by Alice Gaines
“We could have talked this afternoon,” she answered.
“I had business.” Enormous amounts of money to handle created mountains of business. As long as no one in the ton discovered how he’d become so wealthy, the money would come in handy in his quest for a wife. Her family, whoever they were, wouldn’t take kindly to the fact that he’d engaged in trade, no matter how profitable.
“I didn’t see your Latimore there tonight,” he said.
“Latimore?” She put her hand to her throat and laughed. “Oh, you mean Will.”
“The duke, yes.”
“I haven’t quite grown used to that yet.”
He watched her closely for any hint in her demeanor as to how she felt about the sudden elevation of her childhood friend. For her entire life, the Oxleys had lived in the next shire—close enough for regular visits but not near enough to take their presence for granted. Lily and Will Oxley had become fast friends the first time they’d laid eyes on each other. Both families had assumed they’d eventually marry. Then a distant cousin with a dukedom had died without heirs, and Will had suddenly found himself a duke. It hadn’t changed his amiable manner any that Jason had observed, but his widowed mother gloried in her new social standing. If a Northcross were to wed his grace now, she’d have to be a more desirable match than the younger sister of a viscount who regularly singed his eyebrows with some misadventure or other.
“So, have you settled your eye on anyone?” he asked.
“Men. Why do you all dwell so on marriage?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I rather think that’s women’s occupation.”
“You and Thomas always bring it up, not me,” she said.
“We want you to be happy.”
She rested a hand on his arm and gave him a sidelong glance. Dear God, what a practiced flirt and only in her first season. If she acted this way at parties, he’d have to beat suitors away from her in droves. If any of them touched her without an accepted proposal of marriage, he’d certainly beat them or worse. The mere thought made his blood congeal in his veins. If all went well, she wouldn’t last long on the marriage market.
Once he’d improved his family’s reputation, he’d set about putting the second part of his plan in motion—arranging a marriage for Lily with Will Oxley, now the new Duke of Latimore. The day their parents had died in a boating accident, he’d vowed to act as Lily’s father, protecting her and making sure she had every advantage in life. Years away in the army had kept him from doing his duty in that regard. But he was home now, and he’d make up for that lapse. With Lily such an obvious gem and likely to arouse interest in every eligible man in London, he’d better work fast.
“And how did you fare, big brother?” she asked. “Any number of women must have swooned over the sight of you in your uniform.”
“There was an epidemic of swooning,” he answered. “Bodies littered the dance floor.”
“Quelle calamité. The earl must be quite put out with you.”
“Furious. The countess herself was overcome. She made quite a sight in the middle of all the women young enough to be her daughters.”
She laughed again, but then, she’d always had a sunny disposition. “What a dreadful tease you are.”
“If I do it dreadfully, I’d better practice more.”
“You may use me as your subject tomorrow,” she said. “I’m off to bed.”
“Sweet dreams.”
“Aren’t you coming upstairs?”
“In a moment,” he answered. But he’d need more than that to sort out his memories of the evening. Of Harriett Ellsford, her mother, and a certain young widow with deep brown eyes and plush hips.
*
The opera would have sounded lovely if only Bess could hear it clearly through all the buzzing voices and visiting back and forth. A few adventurous souls had presented themselves at the rear of her box. She’d nodded to acknowledge them and resolutely turned her attention back to the stage. In doing so, she’d no doubt created another occasion for gossip. Lady Rushford must be snubbing people because she was waiting for a particular person to join her. No one went to the opera to listen to the music.
But listen she did, wrapped up in the beauty of the voices and the orchestra. A charming piece, the story was a comedy, full of double entendres and dramatic flourishes only the Italians could manage without seeming foolish. And since the other widowed countess who shared the box seldom came to town any longer, once Bess had discouraged all her well-wishers, she had the space to herself and could sit blissfully alone with the opera and nothing else.
At least, she did until a new gentleman appeared in the box two over from hers. Out of uniform now, he shouldn’t have appeared so familiar to her. He had a military bearing, even in civilian clothing. Tall and straight and in formal attire that fit him as precisely as his regimentals, Jason Northcross commanded every eye around him. Even hers, curse it. She turned in her seat and stared down at the singers on the stage. Perhaps he’d noticed her and perhaps not. Most likely, he’d taken the empty seat next to the young woman and her father, as he rightfully should. That’s how things were done with unattached men, and it had nothing to do with her.
Her focus on the stage prevented her from noticing her visitor until the man stood nearly on top of her. She couldn’t help but jump a bit, as people seldom managed to sneak up on her. She’d never met the fellow before. Indeed, she’d never seen him, or she would have remembered his distinctive bearing. Neither tall nor short, he might not have commanded attention except for the way he held himself so stiffly. Where a man like Jason Northcross stood straight and tall as part of his normal manner, this man seemed to bristle just standing there.
He bowed very formally. “Lady Rushford.”
She didn’t offer her hand. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”
“Roger Montgomery, at your service, my lady.”
His name gave no more clue to his identity than his presence in the box. Although subdued in color, his clothing was of the modern style and expensive in cut and fabric. He’d stand out in a crowd because of the dark waves of his hair with a hint of white at the temples and the graceful arch of his eyebrow. His eyes, with their slight downward slope, might have given him a sleepy, lazy aspect if the light in them didn’t also convey more than a little cunning. Yes, those eyes must have fooled a great number of people, especially women.
And damn, now she’d found herself staring at two men in a like number of days.
He hadn’t missed her prolonged gaze, and gave her a look that held more than a little masculine admiration. Good Lord, had every man in England suddenly developed a taste for short, plump widows?
“If you’ll allow me . . .” He placed his hand on the back of the chair next to hers.
“That’s Lady Fellowes’ chair,” she answered a bit more sharply than necessary.
“But she gave me permission to use it,” he answered. “A shame for it to go to waste, especially when the music’s so delightful.”
“Then, let’s listen to it, shall we?” That also sounded rude. The man inspired it in her somehow.
“Forgive me if I was staring,” he said. “When Lady Fellowes told me about the widow who shared her box, I assumed you’d be her age.”
“People make that mistake all the time.” At least that sounded conciliatory. Perhaps. “You’re acquainted with Lady Fellowes, are you?”
Without asking further permission, he took the seat next to hers. “Her son’s a business partner.”
“In trade?” Now, that sounded no better than the rest of the ton. Scandalized that she should have to sit next to someone who worked for his living.
“Very discreetly, I assure you,” he added.
Why would he confess such a thing to a stranger? And how did he know who she was? Why the devil had he come here to disturb her enjoyment of the opera? And how could she get him to go away again?
“Che bella musica, non?” he said.
“Si.�
�
“Ah, parlate Italiano.” He then launched into a monologue in Italian she couldn’t hope to follow.
“I don’t speak it that well.”
“Excuse me. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
And of course, until he’d mentioned the possibility that he’d caused her discomfort, the thought hadn’t occurred to her. He’d been a pest but not a worry. He was both now. “Mr. Montgomery, I don’t know how you know my name or why you’re here.”
“I’m here to listen to the music,” he said.
“But you aren’t.”
“I’ve been distracted.” He turned toward the stage, but gave the oddest impression he wasn’t really looking there. Instead, he appeared to be gauging her reaction to his statement, his appearance, his very presence. He’d soured the mood more effectively than a gaggle of chattering young girls. Even Whitby in his cups couldn’t have created such an air of tension. But then, after all her encounters with Whit, she knew how to handle him.
So when the chorus finished the last strains of the first-act finale, she stood rather more abruptly than she normally would and moved to leave the box. He followed. Not touching her, thank heaven, but standing too closely. “May I get you some refreshment?”
“Thank you, no.”
“I would think . . . a lady unescorted . . .”
“I’m not unescorted.”
He looked very pointedly around them.
“I’m my own escort, Mr. Montgomery, not that it’s any business of yours. Besides, I have a great many friends in the audience.” Although until this very moment, she’d hardly have called any but a few friends. “I’ll be well taken care of, I assure you.”
He bowed slightly. “I’ve offended.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She left the box without paying attention to anything other than the man she was leaving behind. Or at the very least, doing her best to leave behind. Not looking, she walked straight into a male chest—a large and firm one. When she glanced up, she found a pair of green eyes smiling down at her.
She groaned inwardly. One admirer—of sorts—behind her and another in front. Perhaps she could set them at each other and escape them both.
Young Northcross glanced past her and his eyes narrowed. Behind her, Montgomery cleared his throat softly. Nothing for it but to introduce them.
“Roger Montgomery, this is Jason Northcross,” she said. “Northcross, Montgomery.”
Neither man extended his hand, which was just as well as they would have had to reach around her to do it. Northcross stiffened until he was almost as rigid as the older man. “I didn’t know you had an escort.”
“I don’t.” Damn them both, she’d practically shouted that.
“I’ve had the pleasure of sharing Lady Rushford’s box,” Montgomery said.
“He’s been sitting in Lady Fellowes’ chair,” she added.
“Taking up too much room, I’m afraid.” Montgomery took her hand and bowed over it. “I’ll leave you to your music, my lady. It’s been a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
She didn’t answer. She could hardly tell him the pleasure had been mutual because it hadn’t. He hadn’t seemed to take any joy in the occasion, either, unless he entertained himself by causing tension and unrest. On second thought, he might very well do.
Montgomery nodded in the other man’s general direction. “Mr. Northcross . . .”
“Captain,” Northcross corrected.
“Of course,” Montgomery said. “If you’ll excuse me, I have business.”
As soon as the older man had disappeared into the crowd, Northcross let out a breath. “Was he one of the many acquaintances you told me of last night?”
“No.”
That won her a tiny smile. “Then you are acquainted with me but not with him.”
“Certainly. We have a grand acquaintance, you and I. Of all the people in the opera house tonight, you and I have the closest acquaintance. In my entire life, I’ve hardly ever been acquainted with anyone the way I am with you.”
“I could scarcely have hoped for anything better,” he said. “We only met last night.”
“And yet, I feel as if I’ve been acquainted with you my entire life,” she said. “Or yours. You’re rather younger than I am.”
“Well, here’s where you got to, dear boy,” another man called from a short distance away. The father next to whom the captain had sat for the performance. He had his wife and young daughter in tow. Miss Harriett Ellsford. Lord and Lady Deauville. Lady Sarah Deauville was the sort of women other pretty women hated because of her exceeding beauty. Bess wasn’t pretty and didn’t bother hating people for the most part. The best she could work up was a sort of loathing. She might learn to loathe Lady Deauville if she put her mind to it.
The lady fixed her clear, amber gaze on Northcross in a way that wasn’t strictly healthy for a woman of her age, which was at least a few years older than Bess. Her husband and daughter hardly seemed to notice. They kept their expressions bland as they looked about them at all the glittering ladies and elegant men. People often did that sort of thing to hide their true feelings, but with this pair, it appeared they had few true feelings beyond what they showed. Which didn’t speak well for their minds. She’d remember not to partner with either of them at whist.
They stood that way for a bit until Northcross cleared his throat. “Are you enjoying the opera, Lady Rushford?”
“Very much,” she answered. “Or I was . . .”
Lady Deauville arched a brow. “Who was that gentleman with you?”
“Roger Montgomery, and he wasn’t with me.”
“Montgomery.” Lady Deauville tapped her lips with an elegant finger. “Do we know anyone by that name, Deauville?”
“I suppose we must have met a Montgomery somewhere, my dear.”
“I doubt I would have forgotten him,” the lady said. “Quite a remarkable looking man.”
Yes, quite—if one’s taste ran to the cold and calculating.
“Wherever did you make his acquaintance, Lady Rushford?” Lady Deauville asked.
“I didn’t.” Acquaintance again. She could come to despise the word. “He knows Lady Fellowes’ son. Lady Fellowes gave him leave to use her seat.”
“There you are, then, my dear,” Lord Deauville said. “Nothing remarkable at all.”
Nothing at all except that la Deauville was enjoying Bess’s discomfort. The unspoken truth stood among them as real as Montgomery had a moment before. No one knew him, and he was, therefore, not of their class. If he hadn’t been so disagreeable, Bess would have taken up his cause out of principle. But he was, so she wouldn’t. All of which left her in the position of having entertained a man of questionable breeding in her box at the opera, in front of half the ton. The other half would find out soon enough as the gossip spread. Normally, she enjoyed spitting in the eye of convention, but not for the sake of someone like Montgomery.
The bell rang, signaling the beginning of the second act. Northcross offered his arm. “May I see you back to your seat, Lady Rushford?”
“Thank you, but no. I’ve a bit of a headache and will return home, I think.”
“I’ll accompany you,” he said.
“Not necessary. I have my carriage.”
“Then we’ll send it home empty, and you’ll ride with me in my chaise,” he said.
“Please, don’t trouble yourself.” She put her hand on his arm. “I’ll be fine.”
“I’m sure you will, but no self-respecting gentleman would desert a lady with a headache, would he, Lord Deauville?” Northcross said.
“We certainly didn’t in my day,” Deauville answered, looking more than pleased with himself to be honoring tradition.
His wife looked less than happy at the prospect as she assumed the same bland smile her husband and daughter wore out of habit.
“There. You see, it’s decided,” Northcross said.
Two things immediately became clear. Northcross
planned to see her home no matter what objection she offered, and Lady Deauville didn’t like the prospect one little bit. Given both, Bess’s way became clear. The chaise it was.
“Thank you, Captain Northcross. I’ll accept your kind offer.”
Chapter Three
The lady sat as far from Jason as she could manage, tucking herself into the corner of the chaise and staring out the window as they made their way through the dark streets. Women seldom had that reaction to him, but they were in close quarters, and she didn’t act like any other woman he’d ever met. In one way, she did resemble other women, especially small ones. She brought out his every protective instinct. Especially because of her headache, and even more especially—if he were to be truly honest with himself—because of the way that Montgomery fellow had seemed to be stalking her.
A strong word, that, to use after no more than ten words and fewer minutes in his presence. But the fellow had seemed to hover over her like a black cloud. The tiny woman who’d taken on a very drunken lord with designs on her person the night before was honestly discomfited by that man, who’d merely shared her box. Sarah had seemed intrigued with the fellow. Like recognizing like, no doubt.
“You really don’t know who Montgomery is?” he asked.
“I don’t, and I wish people would stop asking me that question.”
“Sorry. I won’t do it again.”
“No, I’m sorry.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “I’m not used to headaches. They make me snippish.”
“Then snip away. I’ve faced worse.”
“I’m sure you have. Probably deserved it, too.” She stopped talking and put her fingers over her mouth. “Oh, dear. That was terrible of me.”
Terrible? From what he’d observed, the woman didn’t have a terrible bone in her body. Unorthodox, yes. Terrible, no. “I can’t imagine what you mean.”
“I shouldn’t assume . . . that is, I don’t really know you,” she said. “Not at all.”
“But we are acquainted, and I think you’ve guessed my nature rather well. I do usually deserve whatever comes to me.” Like sharing an enclosed space with this woman. Somehow, the small carriage with its comforting rocking motion and the warmth of two bodies filling it made a universe of its own. For all he knew, nothing lay outside—England, France, and the rest of the Continent could have disappeared in the time they’d spent traveling from the opera house. “But you can continue to apologize if it makes you happy,” he added.
