her imagination? “That will be London’s loss.”

  “Very prettily said, my lord.” Damaris’s eyes twinkled. She had almost forgotten how invigorated she felt when crossing verbal swords with this man. The challenge of making his controlled face spark with humor or surprise or even irritation was almost irresistible. “Still, one cannot help but think that such finely honed compliments must come from frequent repetition.”

  She was rewarded by the faint widening of his eyes in surprise, and his voice lifted with a hint of laughter.

  “You imply that I am a flirt, madam?” Beside him, Rawdon’s sister looked startled, but he did not seem to notice her slight involuntary movement as he went on. “I fear you would find yourself alone in that opinion.”

  “I would never call you a flirt,” Damaris demurred. “’Twould be most uncivil of me.”

  “And are you always civilized?” he retorted. The light in his eyes was unmistakable now.

  “Indeed, one must always try to be.” A small, slightly wicked smile curved her lips. “But I fear that I do not always succeed.”

  Lady Genevieve was openly staring at Rawdon now. She cleared her throat, then turned to Damaris, offering her a quick, polite smile. “Pray excuse us, Mrs. Howard. Mr. Portland. It was a pleasure to meet you. But I fear we must speak to Mrs. Haverbourne.”

  Damaris nodded. “The pleasure was mine.”

  Lord Rawdon remained rooted to the spot despite his sister’s discreet tug at his elbow. “I am sorry my grandmother did not get a chance to meet you. She remained in our box.”

  “Pray convey my regards to her.”

  “I will. Thank you. But perhaps you will come to Genevieve’s party tomorrow evening. I know the countess would enjoy meeting you.”

  “I—” Damaris’s gaze went to Genevieve’s frozen expression. She should refuse, she knew. There were a hundred reasons why she should not attend a ton party, not the least of which was Lady Genevieve’s hastily concealed astonishment.

  Rawdon turned toward his sister, and Genevieve forced a smile. “Yes, do say you will be there,” she told Damaris, her tone devoid of enthusiasm.

  Normally Damaris would not have accepted so tepid an invitation. If Genevieve had any idea of the truth about Damaris’s past, she knew the girl would not have proffered even that. She opened her mouth to refuse, but then she made the mistake of looking at Lord Rawdon.

  “Thank you,” Damaris said instead, smiling. “I would love to join you.”

  “But who is this girl?” The Countess of Rawdon leaned forward to fix her grandson with the full blast of her faded blue eyes. Her eyes lacked the icy hue that was a hallmark of the Stafford family, though they carried enough authority and hauteur to quell almost anyone. But tonight her grandson seemed immune to their power.

  He simply said, “Her name is Mrs. Howard, Grandmother. I believe I mentioned it.”

  “Yes, of course, but that does not tell me who she is.”

  Genevieve, beside her, was scanning the audience with her opera glasses. She had had to wait until her grandmother’s guest had left their plush box before spilling out the news that Alec had invited a woman to their party the following evening, and now there was little time left before the lights went down for the next act.

  “There!” Genevieve exclaimed softly. “She is that stunning black-haired woman in the pale blue gown.” She handed the glasses to her grandmother, gesturing toward the audience below them.

  “Genevieve! Really! Don’t point.” Lady Rawdon snatched the glasses from her granddaughter, shooting her a look of cool reproach. “It’s vulgar.”

  “Of course, Grandmother. I’m sorry. She is in the second seat from the aisle almost directly below us.”

  “Ah, yes. I see.” The countess studied Damaris for a moment, then handed the glasses back to Genevieve. She cast an assessing glance at her grandson, but before she could speak, the house lights went down and the curtain was raised. Lady Rawdon pressed her lips together and turned back to watch the play unfold.

  Alec relaxed in his chair and, with his grandmother’s attention focused on the stage, stared down into the audience. It was impossible to see Damaris well now, but Alec could remember quite clearly how Damaris had looked. His memory had not played him false; she was as beautiful as he had recalled. Perhaps even more so. He thought of the creamy white pearls scattered throughout her lustrous black hair, echoing the strand around her neck, drawing the gaze downward to the inviting expanse of alabaster chest… the swell of her breasts above the fashionably low neckline… He shifted in his seat and turned back to the action on the stage.

  But his thoughts remained on the woman below, so that he could not have said later what had transpired in the second act. He had no interest in the farce, anyway. He had come only because Genevieve had wanted to do so. It was, apparently, the most important night to see and be seen at the theater. And if he was being honest, he had to admit that the thought had occurred to him that it might be the likeliest time for Mrs. Howard to attend the play as well.

  Still, even knowing that there was some possibility that she might be there, a little jolt had shot through him when he scanned the audience and saw her sitting there. He was glad that he had glimpsed her first and had some time to adjust before he engineered running into her in the lobby. Even so, he had felt foolishly stiff and awkward. There was always a look in Damaris Howard’s eyes that made him certain he amused her in some way, an expression which both intrigued and challenged him. It was not an expression he was accustomed to, as it seemed that women were more given to viewing him either nervously or greedily or, often, a combination of the two.

  Genevieve’s presence in the conversation had not helped, of course, for he had been well aware that his sister was observing him keenly. It was useless to think he could get anything past Genevieve, who knew him better than anyone. Not, of course, that there was anything he really wished to hide from her… yet he could not help but think, every time he thought about Mrs. Howard, that he really did not want the rest of the world to know how he felt. Indeed, he had the suspicion that he would prefer that even he didn’t know how he felt.

  And that was a perfectly idiotic notion. Of course, it was no more idiotic than the vague, eager, twitchy sensations that rose up in him whenever he was around Damaris—as if he were a schoolboy again! He had never been the most socially adept man—and he counted it his good fortune that his reticence was invariably put down to arrogance rather than awkwardness—but it had been years since he had felt as uncomfortable as he did when talking to Mrs. Howard. Yet as soon as he saw her, he had been plotting to run into her between acts.

  There was no question of speaking with her again after the second act, something that would be sure to cause talk. But he was not inclined to let his grandmother quiz him more about Damaris, either, so as soon as the curtain dropped again, he was on his feet, offering to bring the ladies back refreshments. By the time he returned, their box was obligingly full of visitors, two of whom were thrilled when he invited them to stay for the third act as well. By no twitch of her expression did his grandmother indicate the slightest surprise at his saddling them with her dead sister’s friend and that woman’s emptyheaded daughter, but Alec saw the sharp glance Genevieve threw him, and he knew that he had only put off the inevitable.

  He wa
s prepared, then, for the countess’s fixing him with her ruthless gaze the moment they left the theater and were safely settled in their carriage, away from prying eyes and ears.

  “You did not answer my question, Alec. Who is this Mrs. Howard? Why have I never heard of her?”

  “I could not say, Grandmother. She is a widow, and I believe she lives a rather retired life.”

  Lady Rawdon made a noncommittal noise. “Rather young and attractive, I would say, to have retired from life.”

  “Perhaps grief overcame her.”

  “She does not appear to be in mourning.”

  “Grandmother.” He looked at her evenly. “I do not know the woman well enough to answer your questions.”

  “Yet you know her well enough to invite her to our party.” She smiled faintly. “She is quite lovely, of course. But then, no one can accuse you of bad taste.”

  “I fail to see what my taste has to do with it.” Rawdon’s cool gaze would have intimidated a lesser creature than the countess. “I merely invited Lady Morecombe’s friend to your ball. She is here for a short visit; I doubt she knows many people in London.”

  Lady Rawdon narrowed her gaze. “You expect me to believe that you extended an invitation—the first time you have asked anyone to one of our parties, by the way—simply to be nice to one of Lord Morecombe’s wife’s rustic friends?”

  Amusement lit Alec’s eyes. “‘Rustic friends’? I assure you, Mrs. Howard does not have bits of hay clinging to her hair, Grandmother. Most of the people I met in Chesley were quite civilized.”

  “Chesley.” The countess dismissed the village with a scornful flick of her hand. “Do not attempt to throw sand in my eyes, Alec. The point is: What do you know about this woman? Where does she come from—and do not say the Cotswolds; I am well aware of where Chesley is. What I want to know is, who are her people?”