No. It couldn’t be. Her heart screeched that Valera was wrong even as her head logically pointed out that the man who’d held her had confessed that he was no lord. It had to be! She looked around for him, but he’d taken himself off, having wisely escaped the gossips.
All the while she tried to sort through the jumbling confusion that ripped through her. She focused her gaze on her mother who stood beside Valera’s dashing husband and a slightly familiar-looking gentleman with thick black hair and a hard jaw. Aldora fought the panicky urge to flee. She didn’t want to deal with the necessary matchmaking this evening. No, she wanted to take herself off to some dark hidden corner and lick away the wounds of having come so very close to happiness only to have herself thrust quite forcefully back down to earth.
“Smile,” Valera murmured at her ear.
Aldora managed to paste a smile on her face. “Better?”
Valera grimaced. “It will have to do.”
Valera’s reassuring presence provided the much needed fortitude to hold her head and return to the place alongside her mother and the familiar stranger.
Aldora expected to see unrestricted disapproval in her mother’s always expressive eyes. The unabashed joy reflected in Mother’s blue eyes gave her pause. “Ahh, here you are, my dear.”
Valera’s husband bowed and proceeded to make the necessary introductions. “St. James, Lady Aldora Adamson. Lady Aldora, allow me to introduce you to the Marquess of St. James.”
The marquess’s response was lost in the loud buzzing of her ears. Aldora clenched the fabrics of her skirts before remembering that a sea of Society members were attuned to their meeting.
Oh God, this was the marquess? She should be elated. For all her attempts at meeting the young bachelor and all her meticulous scheming, he was now before her. Valera’s words came back to her on a rush. St. James preferred women who could play pianoforte and embroider. Desperate to escape, Aldora dropped her gaze to his artfully arranged cravat, but that brought his garishly bright gold embroidered waistcoat into sharp focus until she thought she might go blind from staring at the fabric.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, my lord,” she lied. It was not a pleasure. It was fortuitous and convenient and necessary. But it was not a pleasure.
“I was just saying to His Lordship how very good it was of you to so graciously agree to dance with his brother.” His brother? Mother dropped her tone to a loud whisper. “You know the scandal and all.”
She had…The man whose arms she’d waltzed in…Aldora closed her eyes as a sudden wave of dizziness besieged her, and she tried to regain composure.
Good God, Michael was the marquess’s younger brother.
Blessedly, Valera launched into a conversation with St. James saving Aldora from having to formulate a coherent response.
Trying to wrap her brain around the tide of confusion, she allowed the words to echo through the walls of her brain. Michael was the Marquess of St. James’s brother.
No, Michael was the scandalous younger brother, who’d been banished to the far-flung regions of Wales or Ireland, or some area in the British Isles where he now operated an equally scandalous business.
Aldora gave her head a shake, and alternated her gaze among the four people as she tried to regain control of her rapidly churning thoughts.
A prickle of awareness tingled along the base of her neck, and trailed a path down her spine and she knew with a woman’s intuition that Michael was studying her meeting with the marquess.
The marquess clasped her fingers in his and raised them to his lips. She held her breath in anticipation of any hint of her body’s awareness of him as a man. His lips, too soft and too moist, caressed the top of her hand before she discreetly pulled it back. “It is an honor, my lady.”
Her mother’s narrowed gaze indicated that she’d not missed Aldora’s obvious reaction.
She squared her shoulders, hoping that he hated this exchange as much as she did, hoping that it was as painful for him, because there were no words to describe the pain knifing through her insides that threatened to bring her to her knees in this crowded hall.
“Will you join me for the next set?” the marquess asked.
Four pairs of eyes stared at Aldora in silent expectation.
No!
She made a show of glancing down at the sadly empty dance card on her wrist.
“Yes. That would be lovely,” she added, at her mother’s pointed glare.
The marquess held out his arm and with all of Society, and Michael, watching and he escorted her onto the dance floor where couples were lining up for a quadrille.
Aldora sent small thanks to the heavens. It wasn’t a waltz. She couldn’t bear being enfolded in the arms of Michael’s brother. It felt sinful and wrong.
And it would feel a good deal more wrong when she married this man. Because that hadn’t changed. She still required a match to save her family and this man presented the best option for her complicated circumstances.
Her fingers touched the heart that dangled at her neck, bitterness tasting like fire in her throat. How very foolish she’d been. She had allowed herself to believe in the magic of the silly charm. It was all she could do to keep from removing the pendant and passing it on to one of her other friends, friends who most likely still believed in the power of the gypsy’s tale.
They took their place on opposite ends of the line. She fell into a curtsy, and he returned the bow as the orchestra struck up the first chords of the dance. The lively beat breathed some life into her deflated self as they came together.
“I do appreciate it, you know,” he said, before they were forced apart by the steps of the dance.
They performed the circular movements, weaving in and out of partners before they were brought back together. “Appreciate what, my lord?”
Arm in arm, his hand on hers, he guided her around. “You were dancing with my brother. I confess, many ladies have been far less forgiving.”
Her mouth parted in surprise. Unbidden, her eyes scanned the ballroom, searching hopelessly for Michael. He was there. She felt his gaze upon her skin like a physical touch but he remained out of sight, hidden from her. Aldora believed it would have to be only a madwoman who would be able to shun Michael for the mistakes of his youth.
Aldora was saved from responding by the steps of the dance that separated them yet again. She’d never really preferred the quadrille. Now she was thinking that she’d been too harsh on the suddenly convenient dance.
They came to stop at the edge of the circle, side by side, as the other partners performed the intricate movements. The fabric of her satin skirts brushed the marquess’s embroidered breeches. There was no thrilling sense of awareness at his body pressed so close to hers, no hungering desire for things she didn’t understand coursed through her belly. She took a moment to study him. At six feet two inches he was taller than most gentlemen. He did not, however, possess the same muscular strength and lithe power of his younger brother. Her gaze dipped to his stomach and narrowed. Padding. Why, the Marquess of St. James padded his attributes.
It wasn’t uncommon. Quite the opposite.
But Michael’s body exhibited pure masculinity without need for embellishments and adornments and damn him, he’d ruined her acceptance of other men who chose to use those foolish fripperies.
As if feeling her stare upon him, the marquess glanced down at her. Aldora felt color rush to her cheeks but did not look away.
“I saw you, you know.”
Her brow furrowed.
“In the park,” he clarified.
A rush of panic coursed through her as she thought back to the day she’d first met Michael. Her hair had hung in a mass of riotous curls about her back, and she been crawling across the grounds. Her eyes slid closed.
“You looked lovely,” he murmured. “Even with your out-of-fashion day gown.”
She blinked. “Uh, thank you, my lord.” That was almost a compliment and considering this was the
man she had settled her sights upon and she was in no means a debutante gentlemen were clamoring over. She was too tall and too thin, and with brown curls and brown eyes, did not fit with Society’s preference for golden, voluptuous creatures. Then there was the matter of her family. Panic made her heart beat painfully inside her chest.
The set came to an end amidst a smattering of applause from the lords and ladies on the dance floor. She met his bow with a curtsy and then accepted the arm he held out.
Aldora touched her fingers to his jacket sleeves.
“I’d like to call on you, my lady?”
“Why?” she blurted out. She gasped but the sound was drowned out by his laughter.
Nearby lords and ladies peered at them as they continued walking, obviously curious at that which had brought the marquess to such a very obvious reaction.
“If you’d said that any other way, I would believe you were a young lady searching out compliments.”
“Oh, no, not at all, my lord,” she rushed to assure him. He couldn’t be further from the truth.
He winked. “I know that, my lady. Would you join me for a stroll in Hyde Park tomorrow with your mother’s permission, of course?”
Oh goodness, she had thought she had so neatly sidestepped his request. If her mother needed to, she’d truss Aldora up with an apple between her teeth and serve her up on a silver platter for the marquess. “Uh-yes, that would be lovely,” she lied.
The marquess bowed. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Aldora watched him go, all the while dreaming of another.
Chapter Five
Thick, dark clouds blanketed the London sky, all but ready to unleash a torrent of rain upon the city.
A walk through Hyde Park at this time was the height of foolishness, yet the marquess had insisted, and Mother had concurred, so Aldora walked alongside him with bated breath, waiting for the deluge that would ruin her ridiculously thin wrap and ornamental hood.
A faint breeze rustled her cloak and set a lone lock of hair tumbling over her brow. She brushed it back.
Aldora met the marquess’s long strides, easily falling into step. Her maid’s gasping breath indicated the brisk pace was hardly fashionable and not at all appropriate. Regardless, the sooner this outing was over, the sooner Aldora could return home and try to forget that she was hopelessly besotted with the wrong brother.
The angry rumble of thunder sounded in the distance.
Aldora frowned. She needed to make a match with the gentleman but she wasn’t willing to die by a bolt of lightning just to save her family.
“I know ladies possess a significantly weaker constitution. Would you care to rest a moment?”
It was the first thing he’d said since they’d entered the largely empty park. She cringed as Valera’s claims about St. James’s views on women surfaced. It shouldn’t bother her that he saw her as a fragile wisp of a thing. After all, it was the view held by most in Society. And yet it did rankle—a good deal. Aldora couldn’t imagine Michael being possessed of a like opinion.
She closed her eyes. Michael.
“My lady?” he murmured. Her gaze flew to his. He gestured to their surroundings. “I was asking if you’d like to stop a moment?”
Aldora looked around, taking in their area. The knowledge of where they were hit her like a kick to the chest. Her flesh tingled in remembrance of the touch of Michael’s hands as he circled her neck with the childhood pendant she now wore.
It hardly worked toward her ultimate goal for the marquess, but Aldora could not bite back the next words. “I don’t believe a riding trail is the best place for us to rest, my lord.”
St. James’s full lips turned upwards with amusement.
“Ahh!”
Aldora and St. James looked up in unison, in time to see her maid not even twenty paces away topple over. The older woman landed hard on her knees. A loud wind muted the agonized cry.
Propriety forgotten, Aldora raced to her maid, dropping to a knee.
St. James knelt alongside her.
“Silly thing, Lady Aldora. I stepped in a rabbit hole. A rabbit hole. What is a rabbit hole doing in Hyde Park?” The woman dashed back a stray tear.
“Are you injured, Isabella?” Aldora asked.
With effortless grace, St. James stood and helped Isabella to her feet. The maid took a tentative step and cried out. The wrinkles on her narrow face contorted with pain.
St. James turned to Aldora. “I’m going to carry her to the phaeton and instruct my driver to return her at once.”
Aldora bit the inside of her cheek to keep from suggesting that she be allowed to return home with her maid.
He hesitated. “I do not want to leave you alone, unchaperoned.”
But he could move faster without having to match his stride to Aldora’s. She understood that and cared more for Isabella’s well being that propriety.
Her mother, however, well that was a tale of a different color. She nodded. “I’ll be fine, my lord. Truly,” she said when he hesitated.
The marquess inclined his head and then all but sprinted through the park, the older woman in his arms. Aldora stared after him, marveling at the absolute ease in which he handled Isabella’s reed thin frame. She watched until they’d disappeared from her line of vision.
St. James had behaved as the perfect gentleman. He’d been kind, considerate, and even managed to laugh at her tendency to blurt out exactly what she was thinking.
He was nothing like his brother, Michael. Michael who teased her and challenged her…and who’d also lied to her. Last evening, after she had returned from Lord and Lady Havendale’s ball, she had pounded her pillow, precious sleep eluding her. The shock of discovering that Michael was not her marquess had crippled her sensibilities. If somebody had wrenched her heart from her chest and stuck a thousand pinpricks within the foolish organ, it couldn’t hurt more.
It was foolish. To feel these things, anything, for a veritable stranger. But she cared for him, cared a good deal. After she had allowed herself a cleansing cry, other thoughts had trickled in and replaced the agony.
Michael had lied to her. He had deliberately misled her into believing he was in fact the marquess. She fed that sense of betrayal, because it dulled the ache within her breast. Oh, the fun he must have had at her expense.
The heartless deception should have squashed any feelings she had for the darkly handsome, scandal-ridden gentleman. She should wholeheartedly devote her efforts to winning over the powerful, more-gentlemanly Marquess of St. James.
So why didn’t she feel any of the fluttery waves of awareness deep inside her belly as she did whenever Michael was near?
Thunder sounded in the distance. The wind kicked up a frenzy, and the tree branches shook. The breeze sent several leaves fluttering. She reached up and tried to catch one, but it sailed through her fingers and landed on the ground. Aldora put the heel of her slipper to keep it in place, and then bent down to retrieve it.
“Never tell me you’ve lost something again, my lady?”
Aldora froze. The green leaf slipped out of her hands and floated off on the next gust of wind.
She swallowed. Why is he here? She remained rooted to her spot upon the ground.
Michael dismounted from his horse. The enormous black beast pawed the ground nervously but remained in its place. “What are you doing here?” He looked around as if expecting someone to materialize from the breeze. “Alone.”
Aldora’s lips parted, but no words came out.
He took a step toward her.
She held her ground. “Why are you here?” she tossed back at him, embracing the volatile anger that stirred deep within her chest. It gave her the fortitude to confront him.
Michael paused. “I was riding.”
Well, he had her there. He had far more reason to be out on this dreary gray day than she. Still…
“You should have continued riding.”
His body convulsed like he’d been physically
struck.
I will not feel bad. I will not feel bad.
“And I’m not alone,” she added for spiteful measure. “I’m out walking with the Marquess of St. James. You know, your brother.” In unison with her bold declaration, the wind died an instant death, and the air stood still.
A savage-like growl split the sudden, unearthly quiet. The unrestrained darkness in Michael’s eyes indicated that the sound didn’t belong to nature but rather had come from deep within his chest.
She should relish his tangible pain, but it didn’t bring her even a smidgeon of glee. It only made her feel that much worse, which she hadn’t thought possible. “You lied to me. You made light of me, knowing all along I thought you to be your brother.” She spit the words at him.
“I didn’t.”
Stated in that flat, emotionless tone, Aldora gritted her teeth, besieged by an unladylike desire to strike him. “You didn’t what? Lie to—”
“Make light of you.” Michael held his palms up, almost as if in supplication. “That was never my intention.”
Well, that wasn’t exactly an apology, and his words were certainly not enough to erase the vast hurt he’d caused her. Aldora tipped her chin back. “Oh, well then what was your intention?”
Michael should have continued riding. He should have turned Midnight around and rode hard to the opposite end of the park. Lady Aldora was like the nymph Calypso who’d held tight to Odysseus for seven years. Only Michael suspected that Lady Aldora’s hold would be something a deal more permanent.
He studied the pinched lines at the corner of her lush lips, the glitter of emotion that filled her expressive brown eyes.
Michael removed his hat and beat it against the side of his thigh. It would be easier for both of them—all of them, if he considered his brother—if he offered a hasty apology and left her believing that he’d merely been, ‘making light of her’. There was nothing he could offer her. He had money. Plenty of it. But respectability and a place in London Society? No. Not after he’d killed Lord Everworth. The things he now dreamed of were beyond his reach.
In Need of a Duke (The Heart of a Duke Book 1) Page 5
