“Get back here, you ungrateful little baggage!” Mrs. Jennings lunged after her sister, but Jack put out his arms to block her.
“Madame, I cannot allow you to harm your sister nor force her to wed against her will.” He spoke with the moral authority of the strong protecting the weak. “Miss Polly, is it your wish to accept the position of nursemaid in my household?”
As he continued to shield Polly from her enraged sister, the girl cried out. “I am, sir! If you are a friend of Mrs. Warwick, I know you’ll treat me fair and honorable.”
Annabelle could not help but be touched by her young friend’s faith in her. Or perhaps it was a measure of Polly’s desperation to escape her fate? Jack’s manner touched her too. It reminded her of his essential goodness. If he wanted to marry her to protect her reputation and give little Sarah a family were those such bad reasons?
Chapter Twelve
HE WAS GETTING close to winning Annabelle’s consent.
As Jack prepared for Lady Cheviot’s ball, he reflected with satisfaction on the success of his campaign. The simple act of hiring young Polly seemed to have altered Annabelle’s attitude toward him. It was as if they had reverted to their younger selves and she looked up to him again in spite of others’ opinions.
And yet engaging the nursemaid to assist Annabelle had not worked out quite as he’d hoped. Polly was pleasant and good with the baby. She seemed touchingly grateful for having been rescued from an unwanted marriage. Yet she had proven an even more intrusive chaperone than little Sarah. She always seemed to be hovering nearby when Jack most wanted to be alone with Annabelle.
But tonight at the ball there would be no baby to tend and no nursemaid to play gooseberry. It would be the ideal opportunity to show Annabelle what attentive company he could be.
“There you go, sir.” Jack’s valet gave his best blue coat a final pass with the brush. “You look very well, if I may say. It is good to see you going about in Society again.”
“Thank you, Godfrey.” Jack shot his reflection a critical frown, hoping Annabelle would agree with his valet’s assessment. “I am looking forward to this evening. Now that the Regency has been declared, this Season bids fair to be the liveliest in quite some time.”
The valet muttered something under his breath.
“What was that?” Jack demanded. “Spit it out, man!”
“Begging your pardon, Mr. Warwick.” Godfrey busied himself tidying the articles on his master’s dressing table. “I was only observing it is a most peculiar Season with those nasty murders in Vauxhall and that jewel thief plaguing Mayfair. Then there is that odd business about Lord Thorgraham.”
Jack knew the Duke of Somerford’s enigmatic heir had recently wed a lady who’d once been duped by the despicable Lord Hawthorne into a sham marriage. “I have no business commenting on anyone else’s situation. No doubt Lord Thorgraham might think it peculiar for an infant to be abandoned on the doorstep of three notorious bachelors.”
Godfrey gave a rueful nod. “I take your point, sir. I shall not mention another word about the gentleman. But I do hope you will be on your guard against jewel thieves and stay clear of Vauxhall until those murders are solved.”
Jack bit back a grin. “You have my word. If I feel the inclination to visit a pleasure garden, I shall confine myself to one of the smaller establishments. Now, I must not keep the others waiting, nor Lady Cheviot, since she has been so gracious as to host a ball in our honor.”
He hurried down to the drawing room where he found Rory sipping a glass of wine while Gabriel paced the floor looking anxious. Before Jack had a chance to speak, Gabriel froze in his tracks while Rory shot to his feet. Both stared in amazement and admiration. Jack knew such a reception could not be for him.
He spun around to find Annabelle entering the room behind him. The sight of her wearing an elegant ball gown in the vivid hopeful hue of yellow crocuses, made his vocal organs seize up. That was vexing, because he wanted to offer her an eloquent compliment. But all he could do was stand and gape.
Rory was not lost for words. “Gentlemen, to think all this time we have been playing host to a goddess. You look perfectly divine, my dear Lady Southam.”
He capped off his flattery with a courtly bow.
Annabelle responded with an enchanting smile. Her eyes sparkled as if kissed by starlight.
Jack wanted to make Rory eat his cravat!
“Will I do?” She cast a self-conscious glance down at her attire. “I have never attended a proper ball, before. It was very kind of Lord Gabriel’s mother to invite me this evening and to lend me this lovely gown.”
She spoke as if she believed Jack’s convenient fiction about the source of the outfit he had purchased for her.
“You will do very well.” He forced the words out of his uncooperative mouth. They emerged terse and gruff, not at all the way he’d intended, and nothing like Rory’s smooth, effortless compliment. Why had his vaunted charm suddenly deserted him when he needed it most?
“I only hope I will not embarrass you on account of my dancing.” Annabelle’s gloved fingers fluttered, betraying the anxious girl behind the breathtaking beauty. “All the practicing we have done during the past fortnight has helped, but I fear I shall lose my nerve in the midst of a large company.”
“I’m certain you will manage very well,” Jack hastened to reply before Rory produced a poetic nugget of flattery. “Most people will be too busy concentrating on their own performance to worry about yours.”
“Besides,” Rory added with a chuckle, “every man within a hundred yards will be so entranced by the sight of you that they will be tripping over their own feet. You cannot fail to look graceful by comparison.”
Annabelle laughed and wagged her fan at him. “Enough, now, or you will make me insufferably vain.”
Jack glared at Rory. “We should go. We do not want to be late after the duchess went to all this trouble on our account.”
Rory bolted the last of his wine. “Haven’t you heard? Arriving late is all the fashion this Season. At Lady Hertford’s ball, the Regent and his brothers did not make an appearance until after midnight. Tell us, Gabriel, did your mother invite any of the Royal Family?”
“All of them.” Gabriel sounded as if the presence of the royal party would be a calamity instead of an honor. “And foreign royalty as well—King Vlad of Moldavia.”
Rory sniffed. “All the ladies are mad for him and his courtiers—so exotic. I shall be glad when Napoleon is finally defeated and they can all go back to their own realm.”
“I don’t care if the Regent does not appear until dawn.” Jack held out his arm to Annabelle. “I plan to go now.”
Warning his friends to keep their distance with a dark look, he helped Annabelle on with her wrap, assisted her into the carriage and made certain he sat beside her on the short ride to Cheviot House.
They found the great ducal mansion ablaze with lights and Berkeley Square packed with carriages letting off guests.
“Perhaps arriving late is not quite so fashionable after all,” Jack observed pointedly. It pleased him to contradict Rory, who was still paying far too much attention to Annabelle for his liking.
“Apparently not.” Rory gave a good-natured shrug. “If the Regent and his brothers come too late, there may not be room for them.”
“You needn’t worry on that score,” Gabriel muttered. “This house could hold an army. I am not surprised by the crowd. My parents had a reputation for lavish entertaining, though Mama has not hosted a ball in years.”
Thanks to the skill of their coachman, they managed to reach the grand entrance to Cheviot House sooner than Jack expected. He would not have minded lingering for a while longer in the carriage, with his leg pressed against Annabelle’s, breathing in her sweet, wholesome fragrance. He could feel her quivering with nervous anticipation. Whenever he caught her eye, he tried to reassure her with a grin or a wink.
He reckoned tonight might be his best chance to p
ersuade her to marry him. His only concern was whether other gentlemen at the ball might react to her the way his friends had.
When he helped her out of the carriage, he offered her his arm, hoping the gesture would signal to anyone watching that Annabelle was his. He had desired many other women in the past, but he could not recall ever feeling so proprietary about any of them. Could it be because this particular connection went back so far? Or perhaps because little Sarah needed Annabelle so much and he feared someone might deprive his wee darling of her foster mother?
Then again, it might even be...
Jack had no further opportunity to reflect on his possible motives for they soon found themselves in a magnificent reception hall where the Duke and Duchess were receiving their guests. Jack had visited Cheviot House on a number of occasions with Gabriel, but never had he seen the place so full of light and life. He rather shrank from the prospect of speaking to Gabriel’s parents, who had never approved of him as a suitable companion for their son.
The duke looked particularly imposing tonight with his ramrod stiff posture and exaggerated features that would not have looked out of place on a cathedral gargoyle. Jack had heard Lord and Lady Cheviot were once known by wags in Society as Belle et le Bête. Fortunately for Gabriel, he had inherited his looks from his mother.
The duke spied Jack’s party and treated his youngest son to a severe scowl. “There you are at last. I was beginning to think you might not deign to make an appearance at the ball being held in your honor.”
He spoke the last word with caustic irony.
Gabriel’s handsome face went as pale as one of the marble statues he so resembled. He did not respond to the duke’s baiting but gave a cold, correct bow and uttered a single word. “Father.”
To Jack, his friend’s tone echoed the irony of Lord Cheviot’s, but that did not make any sense.
“Gabriel, dearest boy!” The duchess’s greeting was as warm as her husband’s had been cold. She held out her hand, inviting her son to her side. “Do come and allow me to present His Majesty, King Vlad of Moldavia and some members of his court.”
While Lady Cheviot introduced her son to the royal party, Jack and Rory bowed to the duke.
“Good evening, Lord Cheviot,” said Jack. “May I present Lady Southam, who has been of such invaluable assistance to us in recent weeks?”
“Lord Cheviot.” Annabelle dropped a graceful curtsey. “It was very kind of you and the duchess to invite me this evening.”
The duke’s bold features suddenly lost their grim set. He bowed low over Annabelle’s hand, clinging to it far longer than civility dictated. “We are pleased you could attend, my dear. I do hope I may claim the host’s privilege of a dance with you before the night is out.”
Clearly the old beast still had a taste for beautiful women. Jack told himself it was ridiculous to resent the duke’s courtesy to Annabelle. Was it not preferable to a rude rebuff? Besides, he had no reason to fear that a married man of Lord Cheviot’s age might try to lure Annabelle away from... Sarah. Not unless the duke hoped to make this young beauty his mistress.
It was widely known that His Grace had patronized some of the most celebrated actresses and courtesans in the kingdom. The notion caused Jack an unexpected qualm of distaste—not only on account of the duke’s behavior, but for his own. What did Gabriel make of his father’s open philandering? Was that why he refrained from making as many conquests as his looks and pedigree might have obtained?
“It would be an honor to dance with you, Lord Cheviot.” Annabelle offered the duke a radiant smile. Clearly she was too innocent and trusting to guess the old goat’s possible intentions.
As they moved forward to greet the duchess, Jack hovered closer than ever around Annabelle. From the first time they’d met, his feelings for her had been highly protective. Tonight she might need his protection more than ever.
As the bright lights and lilting music of the Cheviot’s ball beguiled her senses, Annabelle could not help feeling as if she had fallen into a fairytale... of which she was the heroine.
But what part did Jack Warwick play in this magical story? Was he the giant slayer with whom he shared a name? Or might he be the dashing outlaw? Perhaps he was the charming prince in disguise. Annabelle would have preferred Jack to play any of those heroic roles. Instead, he seemed bent on playing the gruff ogre, determined to spoil her enjoyment of the evening.
The duke and duchess had welcomed her so warmly. Then Lady Cheviot presented her to the King of Moldavia, who’d acknowledged her as if she were a princess, rather than a former nursemaid. Jack whisked her away before she could properly savor the moment.
“What is your hurry?” she protested. “Can I not say a polite how-do-you-do to people who have been more that civil to me?”
“Not when we were holding up the line of guests trying to get in,” Jack muttered. “Besides, I am not certain you want to be any more than civil to that foreign king. There is something peculiar about him and his whole court, if you ask me. Now come and get a drink of punch.”
“Oh very well,” she agreed in a tone intended to convey that she was not pleased with his behavior, “though I have never cared for spirits. The smell reminds me of the way Uncle used to fall into a foul temper when he drank. I would rather watch the dancing. Seeing a large group of people perform the steps is quite different than practicing in your drawing room.”
To her surprise, Jack seemed to approve the suggestion. “If you would like a better view, we could watch from up there.”
He pointed toward a railed gallery that looked out over the ballroom. The musicians were seated at one end, but there was plenty of room for spectators to stand on the other side.
“That sounds like a fine idea.” Annabelle took the cup of punch he offered her from the refreshment table and tried a sip. It tasted quite pleasant—a sweet mixture of orange and lemon. The spirits were scarcely noticeable. “Do you know how to get up there?”
Jack drained his cup in one swallow then took another. He nodded in response to her question. “The stairs are over that way.”
As they made their way toward the curtained alcove Jack had indicated, a number of gentlemen smiled at Annabelle and looked as if they meant to approach her. But each one turned away before he got close enough to speak. Their behavior puzzled her until she glanced back to find Jack scowling and shaking his head.
“What are you doing?” she demanded as they entered the dim alcove from which a narrow stairway curved upward. “Are you discouraging people from speaking to me? Are you ashamed to have me seen out in Society?”
“Ashamed?” Jack scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Then why did he sound so defensive, if it was not true? Annabelle paused at the foot of the stairs. “I know you are trying to become more responsible but that does not mean you can never enjoy yourself.”
In the shadowy alcove she could not make out Jack’s expression, but she was more conscious than ever of his presence. His body tensed, suggesting her comment had struck a nerve.
Perhaps she should appeal to him rather than confronting. No doubt he’d had his fill of that as a boy in Lord Knightlow’s household. “I never had a debut or went about in Society you know. If your family had not been neighbors, I might never have met anyone of your rank. Please do not spoil this lovely evening for me. I may never get another like it.”
“I do not mean to spoil anything for you.” Jack paused for a moment then his voice emerged again from the shadows to caress her ears. “But Society can hold more dangers than you realize, especially for a woman as lovely as you and... we should go up.”
He thought she was lovely? Annabelle savored the off-hand compliment. He had called her beautiful before, but that was when he’d tried to persuade her to wed him. Rory had been lavish in his flattery earlier, but that was only because he’d been surprised to see her looking any way but dowdy.
She started up the stairs as Jack had bid her. With each step, she b
ecame more intensely aware of him trailing so close behind her. She recalled following him up the stairs at his house, unable to keep her attention off his well-shaped backside.
“What dangers can there be for me here?” she asked, seeking to distract herself from a mad urge to fall backward into Jack’s arms. “If you are referring to that thief they call the Mayfair Shadow, I am not wearing any jewels to attract his interest.”
Until recently she’d believed Jack posed a greater threat to her than any thief or lecher. But lately she had begun to question that assumption. He was no longer the reckless young buck who had been so blind to her feelings for him. Had his parent’s poisonous marriage made him afraid to love her or any woman? If she could be certain Jack felt more for her than he dared admit, might it inspire the courage she needed to release them both from the bonds of fear forged by their past experiences?
“I am not worried about any thief.” With a light touch of his hand on her elbow, Jack directed her to the end of the gallery opposite the musicians. “Whoever he is, the Mayfair Shadow has not harmed anyone. That is more than I can say for many of the male guests here this evening. A beautiful, unattached woman is irresistible bait to them, especially if...”
His voice trailed off as he stared down at the dancers.
Annabelle’s gaze ranged over the dance floor as well. The patterns of color woven by the movement of the lady’s floral-hued gowns and gentlemen’s dark coats intrigued her. Yet her thoughts remained focused on what Jack had said.
“Especially if what?” she prompted him in a tone that declared she would not be satisfied with anything less than the truth.
Jack bolted his second cup of punch, reminding Annabelle that she ought to finish the rest of hers before she spilled it. Now that she knew what to expect, she rather enjoyed the taste.
“Especially if her reputation is already compromised,” said Jack. “They may assume she is fair game. Appearing at this ball with our heads held high may silence the worst of the tattle about you. But the damage has been done, I fear, and I have done it. If you will marry me, I promise to spend the rest of my days making it up to you.”
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