A Tempting Ruin (GreenFord Waters #3)

by Kristin Vayden

  "Yes, Your Grace." Beatrix stood and with a curtsey, left.

  As she passed down the hall and toward her room, all she could think was…

  Let the games begin.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "YOU ARE COMPLETELY CERTAIN THAT THEY will all be in attendance tonight?" Neville asked again of Henry.

  "My lord, I have heard it directly from Kirby's lips. If I were to get any closer to the source, I'd have to have been touching the gent, and, my lord, I'm not that type," Henry joked.

  Neville glared.

  Henry cleared his throat. "Yes, I'm certain."

  "Thank you. That will be all." Neville dismissed the lad, his gaze focusing on the fire, seeing the glow but not focusing on the flames. Like the heat from the blaze, his blood burned just knowing that Kirby would have the opportunity to make Beatrix's acquaintance.

  Jealousy burned like a savage beast.

  Temptation presented itself in the most basic way, but did he dare risk the operation?

  Surely the duke would protect her, would he not?

  But was that a risk he was willing to take?

  No.

  From that point on, it was easy to convince himself that his presence at Smother's Ball was absolutely necessary. No one had to know he was there.

  Except her.

  Most certainly, Beatrix would know. He'd make sure of it.

  Their courtship was anything but normal, but that didn't make it less authentic. But he was certain of one truth; she needed to see his devotion to her safety, her protection. What sort of husband or lover would he be should he not offer the safety of not only his name, but his body?

  She needed to know, in the most elementary way, that he was there for her.

  Rather, he needed her to recognize it. To prove it.

  Settled, Neville strode from the room, the fire crackling and accentuating his determined stride as he ascended the stairs.

  "Strout!" he called, shrugging out of his coat and tugging at his cravat as he pushed open the heavy wooden door of his chamber.

  His valet's silver head ducked out of his closet, an expectant expression coloring his aged face.

  "My evening kit, if you please," Neville clipped. With any luck, Smother's Ball would be a crush, and no one would even notice his arrival. A grin spread his lips as a different plan took form in his mind. "Wait. I've got another idea."

  BEATRIX BREATHED IN DELIBERATELY, trying to calm the racing cadence of her heart. Truly, she wished to be anywhere but where she was, but no other choice was offered. If she didn't walk this road, it would risk her sister's freedom. Glancing to the floor, she caught a glimpse of her fingers, tapping her thumb nervously. Immediately her thoughts centered on Lord Neville. How she wished he would be in attendance as well. Yet she knew it was impossible.

  The ballroom glittered with flickering candlelight; yards of silk accented the rows and rows of hothouse roses. Smother had put forth an exemplary effort to employ every sense of the arriving guests, from luminescent décor to the heady scent from the floral arrangements; it was delightful and a welcome distraction from the impending introduction.

  "Be brave," Lady Southridge murmured from her right. With Carlotta in confinement due to her delicate condition, Lady Southridge was her chaperone along with the duke. Bethanny and Lord Graham would also be in attendance, lending her further allies. It was all so strange. Beatrix continued to study her surroundings, taking in the elaborate gowns of the ladies and the perfect black lines of the gentlemen's evening wear. It was odd without her own debut behind her, but there was no way to rectify it. Already London was abuzz with the news of her arrival, especially with her earlier departure such a mystery cloaked in rumor and suspicion.

  Hushed whispers followed her as she made her way through the wide ballroom with its highly polished marble floors. Thankfully, Carlotta had staved off much of the speculation with the story of her accompanying Lady Southridge to her country estate, but it was inevitable that others would doubt its validity.

  Especially with Sir Kirby making no intention to hide his efforts to secure her attention through the duke. Could her life become any more complicated? All these sensations and emotions wove a fog-like spell about her, but none of it dulled the pain of loneliness that one experienced when missing the one who had stolen her heart.

  Stolen was an accurate verb. She breathed a gentle laugh as she remembered Lord Neville's anything-but-subtle pursuit of her. What she wouldn't give to simply know he was near.

  "Are you well?" Lady Southridge asked, pulling Beatrix's thoughts back to the world around her.

  "As well as can be expected," Beatrix replied with a dry tone.

  "Brilliant, seeming as you're about to meet Lord Kirby." Lady Southridge breathed the words so silently she almost missed it.

  "Exc—"

  "Ah, Sir Kirby." The duke's voice interrupted her. His tone was far from polite.

  "Your Grace."

  Beatrix fixed her gaze upon the man before her. Impeccably dressed, Sir Kirby held a ridged posture, as if bracing for a verbal sparring. His eyes, a muted-brown, didn't stray once to Beatrix but fixed on the duke as if evaluating an opponent. He was of a similar height to the duke, but far less substantial in presence, causing him to appear much smaller. With a pointed nose and angular cheeks, he wasn't a handsome man, but neither was he offensive in appearance. Rather, Sir Kirby was simply… average.

  Beatrix studied him, curious as to his reaction to the duke, yet trying to catalogue any detail that may be of use in defeating this unfamiliar enemy.

  "May I offer the introduction of my ward, Miss Lamont?" The duke's tone was frosty like a January morning, dry and without any warmth.

  Finally, Sir Kirby's gaze flickered to Beatrix then back to the duke.

  "Indeed." He raised a thin eyebrow. "I'll wish to secure a waltz with so lovely of a lady."

  She glanced between the duke and Sir Kirby, curious as to how he could have developed any opinion on her loveliness when he had scarcely spared her a glance.

  Not that she minded.

  But she did wonder.

  "A waltz would not be permissible. You see, my young ward has not officially had a come out, and with the ladies of Almack not having given their permission…" He let the words linger in their implication.

  "Of course, we would not wish to offend propriety." Sir Kirby remarked, rocking slightly on his heels. "A reel then."

  "A reel, it is." The duke nodded once then extended his arm to Beatrix, all the while staring down Sir Kirby.

  Taking his arm quickly, the duke escorted them away from the strange man and into the crowd.

  "The man gets under my skin. There's something off about him," the duke remarked, primarily to himself.

  "He didn't even look at me," Beatrix replied.

  "He gazed at you plenty when we first arrived," the duke growled.

  "Oh." Beatrix felt shiver of icy dread slowly trickle down her spine.

  "So help me, if that…" The duke seemed to catch himself before speaking out of place. "He better not try anything during the reel."

  "I would imagine it would be quite difficult to try anything untoward during such a lively dance," Lady Southridge interjected.

  "Snakes are cunning," the duke answered.

  Lady Southridge agreed. "Indeed."

  The music began, and Beatrix watched in stunned silence as the dancers lined up in the open space on the ballroom floor. The cotillion began, a swirl of color and movement that momentarily stole her worry.

  "There you are!" A wonderfully familiar voice called to her, blanketing her in a calming peace.

  Turning, Beatrix barely restrained herself from running into her elder sister's arms. Ever dashing, Lord Graham stood protectively near her sister, a golden angel fiercely devoted to his wife.

  "Bethanny!" Beatrix cried, not caring that she drew the attention of those nearby.

  "You are so beautiful." Bethanny was careful to embrace her sister witho
ut crushing their gowns, all while murmuring the endearment.

  "As are you," Beatrix countered.

  "I take it you restrained yourself and didn't throw fisticuffs?" Lord Graham's tone was wry but amused as he directed the question to his friend, the duke.

  "No, I was civilized," the duke replied.

  "Barely," Lady Southridge added.

  The duke gave her a dark look.

  "I didn't say I disapproved. I rather would have enjoyed seeing you bloody up the bastard."

  "Lady Southridge!" Bethanny scolded.

  "It's true." The dowager hitched a shoulder, obviously uncaring of her breach of social protocol.

  "Here, here!" the duke encouraged.

  "The lot of you are mad." Beatrix glanced heavenward, then turned to her sister. "I'm to dance a reel with him."

  "A reel? That isn't as threatening as waltz," Bethanny asserted.

  "She hasn't had a proper come out, so we have protocol on our side," Lady Southridge explained.

  "Brilliant," Graham spoke approvingly.

  The music for the cotillion ended, transitioning into a Scottish reel. Heart hammering, Beatrix glanced from the duke to Bethanny, seeking strength.

  "You can do this." Bethanny reached out and held her sister's shoulder with her gloved hand.

  "I know." Beatrix inhaled deeply through her nose and turned slightly, watching the approach of Sir Kirby.

  "My lady?" He held out a white-gloved hand, a look of expectancy in his eyes.

  "Sir." Beatrix grasped his hand and followed him onto the dance floor. Her back burned with the gaze of the ton as conversations halted when they passed. The music picked up, and she found her place in the reel. Through the entire set, she felt an air of expectancy for Sir Kirby to speak to her, even speak one word during a turn, but he did no such thing. Rather, his inscrutable gaze watched her, detached and almost bored.

  It was anything but the regard of a man in pursuit of a woman. As the reel continued, her gaze strayed to the crowd. The faces blended together in a rainbow of color, but as she walked down the line, her skin prickled with awareness. She glanced to Sir Kirby, curious if his level of attention had shifted, but his gaze was directly before them, stoic and stern.

  Casting her attention to the crowd, she scanned for a particular gaze, simply out of sheer desperation for its presence.

  Then, a glimpse of the familiar shocked her! Grey eyes met hers then blended into the crowd. Blinking, she tried to find them once more, but failed.

  Heart beating with hope, she misstepped at a turn, earning a confused glance from her inattentive partner, Sir Kirby, but nothing more. As the music ended, she curtseyed and fully expected Sir Kirby to escort her to the duke.

  "Take a turn about the room with me," he asserted, giving her no other option as he placed his hand over hers and led her to the edge of the ballroom.

  "I do not think you have gained my guardian's permission—"

  "I do not need your guardian's permission, Miss Lamont. I'm within every social constraint to take my dance partner about the room en route to her guardian." He added the last line, surely trying to cloak his earlier demand.

  "Sir Kirby, I find your attention confusing." Beatrix spoke plainly, pausing mid-stride and facing him.

  He halted and turned to her, his expression clearly shocked and frustrated. "I care not for how you interpret my actions," he spoke, equally as plain.

  "If you have no regard for me or my opinion, then I would have to deduce that you have no intentions of pursuing the matter of my acquaintance further," Beatrix tried, knowing it was a long shot.

  He gave a condescending chuckle. "Ah, the endless amusement of the female mind." None too gently, he tugged her along till she had no choice but to walk beside him.

  "I take umbrage to your remark, sir."

  "And I care not."

  "What do you care about then?" Beatrix halted gain, pulling her arm free and facing him.

  "Obedience…Revenge." He bit out and squeezed her wrist painfully as he made no qualms about his belief on the matter.

  "Then you shall find me disagreeable indeed," Beatrix bit out, trying to ignore the pain.

  "Perhaps your sister would be more amicable," he offered in a veiled threat.

  "For one to claim to be close enough of kin to have rightful ownership of our wealth, you certainly do not know the nature of my family."

  At this, he simply smiled, a wicked, cold amusement that chilled her blood.

  "If you—" Beatrix started but was unable to finish as a footman plowed into Sir Kirby, his tray laden with lemonade!

  The two men tumbled onto the ground, a loud crash of shattering glass accenting their fall. Lemonade pooled beneath them, offering up its sweet and tangy scent.

  "You imbecile!" Sir Kirby shouted, sitting up and brushing off his evening kit with an obsessive desperation.

  "A thousand apologies, my lord," the footman offered, but the voice was oddly familiar, as if…

  Familiar grey eyes darted up and met hers, flickering a connection of awareness, conveying a secret message meant entirely for her.

  Unable to stifle the grin that broke out across her face, Beatrix bit her lip and turned away, knowing she needed to gain control of herself lest Neville be discovered.

  Though, upon quick reflection, few would expect an earl to dress as a footman.

  Just another reason she was captivated by the enigma of Lord Neville.

  "Bastard," Kirby swore as he glared daggers at the footman-liveried Neville, who had taken on an extremely contrite pose as he struggled to assist Sir Kirby.

  "A thousand apologies, my lord!" Neville replied, his voice a mix of nasal and cockney.

  Kirby brushed off Neville's attempt at aid and stood then took a step away from the disaster. Even though they were at the edge of the ballroom, the ruckus was enough that people had begun to gather.

  Beatrix studied the small circle of lords and ladies as they murmured behind hands and fans, studying the mess, condemning it. Her heart pinched. Would they recognize Lord Neville in his disguise?

  "I'll see to it that you're dismissed immediately," Sir Kirby threatened, brushing off his sleeve with a white linen handkerchief. With a withering glare, he stormed away, likely to depart since he was soaked through from the incident. Surely his threat was in earnest; however, little did the man know that the footman was anything but employed by the Smothers.

  Neville glanced to Beatrix then behind her and back once more. Narrowing her eyes, Beatrix turned and followed where his gaze had landed. Upon seeing a balcony in the far corner, she turned back and gave the smallest nod of understanding. Neville stacked several broken shards of glass upon his silver server and walked away, the crowd giving him a wide berth. Several other footmen arrived at that moment with a maid in tow to address the rest of the mess. No longer interested, the multitude dispersed, leaving Beatrix ignored once more.

  Not wasting a moment, she lifted her cream-colored gown just above her slippered feet and stepped over a few remaining shards of glass and started toward the balcony. Heart hammering with delicious expectation, she glanced behind her to ensure she was not drawing attention then continued on her way.

  The hall grew darker from the absence of the multitude of candles, and as she passed the final pillar leading to the balcony, a hand reached out and pulled her behind the ivory support.

  A scream on her lips was stilled as the intoxicating tone of Lord Neville's voice crooned in her ear. "At last. Where you belong."

  Relaxing into his embrace, she took a breath, soaking in the moment, stolen as it was.

  "I've quite decided that I'm going to kidnap you and your sister, putting an end to this whole charade." Neville chuckled, wrapping another arm around her waist, cradling her against his warm chest. The scent of lemon hung in the air, adding humor to the otherwise emotional moment.

  "Is that so?" Beatrix asked.

  "No, but I'm running out of patience," Neville answered
darkly.

  "As am I. And I must take a moment to assure you that should lurking in dark shadows at night and masquerading as a gentleman by day should fail you, the option of becoming a footman is not a venue you should entertain," she teased.

  He tsked his tongue, a smoldering heat to his direct gaze. "And I thought my skill was unparalleled in that arena."

  "Thank you, by the way," Beatrix replied, humor vanishing as she remembered the painful grip of Sir Kirby.

  "The bastard is lucky to be alive right now," Neville responded menacingly. "It was clear to see the pain he was intentionally inflicting on your person." Releasing her, he coaxed her to turn and, in the soft light, lifted her wrist and studied it for injury. Tenderly, he raised the still sore flesh to his lips and kissed it ever so lovingly.

  "Much better," Beatrix whispered, her heart thumping wildly at the care and regard he lavished on so small an injury.

  Lifting his gaze, he studied her face. "Come." He held out his hand.

  Taking it, she followed as he searched the hall then pulled her along it a few steps and into a shadowed corner concealed by an impressive tapestry.

  "As much as I wish to discuss anything but Sir Kirby, I must ask, have you learned anything new?" Neville asked as his hands drew lazy circles upon her wrist.

  Taking a shaky breath, Beatrix pulled her senses into focus. "No, have you?"

  His gaze darkened. "Not enough. But we will find something. We just need time, but after seeing his handling of you, I don't wish to continue as we intended."

  "He holds no regard for me, for my family. It was odd." Beatrix shook her head slightly as she considered Sir Kirby's reactions and actions before and during their dance.

  "What was odd?" Neville's gaze sharpened.

  "He — Sir Kirby —hardly spared me a glance. For one so determined to attain my family's fortune through marriage, I would have expected a bit more… interest?"

  "That is odd. You're a rare beauty. I know that I could scarcely keep my eyes off of you." Neville pulled a hand up to his lips and kissed it.

  "Charmer." Beatrix raised a daring eyebrow. "What was stranger was his attention to the duke. It was odd how he paid such close attention to him, like he was the person of interest."