Lord Avery's Legacy

by Allison Lane

  She distrusted that stare. She had not forgotten his improper attentions to Millicent, and he had never before spared her a second glance. Why should he now treat her as the diamond she was not? “What exactly is your business, sir? I do not believe I have heard.”

  “A pesky problem of provenance pertaining to my Yorkshire estate. A lady like yourself could never be interested in such dry stuff. Dance this set with me, for I must have the most beautiful girl in the room on my arm. All will envy me your escort.”

  “You flatter me, sir,” she protested but allowed him to lead her onto the floor.

  What game was he playing? She had no fortune that he could attach. Even her home belonged to her brother. She was not interested in setting up as his mistress – as anyone could tell him – so he had nothing to gain by pursuing her. Yet his attentions increased as the dance progressed. He praised her eyes, her hair, her lips, and every other part that could be mentioned in polite company. His hand released hers reluctantly as they moved through the figures, its pressure always greater than custom approved. His eyes remained focused on her even when he executed steps with others. It was no wonder that an impressionable girl like Millicent had fallen under his spell. At first glance he appeared to be every maiden’s dream. But she detected falsehood behind his flattery. His smile rarely extended to his eyes. The tenseness never left his shoulders. His forehead often twitched as he studied her reaction to his flummery. What was his purpose? And why had he transferred his attentions from Millicent to herself?

  The questions were the same, she decided as she smiled guilelessly into his penetrating eyes. By his own admission, his business was incomplete. But that business must be quite different than she had supposed. Carrington was astute. Darksmith had abandoned Millicent, so he could not have wanted marriage. Nor could he expect Carrington to buy him off. He was no longer staying at the King’s Arms, yet he lingered in the area. And now he approached her. She did not believe his purpose had changed, but what could both Millicent Avery and Penelope Wingrave provide?

  “Walk with me in the garden, my dear Miss Wingrave,” he suggested when the final note sounded.

  “I cannot, sir, for I am chaperoning my brother and sister tonight. But I thank you for a most interesting dance.” She slipped away before he could say more.

  But she did not get far. Mrs. Jacobson, the squire’s wife, hailed her. Suppressing a sigh – the woman was always looking for new ears into which she could pour her interminable complaints – she allowed her gaze to wander over the gathering. Michael was chatting with Terrence; Alice laughed at something Elizabeth Jacobson had said, then responded with a comment that sent the other girl into uncontrolled giggles; Lord Carrington was deep in conversation with Sir Francis; and Millicent–

  She suppressed a frown. Millicent was engaged in an intense exchange of words with Darksmith. A moment later, the girl grabbed his arm and tugged him toward the garden door. He resisted at first, then shrugged lightly and gave in, apparently deciding to avoid a public scene.

  Penelope’s glance shifted to Carrington. He had noted the exchange but was on the far side of the dance floor with no hope of reaching the door before his ward escaped. His eyes darkened in frustration.

  Bidding a firm farewell to Mrs. Jacobson, Penelope headed for the exit.

  Millicent was murmuring into Darksmith’s ear as she approached. “—only hope is to elope.”

  Stifling a grimace, she set her face to an expression of relief. “There you are, Miss Avery. I have searched everywhere since Lord Carrington asked me to find you. It is all of two sets since we spoke, so you had best hurry. Her words had a ring of truth, for the girl had been in the retiring room two sets earlier, not returning until midway through the previous dance. “You will excuse us, I am sure,” she addressed Darksmith.

  “Of course. Ladies.” He bowed with great elegance and departed.

  The look in his eye boded ill. Unless her reading was out, he was relieved to be spared Millicent’s importuning and gratified that she herself was jealous enough to separate him from another woman. Odious toad! What game was he playing?

  Her breathlessness returned the moment they reached Carrington’s side. So the feeling could not be ascribed to surprise. She had nearly collapsed when he had approached her in the yard. Could it be his looks? A black velvet jacket set off his broad shoulders, dove-gray pantaloons emphasized a trim waist and muscular thighs, while the embroidered white waistcoat and snowy linen sparked silver highlights in his gray eyes. Candlelight glinted in his black hair. Ignoring her traitorous body, she set her face to composure.

  * * * *

  Richard hurriedly bade Sir Francis farewell when Millicent accosted Darksmith, though he knew he had no chance of reaching the pair before they gained the garden. But when Miss Wingrave detached Millicent and hurried the girl in his direction, relief and surprise were the least of his emotions. He had watched her dancing with Darksmith, irritated at the man’s blatant flirtation, and irritated at himself for being irritated. She was turning him inside out and the world along with him. But his temper had cooled when she turned her back on the blackguard. Her eyes clearly reflected distrust. He did not consider how he could read her expression across fifty feet of a dimly lit room.

  “I apologize that it took so long to find Miss Avery,” she said when they reached his side. “Forgive me for being sidetracked by this last set.” She winked.

  He nearly gasped, both at her impudence and at the way he could read her mind. She must have told Millicent that he had sent for her at least two sets ago. “That is quite all right, Miss Wingrave. I appreciate your trouble.” She slipped away, and he turned his attention to his ward. “It is important that you remain at my side between sets.”

  “This is hardly a London ball,” she snapped, obviously irritated at having her tête-à-tête interrupted.

  “Manners are expected at all times, young lady,” he stated coldly. “You are still in mourning. Several people have wished to express their condolences but were unable to do so because you were not where you belonged.”

  “You know nothing of the country if you believe they were shocked,” she retorted. “We are very informal here. Many have spoken to me, including some that had previously talked with you. None expressed concern that I was not by your side.”

  He hardened his expression even as he kept his lips in a pleasant smile to minimize the contretemps in the eyes of the other guests. “Country or city makes no difference. A sixteen-year-old girl does not wander about a ballroom unescorted. Nor does she request a dance as you just did of Mr. Darksmith. Such forward behavior will give any gentleman a disgust of you. And do not think to confine the tale to Devon. This may only be a country assembly, but there are four men here whom I have met in London. Do you think they will remain silent about your indiscretions when they return to town? What will they say when you make your bows to the polite world? I have seen girls ruined for less.”

  She shuddered, and he could almost hear her silent wail of despair. He could not have contrived a more effective way to end her liaison if he had wracked his brain for weeks. Darksmith’s obvious reluctance to accompany her must now seem to be disdain for her importuning. Her smile could not mask the tears shimmering in her eyes.

  “Do you mean that I am now ruined?”

  “Not necessarily. A single faux pas at age sixteen will be forgiven if your behavior otherwise remains exemplary. But you will have to be careful. Your training is not good, and you cannot afford another mistake.”

  “I will remain by your side for the rest of the evening, my lord.” She grimaced. “And I will not argue again about school. There is nothing for me here any longer.” She blinked away the tears that trembled in her eyes.

  “Very wise.”

  By the time the set ended, she had regained her composure and accepted a dance with Sir Francis. Standing alone in a corner let Richard watch Darksmith. What was the man doing? Those fawning attentions toward Miss Wingrav
e had been odd enough – though he could certainly understand an attraction in that direction – but Darksmith had earlier exchanged words with Michael that had left the older man glowering. Now he was dumping the butter boat on Alice while he surreptitiously inched her toward the door. Alice seemed just as immune to flattery as Penelope had been, but she was too green to extricate herself without appearing rude.

  Richard bristled. Whatever he thought of Alice, he did not want to see anyone forced outside with so suspicious a character. Penelope was too far away to help, and with her back turned to the doorway, she likely did not know the danger her sister faced. He headed for the garden himself. It was the least he could do after she had prevented Millicent from creating a scandal.

  Alice was balking at leaving, her face set in that determined expression he had often seen on her sister. For the first time they appeared related. Just then the squire staggered across his path, having clearly imbibed liberally of the punch. Richard swore under his breath, for he now had no chance to reach Alice’s side in time.

  But a moment later he relaxed. Alice looked at Terrence, a message passing between them that made Richard’s heart pause in envy. In a trice Terrence appeared at Darksmith’s side, smoothly extricated Alice, then led her to Jeremy Jacobson, who escorted her into the nearest set. Darksmith’s face twisted into a scowl. Without another word, he left the assembly.

  * * * *

  “It is the oddest thing,” said Alice to Penelope after her dance with Jeremy. “Mr. Darksmith suddenly seems to believe that I am the most beautiful girl in the world. What has gotten into the man?”

  “I can’t imagine, not that I would disagree with the sentiment. But he cannot be sincere, for he said the same thing to me not an hour ago. I doubt that he is acquainted with either truth or honor, but neither can I think what his purpose might be. Promise me that you will be especially careful until he leaves the area. If he wishes to seduce one of us, I do not wish to risk him catching you when there is no help at hand.”

  “What an awful thought. And entirely possible. He tried to force me into the garden just now. Terry came to my rescue, thank God.”

  “I saw. He handled it quite well.”

  Alice frowned. “It is odd, but I could swear that Lord Carrington was also coming to help. He was headed our way, but he was too distant to reach us before Terry arrived.”

  “I would not call it odd,” mused Penelope. “Despite our differences, he seems a man of honor.” Was he merely returning a favor? Something shifted in her chest at the idea that he might care about her family.

  “May Terry call tomorrow? He will soon leave for school, and I wish to see him as much as possible before he goes.”

  “Very well.” The matter-of-fact way in which he had extricated Alice belied her impression that he was an irresponsible youth. Such a one would have created a scene that at best would have embarrassed all parties. Instead, almost no one realized that anything untoward had happened.

  “May I escort Alice to the refreshment room?” asked Terrence, appearing at her side in response to another of those speaking glances.

  She watched them go, musing on the tie that bound them. In her heart she knew that time would not separate those two. Perhaps Terrence was the exception to the rule that men needed several years of sowing wild oats before they were ready to settle down.

  “May I have the next dance, Miss Wingrave?” asked a deep voice.

  She glanced up into silver-gray eyes. “Are you sure you are up to this?” He had not yet taken the floor.

  “I believe so. A little stiffness is nothing to worry about. You look remarkably fine this evening.”

  “Is that a compliment or a set-down for my usual attire?” She berated herself for the testy tone, but his nearness was doing odd things to her breathing. It did not help that she could recall every contour of the well-muscled body lurking beneath his elegant clothes.

  “I meant it as a compliment.” His eyes twinkled as they swept her from head to toe. The musicians began to play.

  “Heavens! It’s a waltz,” she gasped, noting too late that the dancers were not arranged in sets.

  “The wicked waltz. Do you know the steps?”

  “I have never tried it,” she admitted, feeling disappointed. This was a partner she would have enjoyed dancing with. But she had not counted on his determination.

  “It is easy. Watch a moment.” Only a dozen other couples were on the floor, none of them performing with grace. That fact alone would have prompted her to accept, even if her heart were not thumping along at a perfectly ridiculous rate.

  His hand clasped her waist, sending a shiver across her skin – though why she shivered when his touch burned so hotly she could not explain. It took only a minute to relax into the rhythm of the dance. He was right. It was easy. She was floating.

  “I must thank you for saving Millicent from folly,” he said, pulling her gaze into his own.

  “It was nothing. Perhaps it is different in London, but here we all look after one another’s charges. It allows everyone to enjoy the evening.”

  “I am appreciative, nonetheless. She should know better than to ask a gentleman to dance.”

  “Is that what she told you?”

  “I assumed it. She offered no explanation.” He frowned. “Was I wrong?”

  His eyes bore into hers. Even if she had wanted otherwise, she could not have evaded the truth. “She was trying to force him into the garden. The few words I heard urged him to elope.”

  His eyes closed for a moment. “I feared so. But perhaps this was for the best. I told her such forward behavior would give any gentleman a disgust of her. My words combined with his reluctance have convinced her that he agrees.”

  “Excellent.” She laughed lightly. “You needn’t worry about a repeat, then.”

  “Have you any idea of his purpose?” he asked, pulling her a little closer to avoid contact with Squire and Mrs. Jacobson. His eyes glittered warmly.

  “None, though he is now trying to form a connection to our family. I hear you tried to help Alice.”

  “I was too far away to do any good.”

  “I appreciate the effort. I did not realize that he had accosted her until just before Terrence arrived. But I cannot imagine what he hopes to gain.”

  “Nor I.”

  “Whatever it is must be urgent. He is too anxious to hide his insincerity. Spouting the same nonsense to both Alice and I assures disbelief.”

  “Or else you are more knowing than his usual targets. But I hope to uncover his game soon. My secretary is checking his background.”

  “As he did ours?” Her eyes flashed.

  “Don’t rip me up here,” he begged. “Enjoy your first waltz. We can fight tomorrow if you wish. But you can hardly blame me for looking up the women I was told had evil designs on my ward.”

  She sighed. “Lady Avery has always hated us.”

  “That is another situation we can discuss later. Are you sure you have never waltzed? You dance with winged feet.” His fingers caressed her back, sending flames racing into every extremity.

  She reminded herself that he was using seduction to gain control of Winter House. Was that Darksmith’s purpose as well? But Carrington had infinitely more skill. She couldn’t think. He twirled her faster, pulling her even closer into his arms. His pupils blurred, his gaze seeming to draw her very soul out for his inspection. Every nerve shivered in delight as his thigh brushed her own under the cover of her billowing skirt.

  “What are you doing to me?” he murmured so softly she barely heard. “Witch…”

  Mesmerist, she responded, but only her lips formed the words.

  Chapter Sixteen

  What the devil is wrong with me?

  Richard threw the coverlet aside and climbed down from his bed, pacing the room while his mind continued its chaotic churning.

  Eventually he gave it up to stare out the window. Dawn streaked the sky, but its violet fingers did nothing to sooth
e his spirit. He forced himself to concentrate on the play of colors as the wisps of cloud brightened to rose, their edges finally flaring with brilliant gold. But it did no good. Nightmare images still tormented him, lurking behind his eyelids every time he blinked.

  Penelope Wingrave.

  Damn the wench! Looks like hers should be banned. What had possessed him to ask her to dance? And a waltz, of all things! She remained in his arms, her hand burning his through two layers of gloves, her bosom brushing his chest, her thigh grazing his own. His fingers curled around her waist, and he shuddered. But not with cold. Pain built in his groin. Never in his life had he felt such desire.

  The exhilaration of the dance remained. His hand tingled from the shapely curve of her hip. Had he actually allowed it to drop to such an improper position? But how else could he account for their contact at so many points? Only at courtesan balls did one dance so entwined.

  Again he shuddered. He must have made quite a cake of himself. It was useless to pray that no one had noticed. Only a dozen couples had participated, the others watching in envy or rebuke. His behavior gave her yet another complaint against him.

  He closed his eyes, instantly regretting it. Staring at the golden shafts of sunlight fanning from behind a cloud was safer. Startlingly lascivious dream images teased him – the generous bosom that he had actually fondled within moments of meeting her; the long legs that even her unfashionable gowns could not hide; the fiery hair that invariably set his loins to burning; the height that fit so perfectly in his arms; her soft lips opening to his…

  Taking another turn about the room, he ran frustrated fingers through his hair. What was the matter with him? She had burrowed past all his cynicism, past all the pain Penelope Rissen had inflicted, searing her image onto his heart. One might almost suspect that he loved her.

  His feet froze as shock exploded through his midsection. One hand clamped over his mouth to force down a surge of nausea.

  Dear Lord! He did.

  His buckling legs deposited him into a chair. How could he have fallen in love with so unsuitable a woman? She was ill-bred, unmannerly, independent, and had a tongue like a wasp.