She forced her eyes away. "You needn't bother. I never dance."
Ignoring her assertion, he reached for her hand.
"G... go away."
"Come now," he murmured "I have come to know you are capable of a more scathing set down than that. Perhaps something that includes ‘pompous ass' and ‘foul-mouthed twit'?"
Why, the man actually had a sense of humor! Her lips twitched in spite of her resolve to ignore him.
Suddenly, before Augusta quite knew how it had happened, she was on her feet, his hand firmly around her elbow.
"Now why does a pompous ass wish to dance with an idiot?" she asked softly as he guided her out onto the crowded floor.
He didn't answer her. The first notes of a lilting melody drifted through the air, along with the faint scent of cut lilac and tuber roses. There was a rustle of silk as ladies turned to their partners and Augusta realized it was a waltz that was starting. She opened her mouth to demur, but the Earl's hand had already come to rest at the small of her back, drawing her close enough that she could feel the heat from his muscular thighs.
"Relax," he murmured close to her ear. "Follow me and we shall manage to navigate these treacherous waters without sinking another couple or running aground on the platter of lobster patties."
That he was an excellent dancer came as no surprise to her, for she had already noticed how he moved with a lithe grace, entirely masculine, that exuded an undercurrent of coiled strength. That she matched his steps without effort was a bit more of a shock. Though accorded to have a natural rhythm herself, she expected that nerves would deaden her limbs into awkward stiffness. But after the first few halting movements, she forget all about being self-conscious, letting the music and his subtle touch sweep her along. It was several moments before he spoke again.
"What?" Her eyes flew open in some embarrassment. She hadn't even realized they had been shut.
The corners of his mouth curled upward. "I said, for someone who never dances, you are doing quite well."
"Actually, what you mean is, you are relieved that I haven't capsized you into the fountain, ruining yet another waistcoat."
"Ah, but this one is watered silk." There was a decided twinkle in his blue eyes.
A burble of laughter escaped her lips, then she quickly caught herself and composed her features into a more serious mien. Other ladies might find him irresistible, but she did not intend to be seduced by the Earl of Sheffield's charm. "Now, why was it you forced me out her, sir?" she demanded, a bit sharper than she intended.
"Force? I never force ladies to do anything," he said softly.
"No? Do they simply fall on their knees begging...." She broke off in some confusion, not exactly sure what she meant to say, and the color rose to her cheeks. To her vast relief, he merely regarded her intently for a moment, then addressed her original question.
"I feel beholden, as a gentleman, to offer you an apology. Two of them, that is. My language during our past... run-ins was inexcusable."
She looked up at him. "It was. But I suppose it was greatly provoked. A gentleman of your stature does not take kindly to being knocked on his rump."
It was his turn to laugh, though he make no attempt to stifle the rich baritone sound. "You should know, you have accomplished what no other man, not even Gentleman Jackson, has managed to do."
"Set you down a peg? Someone should do it," she muttered under her breath. "Seeing as you have a high enough opinion of yourself."
He cocked his head to one side. "What was that?"
"Oh, never mind," she said in a louder tone. "You may consider yourself forgiven, though I can't fathom why it makes a whit of difference to you."
His arm suddenly tightened around her waist and he quickened their steps, turning her in a series of intricate figures that left her a little breathless.
"It doesn't," he finally replied. "I care very little for what other people think. However, regardless of what you choose to believe, Miss Hadley, I wish you know that I regret my earlier rudeness. We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot with each other, but it appears we are making some strides to reaching a common ground of civility."
He was subtly clever in his choice of words, she had to give him that. It only made her feel more awkward and unpolished. "How is it you know my name?"
"Ah, that is right, we have not been introduced. Not formally." He inclined his head a fraction. "Allow me to correct that. I am Alexander Phelps—"
"I know very well who you are, Lord Sheffield," she muttered, more aware than she wished to be of the pressure of his gloved hand on small of her back, and the faint, woodsy aroma of his cologne.
"Do you?" His smile was half mocking.
Augusta felt a rush of anger. Was this his intention, to fluster her with his smooth spins of speech so that she became a stammering fool again, at the mercy of his so-called wit? Perhaps he thought it a suitable revenge to embarrass and humiliate her, just as she had done to him, however unwittingly. Well, she refused to be cowed so easily. "Indeed sir—you are a rake and a wastrel that Society looks up to because of your title and your fortune. As for doing anything good or useful, I doubt you have ever lifted a finger to do aught but satisfy your own selfish desires."
For a moment there was a flicker of some emotion in his eyes, then his face became very stony. The smile remained carved on his lips but there was no humor in it. "How very perceptive of you, Miss Hadley. Allow me to congratulate you—your knowledge of all things, be they books or people, seems... unquestionable."
The rest of the dance proceeded in grim silence. He still moved with faultless precision, but Augusta could feel the rigid tension in his body. She should have felt pleased, she told herself. After all, she could tell she had managed to land a blow to his precious self-image. But somehow she didn't. It hadn't been anger or embarrassment that she had glimpsed in his eyes. It had been pain. For some odd reason, her angry retort had hurt him.
Her brow furrowed as she stared into the folds of his cravat. It didn't make any sense. He had just finished saying he didn't care what anyone thought, so why should her words have the least effect on him? She had imagined a man of his reputation to be lacking in all sensibilities, yet it seemed he was not without a certain vulnerability.
Perhaps she was as guilty as he had been in pronouncing judgement on a stranger.
The last notes died away and the Earl escorted her back to her chair. He bowed over her hand with icy politeness, his eyes avoiding any contact with hers. "I shall leave you to enjoy the rest of the evening in more congenial company."
"Sir," she said quietly as he made to walk away.
He raised his brow in question.
"Now it is my turn to say I'm sorry."
His expression remained impassive. "Why, whatever for?"
"What I said was terribly rude—"
"No, my dear. What you said was the truth."
Then he turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd.
CHAPTER THREE
"I hope this clarification serves to answer some of the astute questions you raised concerning my essay on why an advanced society should grant certain rights to women. To that end, I must admit that although I am not entirely in agreement with your point of view on the subject, your deft wit and keen observation afforded me more than a few smiles. You say that you wonder why I favor rights for women when, in your experience, females have shown little capacity for rational thought, and still less for original ideas. However true your observations may be, you may be guilty of judging too harshly. Have you considered the restraints we impose on our females, especially those fresh from the schoolroom. Only think of it—anxious Mamas hover over them, ready to pounce on the slightest show of natural ebullience or guileless opinion lest it frighten away some eligible suitor. In public, under the watchful eye of spiteful gossips and straightlaced tabbies one misstep can result in ostracization, while rakes and fortunehunters think it a game to create ruined reputations. Why, it is a wo
nder girls dare open their mouths at all!
The Earl paused for a moment in reading, struck yet again by the insight and sensitivity his newfound correspondent showed. The fellow must have sisters, he mused, to show such compassionate understanding of the problems faced by ladies in Society. He rubbed at his chin. The letter pointed out a whole new perspective he had never considered. Taking another sip of his brandy, he sighed and continued on.
Now, I cannot argue that young ladies of a certain age can be silly indeed. But can we honestly say that young men are any better? Only look at the young cubs freshly arrived in Town who ape the design of a waistcoat or wear shirtpoints so high as to resemble some strange species of avian life, unable to move their heads more than a degree to the left or right. And then are the silly pranks, most of which a schoolboy would be rounded caned for, but which we dismiss as merely showing spirit. Add to that the excess of drinking, the gambling away of family fortunes and I daresay we cannot claim that men show a good deal more intelligence than the opposite sex....
Sheffield couldn't restrain a bark of laughter. Why, the fellow had hit the nail on the head. Men were wont to be as ridiculous as females, he admitted. And it was true that they were allowed a good deal more leeway in such silly behavior. Now that he thought about it, a man was allowed to mature from a child into an adult with no real consequences for making the normal mistakes along the way, whereas a lady was accorded no such freedom. One error and she was ruined for life. It was deuced unfair! His friend was right—he should try not to judge quite so harshly.
A rueful grimace stole across his lips as the letter and its discussion of females brought to mind his recent confrontations with a certain lady. He had been wrong to think her bird-witted and flighty. She was neither. Nor was she as clumsy as he had supposed at first. In his arms, she had moved with a sinuous silkiness that had both surprised and pleased him. Even now he could recall the sway of her gently rounded hips, the smooth rhythm of her long legs matching his own moves with ease. He had also been all too aware of the shapely swell of her breasts close to his chest, the arch of her neck, the feel of her slender fingers in his.
Damnation. He was growing aroused at the very thought of the maddening chit.
He took another gulp of brandy, reminding himself that it was absurd to dwell on her. It was clear she held him in nothing but contempt. And what did it matter that a rather shrewish young lady listened to gossip and rushed to make her own hasty judgements? There were plenty of ladies far more beautiful who did not look on him with such blazing dislike, who would welcome his attentions with far more than feisty words. Yet he didn't seem quite able to banish those flashing eyes from his thoughts. They hinted at an intensity and depth of spirit which, along with her willowy form and unusual looks, he found strangely compelling.
Or perhaps intriguing was a better word. She was, after all, hardly a typical young miss. When roused to anger, she did not shrink from displaying a quick tongue and firm opinions, as well as the courage to express them, even to gentleman. After a moment of reflection, he had to add that she was not lacking in more delicate sensibilities either. Not many people would have been perceptive enough to see the subtle change that had come over him. She had sensed that her words had found a chink in his armor of studied indifference, but rather than triumph in her eyes, there had been remorse, as if she had regretted causing him any pain.
His hand threaded through his long locks. He had never been bothered by attacks on his character before, but for some reason, it irked him that Edwin Hadley's sister had such a low opinion of him. Unfortunately her words were not without merit. Harsh though they may have been, there was more truth to their essence than he cared to admit. He may not be a real cad or a bounder, but he had been essentially a selfish man since his days at university. Of that she was right.
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and re-read both letters he had received from Firebrand. His eyes then strayed to the pile of pamphlets and books on his desk. Whether goaded by Miss Hadley's stinging words or inspired by his new friend's bold ideas he wasn't sure, but he began to mull over a plan that had been in the back of head for some time.
Augusta crossed another name off of her list. Marianne had learned from one of her dance partners that Viscount Mansfield had sailed for his family's estate in Barbados over four months ago. Such information, she decided, ruled him out as a likely candidate. Her eyes scanned over the page as she drummed her fingers on the tooled leather blotter.
That left six.
She was well aware that narrowing down the rest was going to be extremely difficult.. The information gathered from Baron Ashford and several other old friends from home had allowed her to progress this far, but now inquiries into the character and habits of the remaining suspects became a good deal trickier. A way must be found to delve into their private affairs, but discreetly, so as not to raise any suspicion. It would be much easier, she thought with an exasperated sigh, if she were a man. What she needed to hear were the sorts of things men bandied about over a bottle of port at their clubs.
Marianne had suggested taking Ashford into her confidences, but she had rejected the idea out of hand. Jamie was a stalwart friend, entirely trustworthy and not without a certain intelligence, but his judgement was not as sharp as she might have wished. Bluff and honest himself, he failed to grasp the need for circumspection in certain situations. In this case, an unguarded word at the wrong moment might turn all her careful plans to naught. Besides, the person she sought might well prove to be a friend of his, and gentlemen could have the oddest notions about honor and that sort of thing. No, he was best left unaware of the entire matter.
With a sigh, Augusta snapped her journal shut and locked it in the top drawer. Perhaps she would think of something later, while trying to ignore the warbling soprano screeches emitting from the oldest of six Dulcett daughters at the upcoming evening musicale orchestrated by girl's mother. If she did not know better, she might have suspected the lady of possessing a wickedly sly sense of humor to think of revealing that Miss Dulcett's tones were anything but. However, it was unlikely there would be any but the most boring of conversations and music at the gathering.
At least it was not a ball, she thought. She wouldn't have to worry about being pestered from her normal routine of sitting quietly off to one side, choosing to let her thoughts and ideas do the lively capering instead of her feet. Though she enjoyed dancing, there were precious few gentlemen who moved her in any interesting way.
A faint color rose to her cheeks as she recalled the firm grip of Sheffield's long fingers, the solid breadth of his chest, the effortless grace of his steps in swirling her across the floor. There was no denying that man moved in interesting ways. That he possessed a dry sense of humor and a devastating smile was a more surprising discovery, especially as he had not been wont to display either in their previous meetings. More than that, his eyes, when not clouded with anger, revealed a depth of emotion she wouldn't have guessed at either. Contrary to her first opinion, the Earl did not appear to be as shallow as she had thought. He may be selfish, arrogant and quick to anger, but he was also witty, charming and more vulnerable than he cared to admit.
The clock on her mantel chimed to remind her that it was time to start dressing for the evening, but still she sat staring into the flickering logs. Well, it hardly mattered what sort of man he was. Her stinging set down had made quite certain that she was not likely to find herself waltzing in his arms again anytime soon.
Now why did such a thought leave her feeling far from gratified?
The evening proved to be even worse than she had imagined. The young lady had chosen a difficult aria that only served to highlight her woefully inadequate range. She plunged into the notes with nary a care for the crescendos or adagios of the piece, drawing a pained wince from those who had even a cursory interest in music. Augusta let her eyes fall shut for a moment, wishing such action might block out the sound as well as the sight of the unfortunate
girl laboring away beside the piano.
An elbow nudged into her side. "How can you even think of nodding off?" whispered Marianne.
"Rest assured that if I had any such intention, I should soon find myself disabused of the notion. Why, Gideon may dispense with his trumpet and merely take Miss Dulcett along as his companion in order to wake the dead."
Her sister stifled a giggle, drawing a stern look from their mother.
"Do not fidget, child. Men do not like such hoydenish behavior."
"Yes, Mama," murmured Marianne.
Lady Farnum turned her attention to her eldest daughter. "And you Augusta, I should hope you would not encourage her in such unladylike ways," she said with a sniff. "Just because you do not choose to make yourself agreeable with —
A high note cut off the rest of the sentence. It hardly mattered. Augusta knew it all by heart. Her mother could not understand what interest books or ideas held for a female, especially when said female had not yet attended to the infinitely more important matter of attaching a suitable husband. She gave an inward sigh, knowing what a sad disappointment she had proved to be in the eyes of at least one parent. Well, her mother need have no such laments concerning her youngest child. Marianne's stunning looks and sunny disposition had attracted a swarm of eligible suitors and she would have only to choose which one she favored to ensure there would be an engagement by the end of the Season.
A Lady of Letters Page 4
