*
Apparently in the minds of London’s elite, all war wounds, regardless of the body parts involved, resulted in deafness. Marcus could find no other reason to account for the numerous insensitive and downright rude remarks made in his proximity. In the last hour he’d managed to hear, over the crush of people and the efforts of a twelve piece orchestra, several “what a pity”s, two “damned lucky the gel married him at all”s and a number of questions as to his ability to consummate his marriage let alone sire an heir.
Perhaps it would not bother him so much had Addy not made good on her promise to dance with every reprobate, roué, and scoundrel in attendance at this benighted ball. He knew the moment she appeared at the top of the stairs in her sea green confection of a gown he was in serious trouble. In fact, he had been so fixated on the glorious expanse of bosom it cradled—the tops of her breasts breaking the surface in pearl-like temptation—he failed to utter a sound in protest. By the time the words crept into his addled brain they were well on their way to Fathringham House and it was too late to tell her to go upstairs and remove the dress immediately. With luck, they might never have made it to the ball at all.
Marcus tossed back the drink in his hand and searched the crowded ballroom for a footman with another.
“Have mine, Your Grace, if it will improve your disposition.” Creighton shoved a glass of amber liquid into Marcus’s hand even as he nodded in the direction of Addy and her latest dance partner. “If you keep snarling at him like that I am sure he will miss a step eventually.”
“Who? What are you on about, Creighton?” Marcus did not bother to look at his meddlesome friend. He knew without a glance Creighton was taking great pleasure in his misery.
“I don’t know if you are frightening the ones foolish enough to dance with her, but there are a number of men here who swear they would not dance with the Duchess of Selridge on pain of death.”
Two giggling debutantes brushed by them, but lingered long enough to take a quick, horrified look at Marcus’s scarred face. He sketched them a brief bow which hurried them on their way. Creighton eyed him calculatingly and then turned his gaze back to the dancers as they made their way through a lively quadrille.
“You could ask her to dance yourself, Selridge. If you can stalk around the edges of the ballroom terrifying every silly chit who crosses your path, I daresay you can stumble through a waltz.”
“Creighton?”
“Yes, Selridge?”
“Go away.”
His friend’s smug laughter drifted back to Marcus as Creighton disappeared into the crush of silk dresses and inane conversation. A glance sent into the graceful delirium of the dancers proved to be a mistake.
Addy’s face was aglow with laughter as she looked up at her partner—Sebastian Sherringdon, better known as the Wicked Marquis of Warren. He was of an age with Crosby, a perfect match for his Addy. The man was everything Marcus was not—young, handsome and free from the guilt Marcus could not escape.
Their attendance tonight was a mistake. The question was why? Because she appeared genuinely happy on the dance floor in the arms of another man? Or because it showed how clearly he could never be that man?
Adelaide did not know how much longer she could continue this farce. It seemed like such a good idea. She allowed every man who asked to fill a spot on her dance card. It was a source of amazement to her, how quickly the dance card of a duchess filled compared to that of the plain, hoyden sister to the Season’s Incomparable.
It was a wonder she did not trample the toes of every man in attendance. She spent half her time studying Marcus’s expression as her partners danced her past him and the rest of the time pondering the entrance and court being held by her sister. Clementine had been in Town for over a week, yet she had not bothered to visit or even send a card around to the new Duchess of Selridge.
“Which is it to be, Your Grace? Death by jealous husband or by even more envious sister? I’m happy the choice is yours and not mine.” The Marquis of Warren gifted her with a wicked grin as he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and took her on the obligatory stroll around the room after their dance.
Adelaide smiled and shook her head. He was a handsome one, entirely too handsome to say the least. She did not know him well, but she was certain she, like everyone else, had underestimated this man.
“Which do you suggest, my lord? Which would benefit most from my presence?”
“Oh me, without a doubt.” He bent his golden head to hers. “My reputation would be secured. Especially if Selridge comes over here and tears me limb from limb as he looks as if he might do any moment.”
“But?” She supplied the opening his tone indicated he wanted.
“Alas, I am a lover not a fighter. And I think Selridge will suffer far more if you ignore him.” He veered their course toward the spot where Clementine and her friends were presiding over a lively group of conversationalists. “Besides, I think it is high time your sister paid homage to the victor.”
His tone was light and bemused, but his words smacked of pointed intention. She wasn’t sure what he meant by them. A few steps from their destination Adelaide stopped and put her free hand on his arm.
“I believe you promised this next dance to Lady St. Andrews, my lord. Thank you for a very… entertaining dance.” She gave him her most regal curtsy. He took her hand and bowed over it.
“The pleasure was entirely mine, Your Grace,” he said with a wink. “Selridge is a very lucky man. Your servant, Your Grace.”
Adelaide watched him make his way to the boisterous group that was the St. Andrews family. As she scanned the rest of the ballroom her eyes came to rest on her husband. Marcus raised his glass in silent salute. She returned his greeting with a smile and a nod.
There was something terribly wrong. He was angry. His face had the brittle, stony expression he wore when his thoughts cast dispersions on the person he seemed to hate the most—himself. She was about to go to him, to beg him to take her home, when a familiar voice stopped her cold.
“My mother is nothing if not efficient. She knew poor Marcus would be easy prey after I had to break our engagement. Then to have his brother die so quickly afterwards.”
A round of understanding murmurs ensued. “Even someone with my dear sister’s limited polish could capture a man in that state.”
“He could hardly expect you to honor the engagement, Clementine,” a knowing voice intoned. “You agreed to marry a whole man. Not a hopeless cripple. And that scarred face.” More murmurs of commiseration made their way around the circle.
“Yes, well, Adelaide is a much better match for him. She’s forever nursing wounded animals back to health and the like.” A quick snap and the stirring of the air let Adelaide know her sister had employed her famous fan technique. “We never expected her to marry at all, so a duke is quite the catch for her. Even if he is rather less of a man after Waterloo.”
Adelaide’s hurt and anger were immeasurable. Her effort to contain it nearly succeeded until one of the pasty-faced debutantes clinging to Clementine’s every word glanced up and saw her standing there. A few months ago, Adelaide would have walked off in a huff, or more likely burst into tears before she ran until she could go no further. The Duchess of Selridge, however, was made of sterner stuff.
“Hello, Clementine.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Were it not for the fist of pain in her chest, Adelaide might have found their gaping mouths and guilty expressions amusing. Clementine’s friends were nothing if not appropriate in their reactions to being caught at the game of deliberate cruelty. Her sister, however, was above such things. By the time she turned to face Adelaide, any true regret she held for her actions was gone, replaced by the perfectly gracious smile and serene expression which had earned her the appellation of The Incomparable last Season.
“Adelaide, dearest.” Her brightly gushed words were punctuated by a perfunctory kiss to each of her younger sister’s cheeks
. “Or should I curtsy, Your Grace?”
Nervous titters came from behind her. Clementine’s gloved hand rose to her mouth in a practiced arc to cover the affected moue second nature to her.
“I don’t know, Clemmie.” She struggled to keep her words civil and sweet. “Would you have demanded I curtsy had you been the one fortunate enough to marry Selridge?”
Adelaide took no pleasure in the anger and hurt which made a fleeting visit to her sister’s face. They were never really close, but she did love Clementine. She simply loved Marcus more.
“Come now, Adelaide,” Charlotte Lazenby said as she stepped up to Clementine’s side. Her voice always put Adelaide in mind of a petulant child. “Tell us the truth. We are all friends here. You may have married the superior title, but you must admit Clementine has the far superior view over her breakfast table.” The other three girls joined her in an exaggerated shudder.
“Are we friends, Charlotte?” Adelaide’s eyes did not move from Clemmie’s face. Her hands were curled into tight fists. She had no doubt her new silk gloves would be ruined before the night was over. “I wasn’t aware of the connection.” A chorus of soft gasps began to draw the attention of the people adjacent to their conversation.
Clementine silenced her friends with a knowing look and a slight wave of her hand. “Really, Adelaide, there is no need to dissemble here. We both know Mother and Father had their hearts set on a marriage with the Winfields.” She turned her head to address her friends. “Selridge’s parents and ours were great friends.”
“Ah,” they murmured like the sheep they were.
“I am sorry you were forced to make such a sacrifice,” she continued as she brought her gaze back to Adelaide.
“I assure you, sister dear, being married to Selridge is no sacrifice at all. I count myself the most fortunate of women.” She had to get away from these harpies.
It was her intention to deliver a stinging set down in answer to their cruel words. Anger at their ignorant assumptions crawled over her skin like ants. Heat lodged beneath her heart and threatened to spill out of her mouth if Clementine and her court of vipers uttered another word. Her eyes stung with unshed tears. She tasted their salt in the back of her throat.
“Fortunate?” Oh, good God. Felicity Herron-Vale was a female version of Marcus’s friend, Tildenbury. Her complete lack of tact was unmatched in the entire ton. Please don’t let her say another word. “Adelaide, how can you say that? He is a cripple.” She looked around and leaned closer. “And he is so… ugly. How can you bear to look at him? Do you actually…” She dropped her voice again. “kiss him?”
Adelaide looked to her sister in vain for some sign of regret, of commiseration. Had Clementine no memory of the sentiments that led her to accept Marcus’s proposal? She had tossed him aside and not looked back, but surely she had some sense of feeling for him. Their silence echoed amidst the noise and music of the ball. Clementine and her friends actually awaited Adelaide’s answer to Felicity’s beyond impertinent question. Very well, she would give them one.
“I find we are often defined by that which people think ugly in us.” She kept her tone calm and even. The Duchess of Selridge had no need to shout or rant. “That which you find ugly in my husband speaks volumes about his character.” Adelaide willed herself to look at Felicity’s pasty face and not blink. “Just as what I find ugly in you speaks volumes about yours.” She turned and walked straight into Marcus’s chest. He grabbed her elbows to steady her.
“Clementine.” His voice was flat as he gave his sister-in-law a scant nod. “Ladies.” He did not bother to acknowledge their curtsies at all. “Come along, my dear.” His grip on her elbow tightened as he nearly dragged Adelaide away.
“How long were you standing there?” she asked. “Marcus, wait.” She stopped suddenly and pulled her arm free. They’d managed to skirt those dancing, but several clusters of conversationalists stopped and looked in their direction. “What is wrong with you? Where are we going?”
“There is nothing wrong with me. I assumed your conversation was over. This is a ball. Aren’t you going to dance?” She stared at him in disbelief.
He’d obviously heard Felicity’s hateful remarks and perhaps heard Clementine’s as well. Marcus now stood and looked at her as if she was the one who’d grabbed him and dragged him across a ballroom without a word. Now he wanted to know if she wanted to dance? The light in his eyes and the tense set of his jaw left it in no doubt. He was angry with her. The long fingers of his hands were stretched out along his black evening pantaloons like the talons of a diving hawk. His scar pulsed white against his bronzed skin.
She lightly touched her fingertips to his arm. “Marcus,” she started softly.
“Hello, Addy, dear. Or should I say Your Grace?” Dylan Crosby had strolled up so quietly neither of them had heard him. Or at least Adelaide knew she had not. “I believe this is our dance. You don’t mind, do you, Selridge? Can’t have my old friend miss out on the fun because of your… infirmity, can we?”
Before she could say a word, Marcus smiled and sketched a curt bow to her friend. “Absolutely not.” To anyone else his smile was genuine. Adelaide knew better. She stared at his back as he walked away.
She opened her mouth to give Dylan the scolding he so richly deserved, only to have him sweep her into the eddying tide of dancers dancing the waltz. They sailed an entire circuit of the ballroom on the ocean of music when he appeared to realize she was angry with him.
“Are you going to continue to snub me for the entire set?” His face was somber, at least somber for him, but his mouth twitched as he steered Adelaide around a young debutante and her clumsy partner.
“I’m not speaking to you Dylan Crosby. How could you be so rude? What has Selridge ever done to you?”
“Ah, so it’s Selridge now. Your lord and master has you well trained.” Whatever he planned to say next was cut short by a sudden grunt of pain. Adelaide smiled sweetly as she pulled her foot back from his shin.
“Fine. If you’re not speaking to me, just listen,” he said as they continued to dance. “The barker you assaulted in the park was drumming up business for a baiting. It is on for tomorrow night. Sully has discovered where the man keeps his dogs”
“Dylan, I already told you. I can’t do this anymore. I promised myself I wouldn’t keep secrets from my husband.”
“What about your promise to me?” Dylan’s eyes snapped with anger and hurt. Adelaide hated it when he was like this. “Or does making your mark in the world mean nothing now that you are a duchess?”
“That isn’t fair, Dylan. You’re being deliberately cruel. First to Marcus and now to me, why?” They danced in silence and she almost gave up on a reply from him.
“You are the only one who understands my vow to Sarah. You said you were tired of standing in everyone’s shadow. We’re alike, Addy.” His grip on her hand and waist tightened. His expression was so earnest, so very Dylan.
“I do understand what all of this means to you, Dylan. Truly, I do. What does it have to do with your contempt for my husband?”
Dylan’s face darkened. “He’s a cruel man, Addy. Just like that bastard in the park. Selridge may not use a whip, but he uses words like one. I was there the last time he spoke with Julius. The things he said to him were unforgivable. A man who would talk to his own brother like that is not worthy of…”
Adelaide forced herself to continue their graceful glide across the floor. She did not want to cause a scene, but she could no longer listen to Dylan’s accusations.
“Whatever happened between them Marcus loved his brother. And I love Marcus.” The words flew out of her mouth before she could stop them. It was difficult to tell who was more surprised by them—Dylan or herself.
The last strains of the set settled into a smattering of applause and the usual crescendo of voices that often threatened to drown out the music completely. Dylan and Adelaide stood in the middle of the tumble of people who exited and entered
the floor for the next set. There seemed to be nothing left to say. Adelaide turned to go.
“Addy, wait.” Dylan’s hand clasped hers. She turned back to see the uncertainty in his face. “Sully and I are going to meet in the mews at Wessex Place in two hours. I want you to come with us.”
“Dylan, I can’t…”
“You promised, Addy. I’m counting on you.”
“I don’t know what she promised you, Crosby, but I believe the lady promised a trip to the refreshment table to me.” Marcus’s friend, Creighton, deftly removed Adelaide’s hand from Dylan’s grip and tucked it into the crook of his arm.
Adelaide and her unanticipated escort crossed the ballroom and entered the spacious anteroom devoted to the night’s refreshments before she gathered her wits enough to speak. The Earl of Creighton was an enigma to her to say the least. From all accounts, he was a mystery to everyone, even to Marcus who was touted as one of the man’s best friends.
With a murmur of thanks, she took the cup of punch he offered. After each sip, Adelaide looked up from beneath her lashes to see his hawk-sharp eyes trained on her in feigned interest. What did he want?
“Funny, Lord Creighton, but I don’t recall my promise to take refreshments with you.” Adelaide kept her voice wrapped in congeniality.
“I’m sure you don’t, Your Grace.” He gave a Gallic shrug. “I simply thought Crosby had antagonized Selridge enough.” His blatant honesty and succinct observation irritated her. It did so enough to invite her to answer in kind.
“I doubt my husband even noticed. He practically demanded I attend this ball and has scowled at any attempt I have made to turn down a dance partner. If Dylan was trying to irritate Selridge, he wasted his time.” An icy shard slivered into her heart at the truth of her words. Marcus had pushed her into Dylan’s arms. Her defense of him to Clementine and her cronies had only served to make him angry.
Lost In Love (Road To Forever Series #1) Page 33
