Oh, not in a bad way, not at all. After his first sweeping, entirely masculine and wholly appreciative glance over her form — an expected and proper response on his part — after that, his gaze never dropped to her daring gown nor even to her lips. As if — as if it was her, her own ordinary, silly little self, who attracted him. As if he didn't see her as an acceptable match, a reasonable dowry, a proper companion, or a suitable mother for his children.
But as if he saw her as her. As Beryl.
And as if Beryl was all he hungered for.
A lovely heaviness started low in her belly, heated her core, and flowed out to the rest of her. Of course she'd felt it before and knew what it meant. But along with it flowed a new and fascinating sort of power, a light, floating feeling, calm and confident and serene. After all, to command the attention of a duke — and such a duke, such a man — was no small feat. She'd never felt this sensation with Fitz, had never known with such certainty that he was hers, even if only for an evening — only for two dances.
It didn't matter. She felt it now. His Grace had looked at her that way, initiating her into the rôle of a woman with a man, and her world would never be the same again.
The first notes of the lead violinist sang above the crowd's muttering.
"My dances, I believe." His voice was low, soft, inviting. Impossible to overhear. He offered his arm.
While they waited in the dance's line, he spoke of individuals within the crowd around them, Alicia Lethbridge, Mr. and Mrs. Robinson, Deborah Kringle; he delighted her no end by not mentioning the insufferable George Anson, loitering near Deborah as if hoping to regain his former place at her side. His Grace's eyes slid aside briefly each time, as if pointing to the subject of his current poisonless chatter; then he always returned his attention to her, gave her again the full weight of his devouring stare.
It was going to be a wonderful evening.
****
Of course the blaggard proved to be a brilliant dancer, too. Rider, lover, to all reports marksman and whip and swordsman and musician and hunter and pistol shot; of course he had to excel at dancing, as well.
Otherwise his own nightmare wouldn't be complete.
And now it was.
Fitz huddled with his champagne, behind Caird's oversized and be-tartaned shoulder, and wished he could just look away from the excruciating scene. Cumberland and Beryl whirled through the lines, joined hands across their bodies, right to right and left to left, and skipped down the center, without ever looking away from each other's eyes. At the far end, they turned out, performed a mad robin with their neighbors, and settled into the line as the next couple danced out.
Humiliating, it was. Everyone was watching. Tomorrow it would be in all the scandal sheets, discussed in all the coffee houses, picked apart at every tea table. Miss Beryl Wentworth danced with the worst, most destructive rake in Mayfair. And enjoyed herself immensely.
Because clearly she was. Enjoying herself, that was. Not destroyed, at least not yet. Charmed, that was the word. She was charmed, down to her quivering little toes. Anger swirled through Fitz, flavoring the humiliation as some idiot had flavored the champagne with lemon juice and sugar. How could anyone mangle a decent bubbly in such a despicable manner?
How could Beryl dance with such obvious enjoyment with such a despicable rake?
Finally the last couple whirled back into position. The musicians drew out their lingering note as the dancers saluted their partners and everyone applauded. The first two were over.
And the spectacle with it.
Thankfully, he'd planned ahead. Never let it be said that Finian Fitzwilliam wasn't prepared, didn't have a clue, couldn't handle a dicey situation. Beryl was his friend and he wouldn't let her down. He'd rescue her from her own befuddlement and show the ton that she did, indeed, possess a modicum of modesty and a drop of decorum.
He'd asked for the next two. And of course, a lady could never refuse a gentleman, as Lissie had reminded them all.
Judicious use of elbows and some fancy footwork got him over to Lady de Lisle's corner before Beryl and Cumberland arrived; no telling what mayhem he left in his wake, but not important, that. Lissie, leaving with Caird — and only an angel would agree to dance with that madman, the way he was dressed; blast it, his hemline swung more than hers — Lissie gave him a lovely smile in passing, and Lady de Lisle's entire well-fed face — well, that wasn't kind of him — Lady de Lisle's comfortably oval face broke into a welcome warm enough for any man.
One would think he had designs on her daughter Violetta or something. Silly thought, that. As if his tender years were appropriate for marriage. Why, he'd barely left school and settled into town.
He made a formal leg over her hand. "My lady, I knew you across the room from the elegance of your — bonnet." Too late, he glanced at the top of her sausagey curls. A lace cap. Well, never mind; she wouldn't. That was all that mattered.
But her smile thinned a hair, so he leaned closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. "What do you think of Beryl gallivanting about with Cumberland, eh?"
Her suspicious glare returned and aimed toward the sauntering couple. The crowd parted before them, closed in behind them, and surreptitious eyes watched them from all about the ballroom, mostly ladies peering provocatively over their fans. Beryl's hand rested on Cumberland's elbow, and they stared only at each other as they crossed the crowded ballroom floor, untouched by the mob. She was saying something, something long and seemingly involved, her eyes bright and her cheeks pink, and he nodded every so often, as if encouraging her to continue.
Such a romantic picture. Utterly disgusting.
Lady de Lisle sniffed. "In my day, no young lady would dare be seen with such a — a villain. Even if he is a duke." Her lips twitched. "And handsome."
Fitz wanted to groan. Another one falling under the ducal spell. "And rich," he added helpfully.
Her mouth pursed. "And a good dancer." Not quite as reluctant in her praise this time.
Dash it all, could he not coax just one single female into an anti-Cumberland frame of mind? "Lady de Lisle, he's a rake. He ruined Anne Kirkhoven just weeks ago, Dorcas Wentworth-Gower, Beryl's own cousin, before her, Lydia—"
A blistering glance stopped him. "Don't quote names to me, lad. I know all the gossip, and much more intimately than any man possibly could. A rake he might be, aye, and a villain, too. But the woman who nails down his heart, or at least his hand atop the altar, will have made a catch indeed."
Now there was a lovely image, and he'd hand the bride a hammer with glee. So long as it wasn't Beryl.
Then the two stood in front of him. Cumberland's smile cooled, turned arch with lifted eyebrows, but he returned Fitz's bow — and he'd never tell a soul how much that bow hurt, how deeply it scored — with sufficient graciousness to prevent their widening war from attracting more than passing attention. Hopefully. Beryl blinked rapidly, several times, as if awakening from the sweetest of dreams — and everyone in the ballroom had seen the dream and its sweetness, for shame — and the smile she gave him—
—her smile—
—there was something about that smile. Something that tapped at his mind, tugged at his soul, tightened his midsection muscles, and especially when Cumberland took her hand from his arm, clasped it and treated her to another long, lingering look, holding her hand—
It was enough to drive a good Irishman to good Irish whiskey.
But first, he had a damsel to save. Even if she'd no idea of her current distress. All right, his. Distress. Not damsel. The damsel wasn't his. The distress was.
Fitz managed a smile. "The next two are mine, I believe."
"Fitz." Beryl's voice was breathy, not quite coherent, her eyelids drooping and heavy. Then she blinked again, waking further, straightened and withdrew her hand from Cumberland's gentle clasp, a tinge of rose invading her cheeks. "Oh, yes, Fitz. The next two. Yes, I do believe they are yours." She started to turn her smile back toward Cumberland. Bidding ad
ieu?
The first drawn-out, quivering note of the fiddle twirled through the ballroom, the most exemplary sound in the world and the best timed. Fitz stepped between Beryl and Cumberland, forcing them apart, shouldering the cretinous creature aside, so that her smile landed on him instead.
And he felt the full weight of it.
How could a smile, a tender little lifting of a lady's lips, hold so very much weight? She looked like—
—like a woman in love.
A woman in love whose glance had been intended to fall upon Cumberland.
The shock froze Fitz inside, froze him in place. Had to show in his expression. She blinked again, her eyes focusing on him more sharply. Confused eyebrows drew together and her lips parted. Her lips—
A quick concatenation of tumbling chords, violins, violincello, viola, and the timbered honking of a double bass deep enough to carry them all: Beryl and he were out of time. And not a moment too soon. Fitz tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and shouldered their way past Cumberland without another glance. His skin seemed to burn beneath his layers of clothing at the touch of that evil man, at Beryl's hand on his arm, and his heart pounded faster than the opening bars of "Miss Moore's Rant" as the musicians got fairly underway. The line formed behind some overdressed female. They were only a few places back; within a minute they'd be dancing.
And he could leave that sensation of horror behind.
"What a marvelous assembly this is."
Hah, and some men claimed women were incapable of appreciating sarcasm's delicacies. But in all honesty Fitz could detect no such undercurrent in her expression. Indeed, her face still glowed with the remains of that smile, and her eyes, glancing about the ballroom without a whit of shame, danced more clearly than the leading couple. If one could deign to describe the motion they performed as dancing; perhaps if one had imbibed sufficient alcohol. The leading couple, he meant, not Beryl's eyes.
He needed to speak with her, rattle some sense into her normally sensible self. But this wasn't the place. Instead, all he could do was distract her.
"Oh, 'tis a fair assembly indeed, made all the more so by your grace and beauty, my girl."
Sheer delight lit her from within, like a lantern glowing on a dark night. "Why, Fitz—"
"But next time, you ought to dress for the occasion."
She froze, eyebrows creeping higher, her eyes widening. Her eyes—
He swallowed a mouthful of unease. Blast the nerves, creeping and crawling in his stomach that way. A man should be able to depend upon his own anatomy when a difficult job had to be done. "You shouldn't just throw on any old rag, you know." A glance at her artfully disarranged coif. "Nor just toss your hair atop your head. There are standards to an assembly such as this."
"Standards?" Her eyes crinkled at the corners and her lips twisted, brows soaring. "Standards? Oh, you must be jesting."
Relief swamped him. That was the Beryl he knew, the one he'd played with and teased since they'd met outside the schoolroom and shoved each other into a monstrous mud puddle. Laugher bubbled from him. "Jesting, forsooth." Another pair of dancers swirled out to join the first; two more couples, then it was their turn, and he could relax the rest of the way. "The lass claims I jest." He gave her his sideways grin, the one that used to make her giggle and point at him. The one that invited her to respond with her own sharp wit. A comfortable game, and one they'd played forever.
But instead her lips thinned and she turned pointedly away, a sure sign of her burgeoning temper. What she had against his laughter, he couldn't understand. Recently, every time he'd laughed in her presence, she'd rewarded him with a tantrum. Nothing left for it but to jolly her out of her sulks, the way he used to do. The way she used to love.
"I mean, look at that gown — raggedy, faded, and so worn at the top there's not sufficient left to cover you decently. Surely your papa can afford you a few new gowns, can he not?"
A year ago, she'd have jabbed a stiffened finger into his side and harped on about his decrepit breeches and threadbare tailcoat, last Season's colors and down-at-heel shoes. A year ago, she would have giggled until she leaned against him, helpless and gasping.
A year ago, there hadn't been a blithering duke on the scene.
"This is a new gown, Fitz." All humor and enjoyment abandoned her voice, and tension tightened her jaw. Another couple advanced into the dance; one more pair, and there'd be no need of jollying her. Beryl was always right as rain, once her feet were in motion.
"Well, then, I can't understand what ails the mantua-maker. He shorted you on the good muslin, that he did, and substituted something cheap and shiny that's not worth the coppers. Why, someone ought to take his bill and—"
The last couple to them started down the line.
And Beryl whirled and flounced off, back toward Lady de Lisle's corner.
Leaving him standing.
Something she'd done rather often lately, too.
So much for the dancing. Fitz hurried after her, pushing through the sniggering crowd in her wake. He'd have to ensure she didn't start walking home — another trick she'd indulged in too often these last few months. He never asked for these disasters, and she needed to cease and desist in their delivery. What was a man to do when a woman refused to allow him a laugh? Refused to join in a joke? How could he—
Donner und blizten. The disaster ratcheted up a notch.
For Cumberland still sat beside Lady de Lisle, nodding gently as the good dame rattled on about something. Both Lissie and Violetta had vanished, and neither Caird, Crompton, nor Ponsonby stood near enough to be of service.
Fitz would have to face those dragons alone.
And of course Cumberland rose, all smooth, hovering concern, when Beryl flounced into their presence. Never once did he glance in Fitz's direction; never once did he look away from Beryl's rigidly restrained anger. No, he took her arm, settled her into his own chair, helped her arrange her tangled shawl, listened with the same encouraging nods as she seethed — and Lady de Lisle glanced Fitz's way during that tirade, her lips thinned and her expression exasperated, or contemptuous, or something — and then Cumberland straightened and turned toward the refreshment room.
The man was fetching her an ice. Or tea. Or something. He fussed over Beryl as if she belonged to him, and now he was waiting on her. Not precisely the sort of behavior one expected from a duke, that.
And on the thought, Cumberland's pale glance slid aside, cut through the assembly room's crowd, and pinned Fitz into place. Like a beetle in a collection, helpless against a greater strength and intelligence. As if—
—as if he, the younger son of an earl, was of no account at all, at all.
Broiling with rage, Fitz stalked from the ballroom and into the humid night.
Chapter Five
Wednesday, March 17, 1813
Benson appeared in the drawing room doorway, imperturbable as ever behind his deepening wrinkles and with only the faintest of scowls marring his usually friendly demeanor. "Mr. Finian Fitzwilliam, miss." The Wentworth family butler had attended her dolls' tea parties in the nursery; he'd never since shaken what seemed to be an instinct for indulging and protecting her.
No matter who announced him, Fitz was the last person she wanted to see. Which her guardian butler apparently had sorted out. "I'm not—"
But before she could get the excuse out, Fitz slid past Benson and sauntered through the door, billowing into the dull drawing room and brightening it with his usual casual grace, the same easy smile. Even in the room's dimness, with only one stick of candles lit against the dull, drizzly sky, his claret tailcoat shone like a lighthouse beacon and his confidence outshone that. He'd always been the life in any room he entered, the sunlight, the color, the heartbeat. That entry wasn't unusual. He strolled in as if he owned the place and had every right to be there. As if nothing had happened between them.
But something had. Or, more precisely, something had broken between them, something long treasur
ed and coddled in her heart. It had shattered along with last evening's lost enjoyment as she had stalked from the dance line to Lady de Lisle's corner, weathering the open, catty stares and the falsely sympathetic titters en route. Only when she'd been seated, a soothing cup of tea cradled in her hands and His Grace fussing over her like a proper suitor — only then had she realized what had broken.
Her willingness to wait for Fitz to grow up.
She was tired of twiddling her thumbs while he played games, as if they'd never become adults.
If he wasn't going to develop an appropriate tendre for her, then she had no further reason to wait for him. Not after yesterday's humiliation at Rotten Row. Not after last night.
Because his replacement had arrived on schedule.
But still, Fitz brought the drawing room to life when it seemed no one else could possibly have done so. He grinned with all that charm, his eyes twinkling with affection — it couldn't be mistaken for anything else — warmer than the cheerful little fire, and all of it aimed at her. Without effort, he tugged heat into her coolness, straight from the heart.
The sharp, broken shards in her soul twisted within their wounds, drawing fresh blood. How could he be so unkind?
He bowed. "Good morning, Beryl."
"Fitz." She kept her curtsey brief and her chin square. "We must talk, I suppose."
"Indeed we must." Without waiting for an invitation — indeed, when had he ever? — Fitz settled onto the settee and splayed his arms along the back. "What the dithering devil do you think you're doing?"
Lately, the emotions Fitz had most often aroused in her, despite her desperate love for him, had been a slow, coiling, building anger, heavily flavored with exasperation. But those words slammed into her like hammer blows, left slow and building behind and jumped straight to towering rage. It flashed through her like a fire; perhaps all that had kept her behavior within bounds over the last few months had been her willingness to wait, waning though it had been.
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