by Erica Ridley
Which was distracting enough without the corresponding man being the Earl of Carlisle.
He forbore the pleasantries. “Dance card full, I see.”
“So it is.” She kept her practiced smile in place despite the thumping of her heart. If he smelled the scent of her jasmine soap upon her skin, would he know she had thought of nothing but him during her bath?
His eyes darkened as he scowled at the list of signatures dangling from her wrist. “My name isn’t on your card.”
“Very astute.” Her breath quickened as his hand tightened around her waist. He couldn’t possibly be jealous. If he had any idea how much she wished his name were the only one on her dance card…
“Tell me, Miss Halton. Have you seen Ravenwood?”
“What?” Grace’s feet stumbled in her confusion. She’d thought Lord Carlisle consumed with envy, when who he’d truly wished to see was the Duke of Ravenwood?
Lord Carlisle lifted her wrist for a better view of her dance card. “Is the rotter on your list or not?”
“No, I…” She meant to pull her wrist away, truly she did. But the heat in Lord Carlisle’s eyes when he learned she would not be in Lord Ravenwood’s arms held her captive. “I haven’t seen him.”
“If he crosses your path, tell him I’m looking for him.”
“Why do—”
But the pairs were already switching in time with the music, and now she was back to her original partner. Mr. Downing had seemed handsome enough when they’d first crossed paths, but dancing with him after having been in Lord Carlisle’s arms was like comparing a vivid oil painting to an insipid watercolor.
Not that it mattered. Grace was hunting marriage, not passion. And so far, this was her best lead.
Mr. Downing’s gaze met hers only briefly. “Lovely weather, wouldn’t you say?”
The unblinking heat in Lord Carlisle’s eyes had made Grace forget the rest of the world altogether, but now that she was free of those strong arms, the chill of January once again sank into her bones. “I find it cold, actually. Aren’t my fingers icy?”
“Cold, but not drizzly,” Mr. Downing continued after a brief pause. His forehead had lined disapprovingly at the mention of her fingers, but quickly smoothed back into proper blandness. “The sun is always a blessing.”
“There is no sun,” Grace couldn’t stop herself from pointing out. “It’s after midnight.”
“The moon and stars are also blessings, although nighttime can carry a chill.” His voice turned contemplative. “I never go anywhere without a thick scarf.”
She stared at Mr. Downing in disbelief. Conversations about the weather were as dull as she’d imagined, and Mr. Downing even duller than she’d feared. Well, it didn’t signify. All she needed to know was if Mr. Downing might join her at the altar.
“Have you—”
But she was already spinning back to Lord Carlisle.
“Your fingers are still cold,” he said without preamble. “I don’t like it.”
Her throat made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry. “I suppose you would know how to warm them?”
His smile was slow and sinful, and his gaze never left hers. “I am a man of many talents.”
The wicked promise in his eyes sent a flutter of heat straight to her belly. She should not encourage him. A flirtation could lead nowhere. Worse, any hint of scandal could ruin any hope of finding a malleable husband. “The weather—”
“—is boring. Did you like my flowers?”
“No.”
He shrugged. “To be expected.”
She dipped her head, then forced herself to look up at him. “I loved them.”
This time she had the pleasure of leaving him the one without a reply as the country-dance spun her back to Mr. Downing. It took her a moment to recall her list of questions to mind. She reaffixed her placid smile.
“Do you come from a large family, Mr. Downing?”
“No. It’s just Jane and me.”
Excellent. A dearth of relatives would help to keep his expenses low, and a sister meant he did not lack for companionship. “You both enjoy the Season?”
“Jane and I are not enthusiasts of drink or dance, but we try to leave our libraries now and again.”
Not being one for drink put Mr. Downing head and shoulders above the others. Grace had hated alcohol ever since her father’s death, but the ton’s blood seemed to run on port and brandy. Had she any plans to stay beyond the wedding, not dancing with her husband would’ve been a disappointment. As it stood, Mr. Downing was a wonderful candidate.
But the music returned her to Lord Carlisle. He pinned her with his gaze.
“Your smiles don’t reach your eyes tonight. Is something amiss?” The corner of his mouth lifted. “Besides my lack of social graces?”
She frowned up at him. He should not be able to read her this well. She could scarcely admit her intention to marry and flee home, so she gave him part of the truth. “I’ll be going back to America before too long. I was just thinking about the voyage home. Three weeks in a tiny shared cabin on a passenger ship.”
He pulled a face. “I don’t mind cramped spaces, but sailing to and from the Continent very nearly killed me. I’ll never again cross so much as a river in anything less than a sturdy carriage on a nice solid bridge.”
“Seasickness?” she asked with sympathy.
His shudder did not appear feigned. “There’s seasickness, and there’s seasickness. If I were Catholic, they would have administered the last rites. I was less afraid of enemy fire than of undertaking the return trip to England.” His eyes were warm but serious. He gave her hand a quick squeeze. “You made it here. You can make it home.”
Grace thought back to those long weeks at sea. Her shoulders relaxed. He was right. She had been ill, but not deathly so. Once she had her dowry money in hand, she would have no problem getting back to her mother. Things were going to work out.
“Thank you.” She smiled up at him. “Talking to you has made me feel much better.”
He affected a haughty accent. “A gentleman cannot accept thanks for simply being a gentleman.”
“You?” she teased. “A gentleman?”
He wiggled his eyebrows. “I certainly do not have to be. If the lady prefers, I will happily accept gratitude in the form of kissing me senseless.”
She would’ve kicked him senseless if they weren’t in the middle of the dance floor. Or perhaps kissed him. If he kept inciting her to violent passions, she could not be held accountable for her reactions. Especially when he always seemed to know just what to say. Her eyes focused on his mouth. He was a gentleman. If their situations had been different, she would have liked very much to have those sensual lips press against hers…
Then Mr. Downing reached for her and Lord Carlisle was gone.
Mr. Downing’s eyes gazed somewhere over her shoulder. “The cucumber cakes were lovely tonight, wouldn’t you agree?”
She shuddered. Cucumber and cake didn’t belong in the same sentence. “I’m afraid I didn’t have opportunity to try them.”
“The ham was quite gorgeous, as well. Very thinly sliced. Almost transparent.”
“Positively ghostly,” she murmured.
“The punch was a bit warm for my taste, however.” His lips pursed. “Though I suppose it always is.”
Fascinating as this line of talk was, Grace needed to steer them back to the primary interview. At this point, she’d take the first viable suitor she could get. She leaned closer to Mr. Downing. “Do you think your life would be greatly changed if you were to marry?”
He looked surprised. “Change how? I wouldn’t marry a woman who sought to disrupt my solitude or my schedule.”
Grace nodded once, more because she found his answer satisfactory than because she agreed with him. But before she could ask another probing question, he twirled her back into Lord Carlisle’s arms.
“I’m not supposed to be in your arms,” she hissed up at him. “This
is a country-dance, not a waltz.”
He drew her closer. “And yet I notice you do not pull away.”
“Humph.” He had her there. “Why are you looking for Ravenwood?”
“Why have you spent the evening in the company of so many imbeciles? Every time I turn around, it’s a prance in the garden here, a country-dance there.”
“I’m trying to determine if they are imbeciles.” She raised her chin. Yet something made her want to confide in him. “If you must know, I’m screening potential suitors.”
“Oh? You didn’t invite me to the garden. Or give me a chance to ask you to dance.” The ferocity of his scowl melted her knees.
“You’ve made it clear you’re not looking to wed.” She arched her brows. “Besides, I already know we won’t suit. Do you disagree?”
He held her gaze.
She held her breath.
And then Mr. Downing swung her back to his side.
“It certainly feels like January,” he said, his voice as placid as his expression. “Are you looking forward to the Season?”
’Twas the first personal question he’d asked her. Perhaps that was why she answered so honestly. “No.”
He tilted his head. “I never do, either. I promise, I have tried.”
She bit her lower lip. Might he also be sizing her up as a potential wife? “What other hobbies do you enjoy?”
“Reading, mostly. I don’t garden because plants make me sneeze.” He frowned. “Are you a lover of flowers, Miss Halton?”
He was sizing her up as a future Mrs. Downing!
“No,” she lied quickly. “Books are far more favorable. They don’t…wilt.”
Mr. Downing beamed at her happily. “What authors are you currently reading?”
Her eyes widened, but the music saved her from having to invent names. In the space of a heartbeat, her hand was back in Lord Carlisle’s.
“Yes,” he said abruptly.
She stared at him. “Yes, what?”
“Yes, I disagree with your assessment.” By the set of his jaw, he was displeased he’d even mentioned it. But now that he had, he wouldn’t back down. “We would obviously suit.”
Her breath caught in her throat. Yes! No. That is—
“But I can’t marry you.” He glanced away, and put a more respectable distance between them. “I’m sorry.”
“I can’t marry you either,” she said much too loudly. Informing herself as much as him. His rejection stung. Who cared what his reasons were? She had reasons of her own. There was nothing to feel disappointed about. No reason at all for the empty feeling in her stomach or the urge to burrow back into his arms.
His next words were so soft she almost missed them.
“But I would’ve enjoyed it.”
He flung her back to Mr. Downing before she could do something foolish like shred her entire dance card in order to spend the rest of the evening with Lord Carlisle. January or not, she had no doubt he would ensure every part of her body stayed warm as they strolled the garden. More importantly, he seemed to connect with her on a level far deeper than the physical. He cared.
The country set ended without giving her another opportunity to return to Lord Carlisle’s arms. She might have rushed to his side, had Mr. Downing not saved her from herself. Ever proper, he did not abandon her until Mr. Leviston, the next suitor on her card, came to take her arm.
As they headed out to the garden, Grace meant to run through every question on her potential suitor list—truly, she did—but found herself asking about the Earl of Carlisle instead.
Mr. Leviston’s brow creased. “Carlisle? Stay away from that one. He needs more blunt than an empire of textile factories could provide. Hear he’s on the lookout for an heiress.”
Lord Carlisle had lied to her? She hugged herself. “How do you know?”
“Poor mug just found out his father spent the family fortune on whor—on evening entertainment. He’s near to blown up at Point Nonplus, as they say. Just yesterday, Carlisle sold all but the scrawniest of his horses and most of his carriages. Wanted to get my hands on his matched grays, but some blackguard beat me to it.”
Grace couldn’t hide her shock. Her relief at not having been lied to paled next to the horror of Lord Carlisle finding himself penniless because his father had wasted his future on whores. And yet Lord Carlisle made no complaint. Instead, he’d noted her unhappiness, regardless of her being too wrapped up in herself to note his own.
Despite being desperate enough to unload his remaining possessions on acquaintances who would obviously gossip, he still put her peace of mind before his own worries.
She swallowed hard. She wished she could marry him. But if he was reduced to selling off horses, he needed far more than her dowry could provide. Even if she were in the position to let him have it all, she suspected one thousand pounds was nowhere near enough to save a destitute earldom.
“What’s he going to do?”
“Got bets on that at White’s. Most obvious thing would be to get rid of the Black Prince, but someone would have to pry that portrait out of Carlisle’s cold dead hands.”
“Black…Prince?”
“Oh, right. You’re American.” Mr. Leviston tapped his chin as he considered his explanation. “The Black Prince is more rightfully known as Edward of Woodstock, Prince of Wales, Duke of Cornwall, and Prince of Aquitaine. King Edward the third made him the first duke in England, almost five hundred years ago.”
“Why would Lord Carlisle care about that?”
“They’re cousins. Or so the story goes. His father—old Carlisle—used to drag every person who crossed his threshold into the family Hall of Portraits. Had the Black Prince hanging right there where his son’s face ought to be. Only painting in the entire gallery framed in gold, although it wouldn’t really matter. Canvas like that would be valuable no matter what.”
She recoiled at the injustice. “Why on earth wasn’t it the first thing Lord Carlisle got rid of? It sounds horrid. I can’t imagine hanging onto something like that.”
“Then you’re not as sentimental as Carlisle. His land is entailed, and that painting might as well be.” At her blank expression, Mr. Leviston shook his head. “American, right. Entailed means he legally can’t get rid of his land, because it belongs to the title, not to the person. Carlisle would never sell that portrait. It’s hung in the family gallery ever since the paint first dried. Trust me, I heard the story from Carlisle’s father a thousand times. Can’t blame the Black Prince. Not his fault old Carlisle was a terrible father.”
“I’m glad he’s dead,” she blurted. “Let him go be with his Black Prince if he loved him so much.”
“Family,” Mr. Leviston said with a shrug. “Can’t pick ’em.”
How true. Grace’s shoulders caved inward. She couldn’t even pick the husband she wanted.
Chapter 7
“Higher, if you please, mademoiselle.”
Grace lifted her arms into the air. She forced herself to smile at her grandmother over the top of the latest modiste’s head. It was not their fault that Grace wasn’t enjoying being pinned and measured and fitted. She didn’t feel like a story princess at all. In the beginning, she couldn’t help but be dazzled by the sweeping gowns and candlelit ballrooms, but she would trade it in a heartbeat for the money to go rescue her mother.
Trade it all. Her mouth twisted. If only she could. But everything within sight belonged to her grandparents. Even if they gifted her this trousseau, it wouldn’t help. There were exclusive venues throughout London dedicated to the sale and resale of diamonds or racing horses, but not for gowns. They might be expensive to design and custom fit, but were hardly a premium commodity. Who would Grace sell her used clothes to, even if she could? Her lady’s maid?
Grandmother Mayer nodded at the modiste approvingly. “She’s going to look splendid. Just as beautiful as her mother did during her come-out. She cannot fail to make a fine match.”
Somehow, Grace kept a determin
ed smile fixed on her face. She didn’t want to look splendid. She wanted to be halfway back to America. But since she had to marry in order to achieve that goal, she was determined not to ruin her grandmother’s excitement any more than she had to. The woman was under no legal obligation to clothe and feed her, much less provide a dowry. Grace was quite conscious of her tenuous fortune.
Although they had been complete strangers when she appeared on the Mayers’ doorstep a little over a fortnight ago, her grandparents had welcomed her into their home…and had been furious that her mother had stayed behind. No matter how many times Grace explained that her mother was back in Pennsylvania because she was literally too ill to even rise from bed, her grandparents wouldn’t believe a word of it. They were convinced that Grace’s presence was nothing more than a scheme to run back to America with a portion of the Mayers’ money.
Because her grandparents refused to be taken advantage of in such a nefarious manner, they gave her no pin money of her own and never left her alone with so much as a piece of cutlery.
Grace didn’t even have the right to be offended. She was here because she wanted money, and she absolutely intended to abscond with it at the first opportunity. Her grandparents were wrong about Grace’s reasons, but right to be suspicious. She hadn’t diminished their misgivings by reminding them that she only intended to take advantage of her future husband.
That was another score on which they failed to see eye-to-eye.
Grace needed to marry someone who didn’t need her. Someone with enough money and mistresses that they wouldn’t miss her or the dowry once she was gone. She intended to return, of course. She would dishonor neither holy matrimony nor her husband by disappearing for good. Her stomach twisted at the thought of abandoning a husband so soon after the wedding.
But that was why she needed to marry someone who wouldn’t trouble himself over a brief separation. Her mother needed her, and Mama came first.
Grandmother Mayer, on the other hand, wanted Grace to become the toast of the ton. She said Grace’s striking looks and unconventional background would make her an Original, and put her on the path to becoming a duchess, or perhaps even catching the eye of some foreign prince.
