Others had asked similar questions when she’d related her place of origin, and she’d cheerfully admitted to a lack of intimacy with whichever family they’d inquired about. But it was difficult to do anything cheerfully before Lord Wrenworth: He had seen how dazzled she was by him.
Her besottedness had meant nothing to him, she was sure. But she was not one to share her sentiments. She didn’t mind letting it be known that she liked the neighbor’s new puppy or that she thought three weeks of continuous rain verged on bothersome. But anything strong enough to be labeled an emotion—fear for Matilda’s future, fear of a failed London Season, fear of another inexplicable bout of romantic idiocy—those she could bear only by keeping them locked away, far from prying eyes.
But there was no concealing anything from his ridiculously beautiful prying eyes.
She felt cornered.
“A shame,” he replied softly. “I know the earl’s sons very well. We’d have met much sooner had you been acquainted with them.”
She was staring down into her plate, but at his tone, which made her feel strange things, she could not help turning her face, looking into his eyes for the first time since she saw him across the drawing room, before the start of dinner.
Instantly a fierce heat swept over her. Had she thought that there was nothing erotic in the attention he directed her way? That must have been a different lifetime altogether. For this gaze of his made her think of . . . skin. Flesh. And, God help her, unnatural acts.
When she had assessed herself for her chances on the marriage mart, it had been immediately apparent that her décolletage needed help. A great deal of help. But did bust improvers, in this regard, constitute flagrant cheating? She’d agonized over that seemingly minor decision.
Then she had overheard Lady Balfour gossiping to Mrs. Cantwell about her black-sheep brother-in-law’s new mistress. A flat-chested little thing, and not even that pretty—but I hear she is willing to take part in the most unnatural acts in the bedroom.
Growing up, Louisa had occasionally been allowed to visit her paternal great-aunts, two sisters who lived in a charming little cottage in Bournemouth, on a bluff overlooking the sea. And by the time Louisa was thirteen, she’d come to the realization that those “maiden” aunts had once practiced the oldest profession in the world—as a team, no less. The elderly women would spy on the gentlemen’s bathing section—where the bathing suit was one’s own skin and nothing else—with a field glass, and cackle gleefully between themselves. Their reminiscences, when they believed Louisa otherwise occupied, had taught her a great many things that Mrs. Cantwell would have considered grossly indelicate.
The existence of unnatural acts in the bedroom, for example. And the fact that a woman could outlast such acts with her good humor perfectly intact.
So should Louisa’s future husband find out that she had far less chest than he’d been led to believe, she could redeem herself by being lax in her standards in the bedroom—and not be particularly worse off, if her great-aunts’ examples were anything to go by.
She had immediately set out to study every bust improver in the house, speculating on just how much more they could be padded without making her look ludicrous. Unnatural acts she’d never thought of again—until now.
There was nothing openly lascivious in Lord Wrenworth’s contemplation—Lady Balfour, glancing approvingly their way, clearly saw only an appropriate interest. But Louisa read in those same eyes a disastrous knowledge.
He had perceived that she was not as indifferent to him as she’d like to be—if only they hadn’t run into each other outside the bookshop! But now, instead of regarding her as utterly beneath his notice, he enjoyed making her betray herself.
“Would you like me to introduce them to you?” he asked.
She could see both of his hands, exactly where they ought to be. Yet somehow it felt as if he had touched her, before all the other dinner guests.
“Introduce . . . whom to me?”
“The Marsden brothers, Lord Wyden’s sons,” he said, his manner kind and helpful. “Excellent gentlemen, one and all.”
Then he smiled slightly, because she was so flustered that she forgot what they’d been talking about only seconds ago.
It was, she realized, going to be the longest dinner of her life.
• • •
It was, Felix realized, going to be the most riveting dinner of his life.
And possibly the most arousing.
He ought to be less pleased. As a rule, he was quite opaque, his true sentiments and opinions hidden behind a wall of amiability. But she must have read him accurately from the very beginning: Another young lady would be doing her utmost to impress him; she, on the other hand, only wanted him to go away, because she knew that he hadn’t the least matrimonial intentions toward her.
But how could she expect him to go away when she was in such delectable ferment? Were she to rip apart her bodice, she could not be more conspicuous. Her sweet breasts rose and fell agitatedly, she had a death grip on her knife and fork, and from time to time she exhaled audibly, unsteadily, as if she’d been holding her breath for far too long.
It dawned on him that she was rather pretty after all, her skin fine and luminous, her chin a delightful shape and angle. And her eyes . . .
She was trying her best not to look at him. But he forced her hand here, pausing in the middle of his sentences, making it plain that he expected due attention, giving her no choice but to meet his eyes.
Every time their gaze held, he could sense the shock in her, as if he had reached under her skirts. Then a shadow of resentment deep in her irises, that he had this effect on her, that he could manipulate her reaction with nothing more than a desire to do so.
And he would experience a frisson unlike anything he’d ever known, a jolt of pleasure and of power.
Everything he did in life—with the exception of his astronomical interests, perhaps—was in the pursuit of power. Personal power, the ability to hold others in his thrall while he himself remained serenely unaffected.
And they had come willingly, surrendering their approval without a second thought, allowing him to retain the position of superiority in just about every friendship or affair.
He’d never known anyone who actively resisted. Or rather, who was torn about him.
Miss Cantwell was single-handedly introducing him to power of a different flavor altogether, as she struggled between her visceral need to escape him and her equally visceral attraction toward him.
So much so that after the ladies withdrew, he, who usually enjoyed his after-dinner port and cigar with the gentlemen, chomped at the bit to be finished. When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing room, he did not go to her—that would be far too obvious. But he did let her know that he was watching her.
And with relish.
• • •
It was another overcast, starless night.
Felix stood before his window, gazing out. He had returned home in an exuberant mood, feeling more alive than he had in a long time. But now that headlong rush of euphoria was beginning to wear off; the street below seemed deserted as the sky above. His bedroom, as he turned around and walk across to the bath, practically echoed.
He wanted something, something he could not quite grasp or name.
He turned on the light in the bath and came face-to-face with a framed piece of the late marchioness’s needlework. Such pieces were scattered throughout both his town house and his country house—what devoted son would seek to remove such beautiful mementos left behind by his beloved mother?
He recalled many of the pieces from his daily allotment of time beside her, watching her embroider. In the beginning, they had served as reminders that he should be ever vigilant, lest he again taste the bitterness of love thrown back into his face. But it had been years now since he last paid attention to any of
them; they had melted into the background and were no more likely to catch his eye than the pattern on the wallpaper.
But now he examined the tiny, meticulous stitches before him, a wine-red dahlia in bloom. One of his mother’s later efforts. He remembered walking by her, a cigarette in hand, feeling sophisticated and grown-up because he could irritate her with a habit she despised.
Feeling well beyond the heartache and yearnings of his childhood.
Only to learn at her deathbed not a year later how deluded he had been. How little removed from the heartache and yearnings he thought he’d left far behind.
Was this the universe sending him a signal, telling him that he ought to be as wary of Miss Cantwell as she was of him? That perhaps there was something suspect about the delights he derived from her company?
He turned and walked out of the bath.
He knew what love was. What Miss Cantwell inspired in him was no more love than a random clump of clay was Venus de Milo. Love gave; he wanted only to take. Love ennobled—or at least it should; he was fairly certain his desire for Miss Cantwell was about to make him a far worse man than he had ever been.
She would cause him no discomfort or anxiety. He would not give her up to avoid some imaginary future disaster. It remained to be seen only how he would go about gratifying himself, where she was concerned.
Of course he would not marry her. He was a man who respected tradition. and what was a good, solid, traditional marriage without a certain amount of hypocrisy? He would be The Ideal Gentleman in his marriage, but with Miss Cantwell . . .
He hoped she already thought very, very ill of him, or she would have quite a shock coming.
CHAPTER 3
The ballroom at Fielding House boasted of bold crimson curtains, a deep blue ceiling, and a smooth marble floor, brilliant under three chandeliers afire with nine hundred candles. Moody, gilt-framed canvases by Flemish masters crowded the walls. A trickle of dark-clad gentlemen and pastel-hued ladies descended the staircase, flanked on either side by symmetrically arranged tubs of fronds.
It was yet early, the bulk of the invited still at the opera or various late dinner engagements. The orchestra played softly behind a Japanese silk screen, conserving its strength for the small hours of the night. But Lady Balfour always left her box after the first act of La Traviata. Therefore, Louisa found herself at Fielding House at a relatively unfashionable hour.
Sitting next to a window that rose twenty-five feet to the ceiling, her hands folded demurely on the apple-green skirt of her borrowed ball gown, she reviewed her plan of attack for the evening.
It had been a week since Lady Tenwhestle’s dinner. Mr. Pitt had returned to town and would be in attendance. Lord Firth was also expected. But what to do about his sister, Miss Edwards? After all Louisa’s effort at pleasantry and flattery, Miss Edwards seemed to hold her in only greater dislike.
Beside Louisa, Lady Balfour reminisced with one of her dowager friends on the fashions of their youth. Wasn’t a woman’s outline much more elegant in the days of the crinoline, when a slender waist was superbly complemented by a flounced bell of a skirt? The bustles of the current decade made a lady much too bouffant to the rear, and one could never count on these treacherous devices to hold their shape after one sat down to dinner, or even a fifteen-minute call.
But the crinoline did have its drawbacks, they concurred. Preceding a gentleman up a staircase presented all sorts of dangers. And who could forget that dinner party during which Lady Neville’s skirts caught fire without her even being aware of it?
“His lordship the Marquess of Wrenworth,” bellowed Lady Fielding’s most stentorian manservant.
Louisa started.
“Why, it’s that dear boy!” Lady Balfour exclaimed with pleasure. “A bit early, isn’t he?”
Several nights this past week Louisa had been victim to a recurring nightmare. In the nightmares, she and Lord Wrenworth would come across each other at a public venue, a park or a thickly attended party. She would be getting along just fine, but the very moment she saw him, she would realize, to her horror, that she was stark naked. No one else would notice it, but he always did—and would proceed to approach and touch her in unspeakable ways.
As he walked down the steps, serene and elegant, heat and dread alike buffeted Louisa. She would like to blame her dreams entirely on some dark sorcery on his part, but she could scarcely deny that she was the one who could not stop imagining, as she lay in bed, that he was somewhere in the shadows of her room, watching her, his gaze half desire, half malice, and all power.
He took his time, making a leisurely round of the periphery of the ballroom, before coming to a stop next to Lady Balfour and her friend, delighting them with compliments on their complexion and toilette. Louisa tensed, the way one held one’s breath and abdomen to brace for a too-abrupt stop of the carriage.
“Oh, enough,” Lady Balfour scolded happily. “Don’t waste your charms on us old crows. Give your attention to my dear young cousin here. Surely you have not forgotten her?”
Louisa’s marriage might have begun as a charity project. But her sponsor would be damned, now that she had taken Louisa in hand, if the girl didn’t make a properly spectacular match.
“Yes, of course, Miss Cantwell.” He scantly cast a glance her way, his attentive smile solely for Lady Balfour. “Your charge is the most charming dinner companion anyone could ask for.”
“Good,” said Lady Balfour. “That means you owe her a waltz, young man.”
And that was how Louisa found herself in Lord Wrenworth’s arms, spinning about the ballroom. It was sobering how adroitly he had manipulated her to the dance floor—and temporary privacy.
It didn’t help that she had only the most circumstantial evidence and her intuition to support her belief that it had been a manipulation. After all, he did dance, from time to time, with unmarried ladies from well-connected families—at just the exact frequency to give cause for excitement, but not feverish hopes.
She wished she knew what he wanted from her. And why.
“That is a very pretty dress on you, Miss Cantwell,” he said.
“Thank you,” she murmured, all too aware of the gentle pressure his hand exerted on her back.
“Prettier than I remembered, when Lady Tenwhestle wore it a few Seasons ago.”
A true gentleman would have kept that observation to himself. But she already knew he was no gentleman—he must have sold his soul to the devil for everyone else to continue to think of him as the epitome of gentlemanliness.
“Lady Tenwhestle has been very generous in the loan of this dress—and others,” she answered defiantly.
He swung her into several consecutive 360-degree turns, giving her no choice but to hold on to him tight. The strength in the man’s shoulders . . .
In her dreams he had pushed her naked person against a pillar and held her there with one hand.
“It’s a pleasure to dance with you, my dear Miss Cantwell,” he said softly. “I have been looking forward to it for days.”
She shivered. Did he dream of her, as she dreamed of him?
“Have you, sir?” She prayed she sounded modest, rather than hopeful.
“But you aren’t only pretty and light on your feet, are you, Miss Cantwell?” he went on. “You are also exceedingly clever.”
She was forcefully reminded that the man was a minefield—why was he suddenly remarking on her cleverness?—and she could not allow herself a moment of distraction. “I’m sure I don’t deserve such extravagant compliments from your lordship.”
“I assure you, Miss Cantwell, you have earned any and all praise on my part. Few debutantes travel along their path to matrimony with as much purpose and design as you do, while appearing as guileless. You have been preparing for years, haven’t you?”
It was all she could do not to trip. “My goodness, sir, do
you really think me so scheming?”
He gazed at her, his eyes as clear and as hypnotic as ever. “I do, and I admire a woman of energy and initiative, Miss Cantwell. But I do wish you had consulted me ahead of time. For you see, your tactics are quite sound, but you have been less than thorough in the reconnaissance of your strategic targets.”
Why did she feel as if he were contemplating kissing her? And why did she want him to, this man who did not have her best interests at heart? “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
“I will gladly explain. Take Mr. Pitt, for example. On the surface, his family estate seems to be the rare example that has successfully weathered the depression in agricultural prices. The farmland they own is excellent and the methods they have employed are modern and efficient. Moreover his father, Baron Sunderley, is keenly aware that he cannot afford to have all his eggs in one basket and has been carefully investing elsewhere.
“Alas, I have it on good authority that two of Lord Sunderley’s most substantial investments have recently failed. Mr. Pitt’s absence from London, in fact, was a direct result of these failures. It had always been his parents’ desire that Mr. Pitt marry an agreeable girl who should either bring some profitable urban properties or a sizable dowry; now it has become imperative that he does so.
“Mr. Pitt, of course, is nowhere as well prepared or as resolute as you, Miss Cantwell. So I imagine he will still linger at your side for as long as he can. But you must realize that biddable nature that would make him such an admirable spouse also means that he would not find the wherewithal to contradict his parents’ express wishes.”
Louisa’s hand tightened on the fine-twilled cashmere of Lord Wrenworth’s evening jacket. If what he said was true, it would constitute a heavy blow to her chances at a successful marriage.
“Lord Firth, on the other hand,” continued Lord Wrenworth.
Louisa faltered a step. She could see how he might have deduced her interest in Mr. Pitt. But how did he know about Lord Firth?
The Luckiest Lady in London Page 4
