She instantly recognized Baroness Willis with her tight bodice, plunging neckline, and an abundance of light brown hair piled atop her head in an elegant coiffure. The man-hungry widow somehow managed to inveigle even the most sought-after invitations to the most coveted fêtes of the Season. But Missy was almost certain her mother had not issued the woman an invitation. So what the devil is she doing here? Apart from fawning all over James, that is.
Missy held her position by the fireplace, Lord Riley and the other gentlemen hovering nearby, while James greeted her mother. And then his gaze roamed the room until it met hers. Something flickered across his sumptuously sculpted features, but his smile—remote, completely disengaged—sent her plunging into a freefall of misery. The wretched man was giving her naught to hang her hopes on.
He began to weave his way through the crowd toward her, Lady Willis close on his heels.
Missy tipped her chin, drew a breath, and pasted a polite smile on her face.
Chapter Five
“Miss Armstrong,” he said, all cool and polite. As if they’d never kissed. As if he’d never placed his mouth on her naked breast and laved and pleasured her. But it was hard to mimic his politesse when the kiss he placed upon the back of her bare hand caused her heart to perform its familiar somersault.
“Lord Armstrong.” She strived for normalcy but it still came out as if she had just caught her breath. She had to force herself not to avert her gaze from the sheer beauty of the azure blue of his eyes.
After she was sufficiently out of sorts, James turned and introduced the baroness. The widow flashed something that might pass for a smile in the cattiest of circles. Missy, not a proponent of blatant artificiality, inclined her head in a less-than-friendly nod. She noted how the woman’s gloved fingers trailed down his arm in the sort of propriety manner that indicated an intimacy. Her eyes started to sting.
“Rutherford.” The cordial voice came from over her shoulder.
Missy was ashamed to admit she’d forgotten Lord Granville was even there. As usual, the minute James had walked in the room, everything and everyone receded to the background and became mute and nebulous.
“Granville.” James nodded to the younger man briskly.
A marked silence ensued. Thankfully, before the tree of unease had an opportunity to take root in the small circle, Thomas arrived with Camille, breaking the tension with his easy smile.
Missy shot another glance at James, who had already returned his attention to the buxom widow at his side. Stifling the urge to surrender to a torrent of tears, she quickly excused herself, leaving Lord Granville to watch her departure, shifting from one foot to the other as if contemplating his next course of action. She was most gratified he did not follow her.
The study across the hall afforded her a temporary sanctuary where she took a moment to collect her composure. She expelled a long, soothing breath and then railed at herself for being weak and foolish. Had she truly expected that after two kisses he would simply fall down on his knee and offer for her hand? Her mother had often said, anything worth having, required work. James was certainly worth having and he was certainly proving to be a great deal of work—years of it in fact.
Stalwart and dry-eyed, she exited the room just before the supper bell summoned the guests to the formal dining room, her mood bolstered. They entered in an orderly queue, chatting, laughing, and ready to satisfy their appetites. It took several minutes before everyone was seated and supper commenced.
As the highest-ranking member at the party, Lord Granville was seated to the left of her brother, closer to James. She sat in the middle, flanked by Lord Crawley and Lord Riley, each trying to draw her into conversation. Missy could offer neither much attention. She was too busy watching as Lady Annabel spoke to Lady Willis. They exchanged a smile and then James was seating the baroness before taking the chair next to hers. Lady Annabel appeared happy to take the seat several chairs down next to Mr. Johns, a handsome young barrister. Missy’s heart gave a miserable thump.
This was the type of woman he preferred? She took in the widow’s petite figure, her overripe curves, and a sense of despair swept over her. The woman was the opposite of her in every way.
The arrival of the footmen created a flurry of activity around the room, diverting her attention from the pair for the moment. Bearing silver covered dishes and drinks, the footmen stopped at each chair to offer up the food-laden dishes. This activity continued unabated for the next quarter hour until every guest’s plate was filled with enough food to satisfy a gourmand.
While Missy endeavored to enjoy her meal, a losing proposition as the food coated her tongue like sawdust shavings, the corner of her vision captured James’s profile, the cuff of his dinner jacket, sometimes just the wavy strand of his coffee brown hair. And in her thoughts, she saw him stripped bare to his waist. Beautiful in his masculinity. Impossible to resist.
“Will you be attending Suddernam’s Ball?”
Lord Riley’s question jolted her from her reverie. Her gaze darted to his. She forced a smile. “Yes, I believe my mother did accept on my behalf.”
Turning to converse with Lord Riley placed James in her direct line of vision. Her heart fairly skipped a beat when she caught him watching her with those pale blue eyes, sinfully thick lashes hooding his gaze. When he noticed her regard, he immediately turned away. Pride compelled her to do the same.
“I hope you will save me a dance.” Lord Riley offered her a smile, his brown eyes alight with interest.
“As I always do.” She smiled, a flash of teeth, casting him a quick glance before giving her full plate her exclusive attention.
By the conclusion of the meal, appetites were assuaged and spirits ran high. En masse, the supper party retired to the drawing room, spilling out onto the patio overlooking a modest garden of nodding white pansies and red peonies.
Missy didn’t know exactly how she found herself alone in the garden with Lord Crawley behind a line of thick hedgerows. The only thing she knew was that when supper had concluded, she’d desperately required some air and it had been Lord Crawley standing obliging at her side. She required some time to think—or not think as it were. About James. Always about James.
Throughout supper, he had appeared engrossed with the baroness, who had made a habit of leaning over every time she spoke (which had been the majority of the meal), her mouth sometimes dangerously close to his ear, oftentimes their shoulders coming close to touching.
For all the attention he had paid Missy, she might as well have been a discarded landau once the new model had come out. Senses starved for him had found no relief. Except for his polite greeting, he had barely glanced at her, and even the one time he had, his impassive expression had done little to give his thoughts away. Perhaps this whole idea was too foolish to pursue? Maybe Thomas and Claire were right. Perhaps she should give one of the many gentlemen paying her court a real chance. She would have to settle for someone else if she failed with James.
Missy made pains to concentrate on Lord Crawley, who watched her with an undisguised look of appreciation. Clad in a mauve jacket, a green silk embroidered waistcoat, and an elaborate cream ruffled shirt, it was obvious the man was mad about fashion. But he managed it in a manner that took nothing away from his patrician good looks and the elegant air he carried inordinately well on his husky frame.
Now, what had he been saying? Oh yes, he had been telling her of his ear for languages and love of history. Missy flashed a brighter smile than usual. “I, too, have a great fondness for such pursuits.” And so she began the task of pushing James from her thoughts.
James told himself for the tenth time he’d come out for a breath of fresh air. It certainly had nothing to do with seeing Missy disappear with Crawley. He forced down a niggling sense of irritation—or perhaps something stronger, something much more basic. Whatever it was, he knew he had no right to feel it. Should not feel it. Then he had to ask himself why he’d excused himself from the clinging Lady
Willis, and now stood in a shadowed area on the terrace overlooking the garden watching the movements of the strolling couple.
What the hell was Missy thinking allowing a reprobate and fop like Crawley to escort her alone? He could now see why young ladies were in need of chaperones. Even the bright ones seemed to lack good sense.
James watched quietly as they came to a standstill, Crawley facing her with lascivious intent on his angular face. Something in his gut twisted as the man inclined his head downward to claim hers in a brief kiss. She didn’t flinch, didn’t cry out in indignation. She did absolutely nothing to prevent it. The twist in his gut became a knot and his breath suspended for an outraged moment. And if his eyes weren’t deceiving him, he could swear she’d tilted her head in order to reciprocate.
Unadulterated fury tore a cindering path through him, but before he allowed it to erupt, James spun sharply on his heel and stormed back into the house.
“Ah, Rutherford, there you are.”
Never had the sight of the voluptuous widow been more unwelcome. His mood had shifted in the course of the evening, and now a night with her wanton charms held as much appeal as an aria would for the deaf.
The smile he gave her was forced. “I was just coming to collect you. I think it’s best we be on our way.” Now he regretted that he had offered her an escort home at all.
The baroness instantly brightened, her smile a bit of coyness. “I will have someone retrieve my cloak.”
While James awaited her return, he saw Crawley enter the drawing room alone, a pleased smile wreathing his face. Without a thought to what he would do much less what he’d say, James wasted no time approaching him.
“Crawley.”
Crawley, who had been helping himself to a drink from a snifter of port at the sideboard, glanced up, his expression easy until he saw the glower in James’s eyes and the grim set of his mouth.
“Rutherford,” Crawley said, his eyes wary.
Ensuring he kept his voice low, James said, “There is a rumor about Town that your markers have left you broke.” James was well aware he could intimidate a man without much effort, much less when he was exerting himself. Tonight he was exerting himself thoroughly.
It was a good thing the young lord had yet to take a draw from the glass for he would surely have choked, or so James thought when an indrawn breath brought on a coughing fit. Crawley hastily placed the glass on a side table, no doubt fearing he would spill its contents all over the Oriental rug.
Recovered, he glanced furtively around before subjecting James to an indignant glare. “My fortune is intact, not that it is any business of yours.”
James knew Crawley was lying. It was well known around the ton that between his father’s drinking, his mother’s excesses, and his gambling, he would not have a fortune to inherit, merely a title. The man was a fortune hunter, of that James was certain. And regardless of Missy’s behavior this evening—encouraging the man—his friendship with Armstrong as well as his deep affection for the viscountess compelled him to interfere.
“It will be my business if you have a particular heiress in your sight.” His voice held a gravity that made him a forbidding foe.
Crawley’s brows lifted in surprise, then his eyes narrowed, slyly. “What, after four Seasons you’ve suddenly taken an interest?”
For a moment James was certain he would hit him. He didn’t think he could help but hit him. Then by some fortune of fate, Lady Armstrong came into view, and he remembered in whose house he stood.
“Miss Armstrong is too good for the likes of you. Court her at your own risk.” James didn’t think he could have made his meaning any clearer.
“I believe that is up to Miss Armstrong,” Crawley said stiffly, wearing a look of false bravado.
A harsh laugh emitted from James’s throat. “You must be under the mistaken belief duels are no longer fought. They are, just very discreetly. Keep advised, Armstrong is an expert shot and I will gladly act as his second.” With that, he turned and walked away.
James collected Lady Willis, then located the viscountess and Armstrong and bid them farewell before departing. He saw no sign of Missy, and with his mood, which draped him in coffinlike darkness, he knew it was for the best.
James escorted a disappointed Baroness Willis directly to her door without an apology. The widow had promised a night of heated pleasure on sweat-dampened sheets but he had politely but firmly declined. She didn’t take the news well as was evidenced by her pout and the angry glint in her brown eyes. James couldn’t have cared less. After a curt bow, he turned to make the short walk back to his carriage.
By the time he reached his lodgings, his mood had sunk to the color of obsidian, the image of Crawley kissing Missy indelibly etched in his mind’s eye. This was her fourth London Season and he knew he had no right to begrudge her suitors, but good God, she deserved far better than Crawley and the like.
After dismissing Smith for the evening, James settled in the library. He needed a drink more than he needed sleep. And it wasn’t as if he’d be able to sleep with a combination of anger and lust surging through him. He had no right to be angry, so his anger was directed at himself. And dear Lord, Missy had looked beautiful in her blue-green gown, the neckline exposing a tantalizing glimpse of her sweet breasts.
How different things might be if he and Armstrong weren’t the closest of friends and she wasn’t an innocent in search of a husband. He poured a generous helping of scotch and savored the burn as it hit the back of his throat.
Dropping into a leather winged-back armchair, he lost himself in his thoughts. Thoughts he had no right to think.
Tonight it seemed like every unattached gentleman at the party had been panting after her like unbroken pups. He brought his glass down on the adjacent table with a loud thud, the amber liquid sloshing and spilling over the sides. He had no desire to marry her, nor could he take her as a mistress. So why did the thought of her with anyone else raise his hackles and cause him untold aggravation? James slugged the rest of the scotch back as if it were sweet tea.
He lost track of time while he sat drinking, his thoughts pensive and sullen. Images of Missy assailed him from every direction. A glance at the decanter revealed he’d downed a good amount. It was too damn bad he remained stone cold sober, angry, and wanting.
While he contemplated another round, two strident raps of the knocker disturbed the quiet of the night. Pushing himself to his feet, he made his way down the hallway to the front door. He certainly would not be summoning Smith at this hour. Who could be calling close to midnight?
Caution should have had him peering through the peephole before he opened the door, but his mind was still distracted. The moment the door cleared the frame, it was pushed open by a determined hand. James instinctively took a step back and a flash of dark hair under a hooded cloak whirled by him after the door was swiftly pushed shut. He watched in stunned silence as the hood was lowered.
His brows shot up in surprise. “Lady Victoria?”
Yes, even with a dark spill of hair, her features were unmistakable: porcelain skin, dark blue eyes, and an untouchable air that had chagrined many gentlemen of the ton.
“I tried to get a message to you earlier to meet me today but you have been impossible to reach,” she said, her breath short and choppy.
Bewildered, James continued to stare at her, trying to make sense of what was happening. “What are you doing here? And what, pray tell, is that on your head?”
Still clutching the ends of her cloak together in a vaguely protective gesture, Lady Victoria eyed him and then came in close to sniff, dainty nose in the air, about his person.
“You have been imbibing. Are you drunk?”
“No,” he replied tersely.
She retreated several steps.
“Did you come alone?”
“My footman is awaiting me in a carriage nearby.” There wasn’t another person in sight or within earshot yet she whispered her response as if she was f
erreting out secrets for the Crown.
He trailed her uncertainly as she moved quietly down the hall, peeking into darkened rooms as she passed.
“What are you searching for?” Why the hell was he whispering?
“Where are the servants?” she asked, glancing back at him over her shoulder.
“Abed, which is exactly where you should be. I imagine at some point you’ll be ever so good as to tell me what has warranted this call? At this hour. In that disguise.”
Lady Victoria ignored him, poking her head into the library and surveying the room. With a satisfied nod, she bustled in. James had little choice but to follow. She took a seat on the sofa, briefly releasing her hold on her velvet wrap to jerk off her gloves. Darting a glance at the empty tumbler on the side table, she said, “I do not normally indulge but tonight I am in sore need of a drink.”
Wasn’t she just full of surprises today. At her request, James changed course and went to the sideboard. Snagging an empty glass, he crossed back to the small seating area. Lady Victoria accepted the glass and held it in a slightly trembling hand while he poured from the half-filled decanter.
“I pray you will not make me drink alone,” she said as he sank back into the armchair.
James didn’t particularly want another drink but he obliged her, adding a dollop to his glass.
“I needed to speak with you…this evening.” She spoke softly and haltingly. Her forehead puckered as she fingered the large top button on her wrap.
“To show up like this, I gather is must be urgent.” Peering over the rim of his glass, he took a sip of the scotch. Lady Victoria didn’t immediately respond, just watched him closely, as if pondering deeply.
And then it came, a torrent of tears, with the suddenness that left him frozen for a stunned moment, before he set down his glass. Gentle sobs shook her slender shoulders.
Beverley Kendall Page 7
