by Amanda Scott
“Out hunting,” explained the Regent with a chuckle. “I believe his imperial majesty means to seduce as many of our lovely young Englishwomen as possible tonight.” The duchess favored him with a frigid glare but said nothing, and Prinny only grinned, enjoying her displeasure for once. He turned to Gillian, saying with ponderous humor, “Perhaps, Miss Harris, if I were to promise to keep you out of Alexander’s clutches, you would honor me with a dance?”
“Of course, your highness,” Gillian dimpled. “Although, ’tis I who should be honored.”
He insisted that it be the very next dance, and so it was that she found herself partnered in a lively quadrille with the Regent trying to outdo the other gentlemen in the antics of the dance. She enjoyed herself hugely. Everyone was watching her, and even though she disapproved of him and thought he treated his wife and daughter abominably, she could not deny the royal charm and enthusiasm. The prince always made her feel beautiful, witty, and desirable. Such a man could not possibly be rotten to the core.
She found her party easily when the dance was done and noted immediately that Landover was leading Clara FitzWilliam onto the dance floor for a set of country dances. Gillian enjoyed a dance with Lord Darrow and one with Sir Avery before a dark-haired stranger, nearly as tall as Landover, with piercing black eyes and bristling eyebrows that arched like a raven’s wings, stepped up and quite nearly demanded the favor of a dance.
“We have not been introduced, sir,” she responded saucily while taking good care to hold her masque in place. The gentleman was unmasqued and wore ordinary evening dress.
“’Tis the great advantage of a masqued ball, mademoiselle,” he replied in a dulcet baritone. “Introductions are not required. Come.”
He held out a commanding hand, and obediently she placed her own in it and let him guide her onto the floor. It was a waltz, but there were no restrictions tonight, and as he placed his arm firmly around her waist, she caught sight of Landover leading the fairy princess onto the floor yet again. Gillian stiffened, and her partner’s gaze followed hers. A sharp intake of breath caused her to look up at him. The dark eyes smoldered under narrowing lids, and she gave a little gasp.
“You are Viscount Linden!”
His arm tightened. “What makes you think so, Miss Harris?”
“You know me!” She thought quickly, then added in a sighing voice, “I daresay you only asked me to dance in order to make Miss FitzWilliam jealous.”
“Don’t be daft,” he muttered. “She wouldn’t care a straw.”
Gillian chuckled, letting him sweep her into a complicated series of steps, enjoying herself. “Men are all so blind,” she said sweetly a moment later.
He glared down at her. “What are you trying to say, Miss Harris?”
“Only that every sign indicates that Miss FitzWilliam welcomes your attentions, my lord.”
“Tommyrot! She looks for wealth and title.”
“You have both, sir.”
“I am not a marquis, nor does my income compete with King Midas’s.”
“But you love her, and I think she loves you. In that regard, Landover must lose on two counts.” She sighed again. “He merely wants a conformable, decorative wife, after all. Any one of a number would do.”
She could have sworn she heard his teeth gnash together and mentally hugged herself. This was going rather well.
“You honestly think she loves me?” He seemed to have difficulty thrusting the words out.
“Indeed, my lord,” Gillian smiled. “I have it on excellent authority that she teases you in hopes that you will master her. I daresay that given half a chance, she would gladly play Matilda to your William. In truth, sir, and I speak as a woman, had she wished to send you about your business, she would have done so graciously and not as though she were flinging down a gauntlet.”
“You would liken me to William the Conqueror,” Linden observed with a musing smile that showed he rather liked the notion. “But he is said to have won his Matilda with a horsewhip.”
“Exactly so,” Gillian replied demurely. “I heard what took place this very day when you would have paid her a simple morning call. That was a calculated insult, my lord, as calculated as Matilda’s slurs against the Conqueror’s birth. I’d wager Miss FitzWilliam was astonished and even a trifle disappointed that you allowed it.”
He nearly missed a step, and his eyes glittered as he gazed speculatively down at Gillian. “I shouldn’t have allowed it. You are quite right, Miss Harris. I daresay that should such an occasion come to pass a second time, I shall, thanks to this little talk, react quite differently.”
By the time he returned her to her party, Gillian’s eyes were sparkling, and she was well pleased with the work she had done. She could not help but wonder, however, how long it would be before Viscount Linden would make his move and whether or not he would carry the day. After all, a girl like Clara FitzWilliam would be nearly as well protected as she was herself, and the thought of a gentleman, even one of Linden’s stamp, successfully forcing his way past MacElroy and the Landover footmen was nearly ludicrous.
So deep in thought was she that she scarcely paid any heed to the unknown gentleman who partnered her through the next set, responding to his conversational gambits in monosyllables. Thus, she was annoyed but not particularly surprised when, at the end of the dance, she found herself abandoned on the far side of the huge ballroom, a good distance from her own party. In resignation, she began to make her way back, soon discovering that the deed was not so simple as the thought.
The crush of people was astonishing, and without a gentleman beside her to clear a path by brute force if necessary, Gillian suddenly felt as though she were adrift in a sea of elbows, armpits, and bosoms. It was not the first time she had wished for greater height, but matters became even a trifle frightening when she began to suspect she might even be going in the wrong direction. The orchestra struck up for the next dance, and the surge of humanity became more confusing as some couples moved toward the dance floor and others pressed back to make way for them.
Suddenly she came plump up against a rock-hard body encased in a glitteringly bemedaled uniform. Two strong hands grasped her shoulders as she glanced up in dismay. “Excellency!”
“Miss Harris.” A small space seemed to clear around them as if by magic, and the Tsar dropped his hands. His eyes gleamed as his gaze swept her from the top of her dark curls to the tips of her satin slippers. Gillian dipped a low curtsy, but Alexander reached forward gallantly and drew her to her feet, smiling in pleasurable anticipation. “We dance.”
The seductive look in his eyes frightened her, and she remembered the Regent’s earlier compliments, but she could not imagine how one said, “No, thank you” to the Emperor of all the Russias. She opened her mouth, but no words came out, and the people around them, now recognizing Alexander, were beginning to stare.
“Ah, Miss Harris, here you are at last. I have been searching for you these past ten minutes. This is my dance, I believe.” Landover’s suave, familiar voice came from behind Gillian and affected her much in the way that an approaching Yorkist cavalry call might have affected the King’s forces at Bosworth Field. “How do you do, your Majesty?” Landover went on with a bow as she turned toward him gratefully. “Are you in need of a partner? Here, Harriette! Here’s a treat for you.”
He beckoned imperiously to a smart, saucy-looking girl with laughing black eyes and glossy curls nearly as dark as her own. The girl was accompanied by a delicately fair, rather wide-hipped youth in black satin breeches and a light blue silk shirt.
To Gillian’s amazement, when the “youth” turned in response to Landover’s command, “he” was quite clearly seen to be a beautiful young woman in boy’s clothes. Gillian blushed, then looked uncertainly at Landover. He ignored her, but the fair-haired beauty did not approach them. She merely smiled and waved two fingers at Landover before fading back into the crush.
“Well, my lord?” The dark-haired young wom
an spoke in a sultry voice and gave Landover a teasing smile, while at the same time shooting Gillian a slanting look.
“Well yourself, Harriette.” He grinned at the Tsar. “Excellency, may I have the honor to present this lovely creature to your notice. She is Miss Harriette Wilson, and she would be most pleased to dance with you.”
Miss Wilson grinned but swept the Tsar a deep curtsy. As he had done with Gillian, however, Alexander reached forward and drew her to her feet. Miss Wilson lowered her lashes demurely. “We dance,” announced Alexander firmly. He glanced as an afterthought at Landover. “Our thanks.”
Landover gave a slight, mocking bow to the Tsar’s back, and Gillian stared at him in astonishment. “How did you dare to introduce the Tsar of Russia to a common courtesan!”
“There is nothing the least bit common about Harriette Wilson, my dear child, and I can safely promise you that there is no one in London to whom Alexander would prefer an introduction tonight.”
“You did not introduce her to me!”
“No, I did not!”
Gillian chuckled, making no demur when he took her hand and firmly placed it in the crook of his arm. Suddenly, it seemed much easier for her to make her way through the constantly shifting mass of people. “Who was that person with her?” she asked, looking up at him. “I thought at first it was a rather chubby gentleman.”
“Julia Johnstone, another of Harriette’s sisterhood. They came as brother and sister, though I must say they seem to have got their roles mixed. Julia’s got at least five children, and hasn’t the slightest claim to a boyish figure, whilst Harriette is a good deal slimmer and has, besides, the manners of an obstreperous schoolboy.”
Gillian chuckled again and gave his arm an impulsive little squeeze. “I haven’t thanked you, have I? I was imagining myself served up for an imperial savory, and I can tell you quite frankly, Landover, that I have never been more grateful to hear your voice.”
“We’ll see if you still feel that way ten minutes hence,” he retorted. She glanced up again quickly, surprised by the grim note in his voice. “I’ve a good deal to say to you, miss. We’ll begin with an explanation from you of where you had got to before you crossed his majesty’s lecherous path.”
Gillian made a moue. “My partner vanished after the last set, and we had somehow managed to get to the far side of the room. I thought I’d never get through the crowd.”
“Who the devil was your partner?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. Never saw him before. But I daresay he was no gentleman. Although,” she added with disarming frankness, “it was not altogether his fault. I was rather rude. I expect it put him off.”
Landover’s lips twitched, but he managed to retain the stern note. “I’ve no doubt you were rude if you say you were, but perhaps you would care to explain a trifle more fully.”
“I was distracted, actually,” she replied on an airy note. “I was thinking about other matters and did not precisely attend to him when he spoke. I’ve noticed gentlemen prefer an attentive audience.”
Landover was not distracted, however. “What other matters?” Gillian, after a brief, dismayed glance at him, blushed to the roots of her hair and clamped her lips shut. There was certainly no way she was going to tell him she had been savoring her potential success at rescuing him from the designing schemes of Miss Clara FitzWilliam. “No? You wish to say nothing? Well, I have a bit more to say, I’m afraid.”
And he proceeded to make good his promise while he guided her back to their party. First, he informed her flatly that, masqued ball or no, she was to let Mrs. Periwinkle have the final word on her partners if he was not himself at hand, that furthermore it was her business to see that her partners did not merely fade away but returned her to her chaperone, that so on and so on and so on. Gillian merely bowed her head before the muttering storm, knowing it would be useless to protest. But as they emerged from the thickest part of the crowd, she saw Miss Clara FitzWilliam slip into an anteroom, closely followed by her companion, Mrs. Robinson. Miss FitzWilliam was holding a string of silver stars that seemed to have detached themselves from the blue fairy gown, so the matter was self-explanatory. What caught and held Gillian’s interest, however, was the sight of a tall, dark gentleman with raven’s-wing eyebrows lounging artlessly against the wall not ten feet from the door through which the two ladies had passed.
Smoldering dark eyes turned first one way, then the other; then, with a purposeful stride, Viscount Linden made his way to the anteroom door. Here he paused again, glancing about quickly before slipping inside and shutting the door behind him.
“Miss Harris! I’ll swear you’ve not been attending to one word I’ve said to you!”
Gillian gulped and turned to face him, discovering another set of smoldering eyes rather closer than was compatible with her comfort.
“Oh, I was listening, sir,” she insisted contritely. “It was prodigiously foolish of me not to take better care, and I shan’t do it again, so please forgive me.” And she held out her hand, gazing at him limpidly.
His responding smile had a tendency to mock her. “I ought to quiz you, young lady, for I’m as certain as can be that you didn’t hear half of what I said, but to do so after such a generous and—might I add—unexpected apology would not only be foolhardy but churlish. I trust I am rarely accused of either trait. More important, however, I’ve no wish to quarrel with you tonight.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she replied, genuinely grateful. She tucked her hand in his again. “And thank you for rescuing me.” He patted her hand, gazing down at her with an enigmatic gleam in his eye.
“Landover! Oh, my lord, how glad I am to find you! You must come at once.” Mrs. Robinson, seemingly appearing out of thin air, grabbed his arm in agitation.
“What seems to be the trouble, ma’am?” Landover returned calmly in an effort to soothe the little woman’s ruffled feathers.
“It is Clara, my lord. She’s being assaulted by that dreadful man!”
“Where?” demanded the marquis in a much harsher tone.
Gillian drew a sudden breath. What if Landover felt obligated to fight a duel with Linden? It was a notion that had not previously occurred to her. She had thought only to nudge Viscount Linden into doing what he so clearly wanted to do anyway; she had not paused to think how Landover might react. Mrs. Robinson pointed now to the anteroom and fluttered along beside him as he strode determinedly forward. Gillian hastened after them, not wanting to miss a thing and straining her ears to hear as Mrs. Robinson breathlessly twittered out the details.
“It is that dreadful rake Linden, my lord. If I’ve warned dearest Clara once, I’ve warned her a thousand times. ‘Have nothing to do with him,’ I said. ‘He’s a rake,’ I told her. ‘A dangerous man.’ But some idiot during the last set yanked a string of those lovely stars from poor Clara’s gown, and we retired to the anteroom to effect a repair. No sooner had we got inside, though, than that brute nipped in behind us and demanded words with Clara. She was mighty angry, I can tell you, but he just walked bang up to her and said she’d been behaving badly and he meant to put a stop to it. Well, I wasn’t surprised at all when she slapped him for his rudeness, but you could have tipped me over with a feather when he slapped her back. Just as calm as you please, mind you, but the blow nearly knocked poor Clara plumb off her feet. Needless to say, my lord, that’s when I fled to get help.”
“And a very good thing, too,” approved Landover as they reached the anteroom door. “But perhaps you ought to remain here now with Miss Harris whilst I see what can be done.”
Mrs. Robinson seemed perfectly willing to let Landover attend to the matter, but Gillian was not about to be set aside while he walked into a trap of her creating. Determined to do her possible to prevent the duel she had by now convinced herself was imminent, she slipped into the anteroom right behind him and thus was witness to a scene that neither of them had expected.
Miss Clara FitzWilliam was enfolded in th
e strong arms of Viscount Linden, but she did not seem the least averse to her position. In fact, she was returning his kisses with what Gillian could only describe later to Lady Sybilla as “passionate abandon.” Landover cleared his throat loudly, and the two sprang involuntarily apart. Miss FitzWilliam, a wicked bruise forming at her delicate jawline, flushed guiltily.
“Oh, Landover!” she cried, stepping toward him. “’Twas not what you think, my lord. ’Twas merely—”
“Enough, Clara!” admonished Linden sharply, taking a firm grip on her upper arm and ruthlessly pulling her back to stand beside him. “It was exactly what you thought, my lord. I love this unprincipled baggage, and I believe she loves me. At any rate, I intend to marry her just as soon as things can be properly arranged, but if you’ve a desire to debate the matter, I urge you to name the time and place.”
“No!” Gillian cried, springing forward as though to fling herself between them. Linden’s meaning could not be mistaken. Even Clara seemed taken aback, and she stared at Linden as though she had never really seen him before. But Landover caught Gillian’s arm and drew her closer to himself.
“Be still, child. There will be no ‘debate.’ I cheerfully leave the field to so determined a warrior. I think they will deal admirably together, and I wish them only happiness. Shall we leave them to take up the discussion we so rudely interrupted?”
Silently, she let him lead her from the room, and as silently did she listen while he explained to Mrs. Robinson, anxiously awaiting them just outside the door, that rather than an assault, she had witnessed the onset of a proposal of marriage and therefore a scene of quite unexceptionable behavior.
“Landover,” Gillian said, recovering her equanimity with a delighted chuckle once Mrs. Robinson had gone away, “slapping each other is scarcely the accepted prologue to a civilized courting ritual.”
