A sizable dowry wouldn’t hurt either. Beauty and fortune might have made her eligible to be on Haviland’s list of possible brides.
Turning toward the drawing room door, Madeline tried to quell that ridiculous thought. She wasn’t one to view fate through rose-colored glasses. She was pragmatic, practical, sensible, dispassionate. She kept her emotions well-disciplined, locking them down deep inside where they could never hurt.
If she ever felt envious of other women her age who led fulfilling lives with husbands and children and love, well, she always crushed her envy instantly. There was no use pining for what one couldn’t have. It would only make her bitter.
And pining after Lord Haviland could only lead to bitterness. She knew very well that he was far beyond her reach.
But still, she couldn’t entirely quell her yearning as she forced herself to leave the drawing room with the intention of settling into her temporary lodgings.
Chapter Four
It is fascinating to watch so many beauties attempt to attract Lord Haviland’s notice, Maman. I would never behave so shamelessly, yet I cannot help wishing he would look at me as he does the stunning Duchess of Arden.
The ballroom at Danvers Hall glowed with lights from myriad chandeliers, while the extravagant attire of more than a hundred guests heightened the glittering splendor.
Yet for Madeline, the ball was just as uncomfortable as she’d feared it would be. Not only did she feel out of place in this illustrious crowd, but seeing Lord Haviland dance with one beauty after another was entirely too disheartening.
She had watched him for the past half hour without making her presence known to him. She was not hiding precisely, Madeline firmly told herself, even though she remained largely concealed from his view by a bank of potted palms. She merely didn’t want Haviland to see her looking so dowdy compared to every other lady present. Her high-waisted, puff-sleeved gown of lavender crepe was suitable enough for a country ball, but not for a blue-blooded affair such as this.
The cream of society seemed to be here tonight, perhaps because Danvers Hall was only a half dozen miles from London’s wealthy Mayfair district where much of the ton resided when not at their country estates. Haviland himself looked as handsome as sin in a tailored black coat, elaborately tied white cravat, silver embroidered waistcoat, and white satin knee breeches.
Indeed, his rugged masculine beauty made every female head turn. Even from across the ballroom, his enormous charisma was apparent. And he appeared to be pouring on the charm with each of his dance partners, although his smile was almost gentle. Madeline suspected he was holding back so as not to frighten any innocent young belles with the dangerous edge of his appeal.
A wolf in sheep’s clothing, Maman, she thought as he escorted yet another fawning miss back to her chaperone. Haviland was powerful, cunning, even deadly under certain circumstances, Madeline suspected; in his former profession he would have needed to be.
He was also exciting, tantalizing, and fascinating. And evidently, nearly every woman in the room thought so, too.
The shameless way various beauties were throwing themselves at him made Madeline grind her teeth. Much worse, she herself was not immune to his lordship’s appeal. Possibly because she had led a somewhat sheltered life in Essex. Certainly she had never met a man like him before now.
Madeline clenched her jaw, deploring her physical attraction to Haviland. The fact that all those unattached ladies longed to be his countess was yet another reason to crush her infatuation for him. She didn’t want to behave like the gushing, giddy debutantes who were bent on pursuing him.
Just then Haviland began a quadrille with Arabella’s sister Roslyn, who was now the Duchess of Arden. The duchess was a rare beauty—tall, slender, serenely elegant, with exquisitely delicate features and pale gold hair. She was also very clever and well-educated, according to the Danvers housekeeper, Mrs. Simpkin.
As the beautiful duchess danced with the Earl of Haviland, Madeline couldn’t control the stab of envy that assaulted her. They were laughing together as if they were old friends … or something even more intimate. And yet from what she had gleaned from Mrs. Simpkin this afternoon, Roslyn was very happy in her recent marriage to her duke and deeply in love.
No doubt the duchess would arrange a dazzling match for Haviland. But you, Madeline reminded herself, will not be on the list of candidates.
Her heart sank at the thought, even as her conscience scolded her for her foolishness. She would not start feeling sorry for herself!
In truth, she didn’t consider herself inadequate or inferior to the present company. Yet it was difficult to avoid such natural sentiments, Madeline acknowledged. She looked exactly what she was—a spinster who was required to work for her living, whose shabby gentility stood out among the resplendent guests.
She was an outsider to this world, not only in terms of wealth and bloodlines, but in inclination as well. She’d always chaffed at the pretensions and dictates of society. And on the rare occasions that she did mingle with the ton, she found herself biting her tongue all too frequently. Moreover, to her mind, balls were a frivolous waste of time. She felt a bit useless now with nothing to do and no tasks to occupy her.
And honestly, there was no reason for her to be here. Haviland obviously didn’t need her protection as he’d requested. He was handling all his conquests quite well on his own. And Arabella appeared too busy at the moment to introduce her to her fellow teachers.
Madeline had just turned toward the entrance door, intending to retreat from the ballroom, when her name was hailed by a friendly male voice.
Her spirits rose at the sight of Mr. Freddie Lunsford, even though he always seemed to blurt out the first thought that came into his head. “I say, Miss Ellis, what the devil are you doing here, hiding behind the palms? Rayne and I both have been searching for you.”
“I am not very fond of balls,” she answered frankly, while her heart skipped a beat at the claim that the earl was searching for her. She couldn’t credit it, for if that were so, his lordship could have easily found her.
“I don’t care much for ’em either,” Freddie agreed, tugging slightly at his cravat as he moved to stand beside her. “Too demmed hot and tedious. A fellow has to be on his best behavior at a ball. And I am so flat-footed that I endanger a lady’s toes every time I take to the floor. I am better off not dancing, and what fun is a ball if you can’t dance?”
“Indeed,” she murmured in agreement. “Haviland seems to be enjoying himself, however,” Madeline couldn’t help saying, glancing at him as he danced with the duchess.
“Oh, no, his enjoyment is only an act,” Freddie declared. “He would rather shun balls altogether, with all the grasping young chits fighting over his favor. But he is more eager to get his grandmother off his back by marrying.”
“He and the Duchess of Arden seem to be on good terms,” Madeline prodded.
“Well, of course. They were neighbors for much of last year. And he courted her before she decided to marry Arden. Nearly dueled over her, in fact.”
Madeline felt an inexplicable pressure squeeze her chest. Haviland had lost Roslyn Loring to the Duke of Arden? “When was that?” she asked, her voice holding a deplorable weakness.
“Why, last summer … barely a few months ago. I think Rayne proposed to her, too—or so rumor says. But it obviously came to naught.”
Madeline wondered if Haviland still pined after the lovely duchess. Probably so, if he’d harbored strong enough feelings for her to propose marriage.
“At least he is finally doing something his grandmother approves of,” Freddie added. “His spy career was a blot on the family ledger, don’t you know.”
“I can imagine.” Madeline hesitated before making a deliberately leading comment. “Haviland said his grandmother expects him to marry and produce an heir.”
“Oh, yes. The dowager Countess of Haviland wants him to carry on the title something fierce. And she will likely get
her way. She keeps insisting that she is near her last breath. If you ask me, it’s blackmail, pure and simple.”
“Lord Haviland doesn’t really wish to marry?”
“Not precisely. It’s not the shackles of matrimony he wants to avoid so much as the chains of the ton. He detests the superficiality of society. But his grandmama is a high-stickler—like my Papa, only a generation older—and believes she can make a proper nobleman out of Rayne if he marries well. Lady Haviland is badly mistaken, if you want my opinion. Rayne won’t change his entire character just to please his grandmama, even if he bends to her wishes regarding marriage.”
Freddie gave Madeline no time to reply. Instead he grimaced and launched into another complaint. “But I would not like to be in his boots. If I were he, I would be dragging my heels, trying to make my final moments of freedom last. But not Rayne. For example, there was no need for him to come here tonight. He had a few days’ respite from his grandmother’s hounding, since she is still at a house party in Brighton given by Lady Beldon. Lady Haviland is a bosom friend of Lady Beldon’s, who is Lord Danvers’s maternal aunt.”
Madeline frowned, trying to follow the tangled relationship, while Freddie gave a mock shudder. “’Tis utterly frightening, how matrimony seems to be in the air.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the three Loring sisters all recently wed, you see. And Danvers’s younger sister, Lady Eleanor, became betrothed to Viscount Wrexham just this past week. Now Rayne is very likely to be next.”
Madeline felt her spirits sink again. “Does he have someone in mind for his bride?” she asked, although not really wanting to know the answer.
She was unaccountably relieved when Freddie shook his head. “Thus far he has only searched among the kind of young ladies his grandmother would find acceptable. But I think he needs to look farther afield, and so I told him just today.”
Freddie suddenly gave Madeline a penetrating look, but she was still dwelling on the depressing possibility of Haviland’s marrying soon, as well as wondering about the kind of ladies his grandmother would approve.
She didn’t have the requisite beauty and fortune to compete, of course. She was not particularly elegant or ladylike, either, even though she was a gentleman’s daughter. Her mother had died much too young, and her father had treated her more as a son than a daughter. Thus, she’d learned a number of masculine skills, which admittedly appealed to her more than the tame diversions young ladies were allowed, but which served her poorly in a ballroom.
Why that thought should dishearten her, Madeline had no idea. A bare three days ago, she had been content with her lot in life. All this talk of Haviland’s marriage prospects had evidently unearthed hidden longings she had resolutely repressed.
To hide her dissatisfaction—as well as to distract herself—Madeline turned the conversation to Freddie’s predicament. “It seems you are having your own difficult experience with blackmail, Mr. Lunsford.”
His face drooped. “Yes, Solange Sauville. She is a French widow who holds a certain cachet in literary circles. I mistakenly let myself be dazzled by her beauty. My father would be appalled to know I have sunk so low, not only because he doesn’t condone licentiousness, but also because he particularly dislikes the French.”
Madeline’s mouth curved faintly; it was a common sentiment among the English aristocracy, disdaining a people who had beheaded their king and queen along with innumerable other nobles merely for the crime of their blue blood. “I am half French myself, actually.”
“At least it isn’t obvious with you,” Freddie said bluntly. “Madame Sauville looks and sounds French. I should never have become involved with her, I know that now. But my father will never believe that I have learned my lesson.”
“Do you know yet how you will extricate yourself?”
“On Tuesday evening Rayne means to attend La Sauville’s soirée in London in order to steal my letters back.”
Madeline gave him a puzzled look. “I overheard you say that the letters are in her bedchamber.”
“So she claimed. Rayne hopes to find them there, at any rate.”
“Then I wonder if I could be of use after all,” she said thoughtfully.
Freddie’s eyebrow rose. “How so, Miss Ellis?”
Her gaze fixed on him. “Perhaps I could accompany Lord Haviland to the soirée on Tuesday night—as his guest or perhaps a family friend. He could keep Mrs. Sauville occupied while I search her rooms. I am less likely to be noticed, since I am a woman.”
Freddie stared at her a beat before his expression brightened. “Your idea is bang-up clever, Miss Ellis. Rayne could doubtless use a female to help him. He may be a master of disguise, but even he can’t look as if he belongs in a strange lady’s boudoir. And if you are half French, you will readily fit in at Madame Sauville’s elite gathering, since many of her usual guests are émigrés.” Freddie paused. “Yet Rayne may not be willing to take you along. He likes to do things his own way.”
“You should ask him to allow me to,” Madeline remarked. “I would very much like to help you in any way I can.”
“By jove, you are a capital sort, Miss Ellis,” Freddie exclaimed, beaming.
Madeline found herself returning his smile, but Freddie’s next remark took her aback.
“If you succeed in helping Rayne, then you should be rewarded for your efforts.”
“Rewarded?” she repeated cautiously.
“You know … a monetary remuneration.”
Heaven knew her finances were in a sad state, since she’d spent all her savings on her brother’s elopement. But she was not about to take Mr. Lunsford’s money.
“I do not want a reward,” Madeline replied. “I merely want to help ward off your father’s retribution, and in some small measure repay Haviland for coming to my rescue.”
Freddie looked quizzical, but then he shrugged. “As you wish, Miss Ellis. I simply want to retrieve my letters from that she-devil.”
He bowed then, and strode off with a jaunty step, looking far more cheerful than he had this morning, but leaving Madeline feeling quite alone again in the crowded ballroom.
She cast another glance at Lord Haviland as he finished the quadrille with the Duchess of Arden. A fresh surge of envy washed through her, along with an inexplicable pain in the vicinity of her heart.
There is no point in my remaining here, Maman, just so I can be miserable, Madeline thought, turning toward the ballroom doors to make a retreat.
Perhaps she would retire to her bedchamber—or better yet, find a pleasant nook in this enormous manor where she could indulge in a bout of melancholy in private.
* * *
“I know that none of the candidates I put forth last month interested you,” the lovely Roslyn, Duchess of Arden, told Rayne as their quadrille concluded, “but I have high hopes for this evening. There are at least seven young ladies here you should meet.”
“I have danced with three of them,” Rayne acknowledged.
“But none of them suit your fancy?”
Rayne managed an apologetic smile. “I am afraid not, your grace. But I appreciate your efforts on my behalf.”
The duchess gave him a congenial smile in return. “They may improve upon further acquaintance, but if not, you needn’t despair. I am determined to find the ideal bride for you.”
Roslyn herself would have made him the ideal wife, Rayne thought as he guided her toward the sidelines. She was well-bred, gracious, and thoroughly versed in the social niceties. She would have made an admirable hostess for balls such as this, and would have pleased his grandmother as well. But Roslyn had rejected his proposal this past summer in favor of her duke.
She wanted love in her marriage, she’d claimed, and Rayne would never have given her love. He’d been physically attracted to her, certainly—what red-blooded man would not? But he hadn’t harbored any deeper feelings for Roslyn than admiration and respect, while Arden was head over Hessians in love with her.
Unfortunately, she was vastly superior to every other possibility Rayne had considered over the summer. He couldn’t imagine spending the rest of his life with any of the proper, insipid young ladies he had interviewed thus far. Their fawning attempts to impress him only made him want to send them scurrying back to their schoolrooms, where they could spend a few more years maturing from girls into women.
Rayne turned Roslyn over to her new husband and stood conversing a moment with his former rival. Surprisingly enough, there was no lingering hostility between them. He quite liked Drew Moncrief, Duke of Arden, for his keen intelligence and ironic sense of humor. That and his aristocratic demeanor made him a perfect match for his beautiful bride, Roslyn.
Speaking of keen intelligence … Rayne glanced around the crowded ballroom, searching for Madeline Ellis. He wondered if he would have to make a foray up to her bedchamber and physically compel her to come down to attend the ball. He didn’t care for fêtes such as this any more than she did, but he wanted to help pave her entrance into local society and introduce her to the gentry who would be her new neighbors.
He was looking forward to seeing Madeline for his own sake also. Her company would enliven this dull affair, Rayne knew, feeling a surge of pleasant anticipation.
Just then Freddie Lunsford strolled through the throng, looking highly pleased with himself.
“What has you grinning like a moonling?” Rayne asked when Freddie reached him.
“Miss Ellis. She’s a game one. She knows how to put a fellow at ease.”
Rayne cocked his head, wondering just how she had won his cousin over. “Only this morning you were calling her a managing female.”
“Oh, she is—but in a kind way. I told her about the Widow Sauville’s blackmail attempt.”
Rayne thought he understood. “She wormed the details out of you, did she?”
“Well, yes. Miss Ellis is rather clever.”
To Tame a Dangerous Lord Page 7
