Beverley Kendall

by Sinful Surrender (lit)

  A child. The thought struck him with the force of an expert pugilist’s blow. He’d used no protection. Could fate be so cruel and visit yet another crushing blow upon him when he now had Lady Victoria and her child to consider? His mind raced. How long did it take a woman to discover if she was expecting?

  “But what will you do if you are with child?” He sank his hands into his trouser pockets to keep them from reaching out to her.

  For a moment, he thought he saw a look of fear flash in her eyes and then it was gone. She answered in a monotone voice, “I began my monthly courses this morning. I am not expecting.”

  James didn’t know why her response affected him as it did and he could not explain the incomprehensible feeling of loss that accompanied her assurance. He must surely be losing his mind. He already had one lady claiming he was the father of her unborn child, another would be an unmitigated disaster. He should be relieved he hadn’t impregnated them both.

  “Then we have been fortunate.”

  Missy gave a jerky nod.

  “I shall take my leave.” He raked his fingers through his hair.

  Missy averted her gaze and said nothing.

  “I shall see myself out.” He stopped briefly at the threshold. He wanted to say something, anything that would put the impish spark back into her beautiful eyes, but he knew under the circumstances, there was very little he could say and even less he could do. Without a backward glance, he walked out of her life.

  Chapter Thirteen

  To date, Missy had attended countless balls, dinner parties, and soirees, but she was still awed into silence every time she passed through the double doors of the entrance of the Devonshire House on Piccadilly.

  The Palladian mansion was immense to the point of outrageous. The exterior was somber to the extreme. However, the interior was as sumptuous as one would ever see, housing one of the finest art collections in all of the United Kingdom.

  The ballroom teemed with the social elite donned in their evening best. For the gentlemen, it was the standard white tie and tails affair with highly polished shoes, starchy white shirts and neckties, crisply pressed black jackets, waistcoats and trousers. Splendid and bejeweled, the women wore gowns of pyramid silk, satin, taffeta, tulle, and crushed velvet. Each gown seemed to contain more tiers than the last, the necklines running from modest to just short of scandalous.

  Attired in a silk turquoise ball gown, the corsage just low enough to make for an enticing décolletage, Missy’s three-flounced creation fell somewhere in the middle. A single string of pearls gracing her neck and a pair of earbobs completed the elegant ensemble. In her hands, encased in a pair of matching silk gloves, she clutched a dance card surfeit with the names of eligible gentlemen.

  “It appears Lord Clayton has cornered your brother,” Claire said. “How long do you think he’ll be able to abide Lord Clayton’s company before he begs off?”

  Having spent the past hour stiffly following the lead of her various dance partners, Missy had been gratified at her friend’s arrival. It had been the perfect excuse to beg off when Lord Granville had approached her for a second dance without raising the disapproving brows of her mother and brother. Eligible future dukes were not to be refused by a lady in her fourth Season. Said lady might not always garner this sort of attention. If they only knew, said lady would not be garnering any attention if the truth were known. She’d been well and truly debauched.

  Lord Granville had taken her refusal in stride, leaning over to whisper, Perhaps you are right. We certainly wouldn’t want to be accused of having unduly raised expectations. With a sly wink and a bow, he proceeded on his way to find any of the hundred or more women who would be more than receptive to such an offer.

  With her hazel eyes brimming with amusement, Claire eyed the foursome, comprised of Thomas, the viscountess, and Lord and Lady Clayton. Lord Clayton’s voice droned on above the jaunty chimes of Le Pantalon and the collective murmur of the crush.

  “I daresay, talk of ship building or pedigreed horses will have my brother’s ear for the remainder of the evening,” Missy said wryly. “If anyone is in need of escape, it will be my mother.”

  Claire chuckled. “Well, as my parents have arrived, I imagine Lord Clayton will seek out Father for one of his tedious political discussions.”

  Baron Rutland, Claire’s father, lived for the political jousting and wrangling that went on within the pristine walls of Parliament. Save Lord Clayton, he was said to be the most vocal peer in the House of Lords.

  Missy shifted her gaze to flit a bored look over the fresh sea of faces flowing through the ballroom doors. The men’s faces seemed to blend into one bland, murky blur until one face registered with breathtaking clarity, thrown into sharp and colorful focus against a backdrop of indistinct gray. A breath burst past her lips.

  James.

  He moved amid the crowd, his height, his dark-haired good looks—just him—riveted her, rooting her in place. A week had past since their last meeting and she hadn’t expected to see him here this evening—prayed she would not.

  Missy watched as he pressed deeper into the room, the throng thinning as he drew closer. Only then did she spot the woman by his side, Lady Victoria Spencer. Her breath stuttered in her throat before halting altogether.

  A quick flick of her wrist brought Claire’s fan up in front of her mouth. “It would appear the rumors are true.” She spoke sotto voce where there was absolutely no need to.

  Wrenching her gaze from the pair who elicited the same looks as did the art collection and sumptuous décor—awestruck and envious—Missy directed her attention to her friend. “What rumors?” she asked with an inexplicable sense of dread.

  Claire’s eyes widened a fraction. She paused, her blond eyebrows furrowed. Lowering the lace-edged fan to just below her mouth she said in a gentle voice, “I thought that was the reason you have been so cast down. I assumed when you were ready, you would talk to me about it.”

  “About what?” Missy asked again, sharper now.

  “That he is courting her. They have attended several operas and soirees together this week past. James has been calling on her almost daily.” Claire spoke gently, as if she were telling her a loved one had just died unexpectedly.

  Missy bore the news in that exact manner, the pain slicing her heart and reverberating all the way down to the tips of her toes. Her throat closed. She pressed a hand to her mouth. It shook violently. For a week, she’d been lost in a fog of disillusionment, heartache, and shame, barely managing to get through the days. This revelation made the past week feel like a picnic.

  Missy looked back at the couple. They were a contrast in perfection, James in black formal wear, Lady Victoria stunning in a pale yellow ball gown, her hair piled atop her head, exposing the elegant lines of her neck and shoulders. Missy couldn’t bear the sight of them together.

  Before she could look away, James’s gaze shifted and met hers over a sea of decorative hair ornaments. For a moment, he and only he existed. His pale blue eyes lingered, until he finally broke their unspoken contact to return his attention to the blond beauty at his side.

  Shaken, Missy bit down on her trembling bottom lip. “But that makes no sense. James has no desire to marry.” That she knew better than most.

  Claire wore the same expression Thomas had worn as he sat on the edge of her bed after the incident with Mrs. Laurel. Pity. Concern. The silk fan collapsed with a snap of her wrist.

  “I’m sorry, Missy. I was certain you had heard.”

  No she hadn’t heard. Missy swallowed and looked blindly away. She fought to keep the tears at bay, knowing if one escaped, a deluge would follow.

  How naïve she had been. Feelings of jealousy she’d tried to shrug off had not been inconsequential after all, but quite founded in reality. Their appearance together tonight gave the rumor validity.

  Unsteady hands struggled with the clasp of her reticule and hastily pulled out a white linen handkerchief. Inclining her head downwa
rd, she dabbed at her eyes as if she had something other than tears to contend with.

  Claire moved in closer and Missy felt the prod of her skirt on her own. Replacing her handkerchief back in her reticule, she lifted her head, a wobbly smile in place.

  “I thought he didn’t want to marry anyone at present. It appears I was mistaken. Apparently, his abhorrence to the institution had everything to do with me.” A self-deprecating laugh escaped her lips, but the sound caught on her next breath, sending her into a paroxysm of coughing.

  “Oh, Missy,” Claire whispered, stricken. “Why don’t we take some air?”

  The coughing fit subsided quickly, but in its wake, the hot rush of heat bloomed in her cheeks. She could only imagine the picture she made, dressed to the nines and hacking like a peasant with consumption.

  “Miss Armstrong, I believe this is our dance.”

  Missy’s head jerked in the direction of the male voice. Mr. Robert Chierney stood at her side, his head inclined in a bow, his white-gloved hand extended. Missy remembered his name appeared next on her dance card.

  A wan smile struggled to make a courageous showing for the tall, thin gentleman. She sincerely wished she could offer more than politesse masquerading as a smile but her mouth felt overstretched by just that small effort.

  Dancing would be difficult seeing she’d just had her feet knocked from beneath her. But bowing to stringent social mores, she took his proffered hand.

  “Yes, indeed it is,” she replied graciously. A glance back revealed an anxious Claire with furrowed brows and plaited fingers amid velvet skirts. Missy managed another difficult smile, hoping to convey to Claire that she would be fine. But it was something she failed to believe herself.

  James spotted her shortly after he entered. He had scoured the room full of elaborate evening gowns until, like an eagle sighting its prey, he found her. He took in the breathtaking sight she made in her blue ball gown, which exposed her shoulders and the creamy expanse of skin just short of the swell of her breasts. The familiar thrum of heat surged through his body. His member throbbed to life, oblivious to the fact it was neither the right place nor time for its resurgence. Though when had it been listening to him these days? At least concerning Missy? Biting down hard on the soft inner flesh of his cheek, he welcomed the sharp sting of pain. It seemed a fair trade tonight, pain for pleasure.

  James watched Missy being escorted onto the dance floor. A feeling, though familiar, stabbed at him stronger, fiercer than ever, catching him square in the chest.

  Jealousy.

  He despised the word, wanting to thrust it from his vocabulary but the emotion worked its way insidiously through him, thwarting his control, and stoking the fire burning within. Jerking his gaze from her beautiful self, he shot a look down to see Lady Victoria watching him with unblinking placidity. His mouth tipped at the corners, in a feigned smile, before proceeding toward Cartwright, who was hailing him from a good thirty feet away. The three met somewhere in the middle.

  “Lady Victoria.” Cartwright greeted her with a courteous bow.

  “Lord Alex.” Lady Victoria curtsied offering him a pink-gloved hand, which he accepted, brushing the back with his lips.

  “It appears I arrived back in Town at just the right time.” Cartwright smiled broadly, raising a black brow.

  Heat warmed James’s face. He wished he could tell him that while he had taken himself off to Yorkshire, James’s life had turned into a farcical tragedy to rival anything Shakespeare could have written. It wasn’t enough that he was being forced to marry Lady Victoria, but the marchioness was determined to make the union appear a love match. The damn woman wanted the works: a courtship, a betrothal announcement, and a grand wedding, all in the span of three short weeks. As if anyone would be fooled. Tongues had already begun to wag. But the marchioness was equally determined that unlike Lady Victoria’s older sister, Lady Lillian, no scandal would mar her youngest daughter’s road to the altar. Evidently, some years ago, Lady Lillian had been compromised by a Frenchman, and the marriage had been a forced affair.

  Before he could respond to his friend, the shrill voice of Lady Cornwall—his soon-to-be mother-in-law—fractured, what would undoubtedly be, his last moment of peace for the night. He shivered.

  “Why, it is Lord Alex. We must stop and say hello,” the marchioness trilled, a triumphant gleam in her eyes. She bustled toward them, her hooped skirt colliding with everyone within several feet of her as the high-pitched squeal of her voice carried to the environs of London far and wide.

  Her hand lay on the arm of her husband, a large impressive figure of a man in his late forties with thinning brown hair and a florid complexion. His love of all things sweet was evidenced by his considerable girth. He appeared ill at ease, his large, beefy fingers already tugging at the white necktie.

  If Cartwright was in any way struck by her exuberance, he didn’t let on. If anything, he appeared mildly amused, an indulgent smile tugging the corners of his mouth as the marchioness dragged her husband toward him. James and Lady Victoria were forced to shift to make room for the couple.

  “Lord Alex, I don’t believe you have yet to meet my husband, the Marquess of Cornwall. Theodore, this is Lord Alex. Son to—”

  “I know who he is,” grumbled Lord Cornwall.

  “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance again, my lord.” Cartwright executed a courteous bow.

  The marquess nodded, pulling a handkerchief from his jacket pocket to dab at the beads of perspiration dotting his temple.

  “What a handsome couple the two of them make,” the marchioness declared to Cartwright. She then dropped her hand from her husband’s arm and stood back as if regarding a famous work of art, her brown eyes gleaming in conceited delight. James shifted under her too-avid gaze. The woman had all the subtlety of a charging ram. By evening’s end, all of the ton would have them already bedded and wedded—in that order.

  Cartwright looked thoroughly perplexed. His gaze darted from Lady Cornwall to James and then Lady Victoria. “Uh—I suppose they are—uh—quite a good-looking pair.” He managed with obvious effort, to get the words out.

  “And how is York at this time of year?” James could do little else to stem the awkward moment but change the subject. For the first time in memory, his wit failed him, and his charm could not be summoned up with ease. Even the smile that had seduced many females felt strained and wooden. His emotions were already on edge, his only solace—as small as it was—was that his mother was in Italy for the summer and therefore wouldn’t witness his folly until after her return. His father was another matter altogether. If he’d heard any rumblings of their courtship in the corridors of Parliament, he had yet to say a word of it to him.

  “Rainy,” Cartwright replied with a wooden smile.

  Several times James saw Cartwright’s gaze shift to the dance floor and he knew exactly where his concerns lay…Missy. His stomach clenched and a burning resentment he’d managed to keep dormant the past week, seethed to life. What had happened to Lady Victoria, the safe one, the lady he’d never have to guard against?

  Missy happened.

  Had he not been consumed with lust for her and deep in his cups, he would never have lost his head in a moment of weakness. A weak moment that would soon have him leg-shackled to a woman he’d most likely resent for the rest of his days.

  “I believe I saw Lady Randolph about,” the marchioness remarked, her gaze darting about eagerly. It appeared the marchioness had one goal that evening, and that was to claim him like some prize she’d won at a county fair. The evening stretched ahead like a death sentence.

  The stone terrace, just off a set of French doors, offered Missy refuge from the stifling air of the ballroom. She spied several couples strolling gardens that must have employed a small army of groundskeepers for the upkeep. They were a fair distance away, and too agreeably occupied with each other to notice the solitary figure moving deeper into the shadows of the night.

  Miss
y had long past given up any hope of experiencing another moment’s pleasure at the ball. Everywhere she turned, she saw him—she saw them. Whether they were dancing or taking refreshments or conversing, James rarely left Lady Victoria’s side. Jealousy as she’d never experienced in her life before tore through her, leaving in its aftermath gaping wounds. She hated him. She hated them both.

  Dragging in a breath of hot florid air, she came to stand beneath a trellis of yellow daisies, her arms wrapped protectively across her breasts—over her decimated heart.

  Missy heard the footfall behind her and knew the identity of the intruder even before she saw the long shadow cast over the flagstones. Instinct and the clamoring of her senses told her it was James. She could feel him in every pore of her body but refused to turn. Seconds later, he was there in front of her, looking darker, more forbidding, and attractive than she should find any man who had caused her so much hurt. Such mind-numbing heartbreak. She hated him all the more.

  Missy surveyed him, commencing with the gold, flat-coined buttons of his black waistcoat to his somber features. She shot a glance over his shoulder and then back to his face, which was shadowed in the moonless night. “I hardly think your fiancée would approve of you being out here alone with me.”

  If possible, the line of his mouth flattened even further. “We are not yet engaged.” James watched her, his pale eyes intently focused on her mouth.

  “Yes, yet being the operative word.” Her throat felt tight and dry. He had no right to regard her in that manner. He was practically pledged to Lady Victoria, his intentions plain as day. Yet he stood alone with her where anyone could happen upon them, watching her, the heat in his eyes hot enough to ignite a fire.

  “Do you think this is what I want? That this is what I planned?”

  Missy turned away, briefly closing her eyes. “I don’t particularly care what you do or with whom. Whatever I felt for you died a week ago. You can court Lady Victoria and wed her with my blessing.”