by Corwin, Amy
“Yes,” he said, his tone humble. “But I am new to this, uh, that is, I have never appreciated moths before. Couldn’t you just go over it one more time?”
“What are you doing out here, Your Grace?” Lady Beatrice asked, her tone sharp. She glanced from him to Charlotte. “Miss Haywood,” she reluctantly acknowledged. Then she gazed at him, tilting her head back to make him feel taller and emphasize the lovely line of her throat and impressively bare bosom. She smiled and gave a light, tinkling laugh when his eyes followed that perfect curve of flesh. “You don’t wish to be compromised, do you? With poor Miss Haywood?”
Her artless question made it clear she knew exactly whom he would prefer to compromise, and it wasn’t poor Miss Haywood.
“We’re identifying moths, Lady Beatrice. I doubt seriously whether anyone will find themselves compromised. Don’t you agree, Your Excellency?”
Charlotte said, unable to resist teasing Lady Beatrice by deliberately using the wrong title for the duke. She knew it would annoy her. Charlotte just hoped she had understood the gleam in His Grace’s eyes correctly and that it would not annoy him, at least not unduly.
With luck, he would laugh and Lady Beatrice would become irritated. Then she’d flounce her way back inside where she belonged, assuming that was the sort of help he really wanted.
And assuming he wasn’t just another arrogant, hidebound British aristocrat who would be terribly insulted. She held her breath and eyed both of her companions with trepidation.
As anticipated, Lady Beatrice missed the dry note in Charlotte’s comment.
“That is ‘Your Grace,’ Miss Haywood.” She corrected her with a condescending smile. “He is the Duke of Peckham. I suppose Colonials have difficulties with the niceties of British Society.”
“Oh, I do apologize, Your Awful Graciousness. It is so difficult to keep all these minute class distinctions straight. We Americans are so inclined to believe that rubbish about all men being created equal, are we not?” Charlotte noticed the duke appeared to be strangling. His shoulders positively shook with suppressed emotion.
She watched him, unsure whether to laugh or take a few rapid steps backward.
His odd expression could either mean he felt amusement or the strong desire to choke the life out of her. In her experience, some men were so affected by her sense of humor that they found the latter course nearly irresistible, especially her previous guardian, Lord Westover.
She stepped back as a precaution.
Lady Beatrice slipped her hand through the duke’s arm. “If you would care to return, I believe they are starting another waltz, Your Grace. You did promise this one to me, did you not?”
He began to pull away, but she clung more tightly, her smile thinning. “I—” he said.
“Come,” Lady Beatrice said in a playful, arch tone. “You know you promised. Surely you would not break your word to a lady?”
The duke cast one last glance at Charlotte before he shrugged, clearly giving in to good manners. “As you wish.”
Lady Beatrice nodded at Charlotte. “Miss Haywood, don’t stay out here too long. The nights are damp. You don’t want to catch something.”
“No, indeed.” Charlotte gave a rather elaborate shiver. “I most certainly do not want to catch anything. Here, at least. Heaven forbid.”
Chapter Five
All cases of homicide are presumed by law to be malicious and amounting to murder until the contrary appears. —Constable’s Pocket Guide
“I am dreadfully sorry, Your Grace,” Lady Beatrice said as they joined the other couples on the dance floor. “I had no idea the Archers would bring that dreadful female when I invited them. I hope you will forgive me.”
Nathaniel nodded absently. “I did not realize she would attend, either.” He should have found her earlier when she was with his uncle so he could be properly introduced. She must think him a complete dolt.
At least she didn’t appear to be the least bit awed by his title. On the other hand, a little touch of awe might have made her less disrespectful. He smiled and suppressed the urge to glance over his shoulder to see if she were watching him from the shadows of the terrace.
“Excuse me, I don’t wish to be impertinent, but I thought the Archer family had no children….”
“None that lived,” Nathaniel replied absently.
After gazing into Miss Haywood’s eyes and seeing such an odd mixture of wariness and hope, he had had a hard time abandoning her to her moths. The troubled guardedness he saw in her gaze made him long to slip his arm around her waist and reassure her.
Although on second thought, perhaps not. Hope in a woman’s eyes was a dangerous thing.
“Then how did they end up with that dreadful woman?” Lady Beatrice asked.
“She’s my uncle’s ward.”
“Ward?”
“Yes. He assumed the responsibility rather recently.”
“Your uncle has my sympathy. He cannot be enjoying it, and what can he do? She is too old to come out, is she not? And she is dreadfully rude. I can only hope your family finds some sort of husband for her. Eventually. Perhaps some older widower searching for a helpmate in his declining years.”
“Um,” Nathaniel replied, distracted by the fact that the waltz was due to end soon. Predatory mamas were already lining up along the fringes of the dance floor, blocking all egress and pushing their unfortunate, simpering offspring forward. Even the door to the terrace was barricaded by ranks of waiting women.
He knew he should have insisted on going with his uncle to White’s instead of coming to this affair. Archer’s abrupt change of plans had thrown Nathanial off his stride, and he had inadvertently shown up here at the very start of the ball. The serious tactical error created unwarranted expectations since he had also attended two other functions sponsored by Lady Beatrice’s family.
He glanced down at her. Her complacent gaze encircled him like the snare around an unlucky hare’s leg.
She thought she had caught him already. Her parents had even had the gall to ask if he wished to speak to them privately and perhaps say a few words at midnight.
If he failed to do so, the other mamas stood nearby like a troop of fighting Hussars, fully prepared to step in and sacrifice their own dearly beloved offspring if he should chance to slip through Lady Beatrice’s dainty fingers.
The waltz ended.
“Your Grace,” one of the mamas said as Nathaniel escorted Lady Beatrice off the floor. “It is such a pleasure to see you. Have you met my daughter, Miss Suzanne Mooreland? This is her first Season, and she is so popular she scarcely has time to sit.”
“Yes,” he replied. “We have already had the pleasure of a dance this evening. And, I am sure she is glad of a chance to rest.”
The fair-haired girl smiled at him. Nathaniel stared back. Brown, wounded-doe eyes, blondish-brown hair. Short. Precisely, the same as half-a-dozen other girls he had escorted on the dance floor that evening.
Odd how Miss Haywood stood out. “Your Awful Graciousness,” indeed. He chuckled to himself, remembering the teasing glance he caught in her eyes as they gleamed up at him through her lashes.
“Your Grace?” the mama asked.
He realized to his dismay that he had actually laughed out loud, and he had no idea what had been said. As if that wasn’t bad enough, an entire division of mamas and daughters surrounded him, all staring expectantly.
There was no escape.
He smiled at all the women despite the thin trickle of cold sweat running down his back. The droplets itched. Then one slipped past the waistband of his pants and continued on a meandering path downward.
Retreat! Strategically, of course, in search of reinforcements.
“Will you excuse me, ladies? I see my uncle and need to have a word with him. Boring business, I am afraid.” He turned, totally unable to find his uncle or aunt but determined not to remain where he was.
A temporary break in the crowd revealed the French doors standin
g open. Beyond them, the terrace stretched out into the cool darkness.
He strode toward door, aware that the women watched him closely, searching for any weakness, any opening in his defenses. He walked faster.
Finally, he dashed through the door. Several other men and women slipped off the terrace into the shadows just as he stepped into the cool darkness. A flash of white caught his attention. Lady Beatrice twigged him and followed at a leisurely pace, sure of her quarry.
She would certainly relish the thought of catching him out here alone. He had jumped from the frying pan into the fire. If he didn’t jump out just as quickly, he was going to be singed rather badly by the matrimonial leg irons.
Where was Miss Haywood? Had she left already?
A shadow on his right caught his attention. With relief he recognized Miss Haywood’s tall form, still studiously watching the insects flitting about the paper lanterns.
“Miss Haywood! You must help me,” he called, striding in her direction.
“I must?” Her cool reply sounded vaguely annoyed. “Again?”
At the soft sound of her voice he paused, intrigued by her accent. He’d noticed earlier that certain words, particularly the “I,” were drawn out: “Ah must?” The warm, soft accent reminded him of the curiously drawled speech of the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire.
The long, lean line of her body and the curve of her neck were silhouetted against the dark shade of a yew at the edge of the garden. His gaze lingered on her, his heart pounding with sudden awareness.
Silence. She seemed oblivious to his tense interest.
“Will not you show me those moths you’ve discovered?” he asked at last, breaking the spell.
“You are truly interested in moths?”
“Yes. Absolutely. I am positively fascinated.”
“Somehow I doubt that, Your Gracious Dreadfulness.”
Her teasing tone made him smile, but as he moved closer, he faltered, glancing quickly over his shoulder.
Lady Beatrice slid through the French doors with a determined stride. He grabbed Miss Haywood’s elbow and maneuvered her down the shallow slate steps to the garden path.
“There must be some of those buttoned tigers out here.”
“Garden Tigers or Buttoned Snouts. There are not any buttoned tigers and even if there were, they would not be out here. It is too dark in the garden.”
“Well, yes. It is frequently dark at night,” he answered distractedly, casting quick glances over his shoulder.
Lady Beatrice stopped at the edge of the terrace. Her head tilted gracefully as she searched through the shadows, getting nearer as if sensing his presence. He pulled Miss Haywood around a topiary shaped like a giant’s tear. The boxwood’s spicy, green scent was sharp in the damp night air and served as counterpoint to the rose fragrance he’d noticed clinging to Miss Haywood’s gleaming hair.
A soft giggle surprised him. Then, he realized what he had said, and he chuckled. Miss Haywood stopped, stared at him for a moment, and then they both broke out into a series of smothered laughs.
“Yes,” she gasped. “I have often noticed that as well: how dark it gets at night, Your Horrible Highness.”
He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief and was surprised when Miss Haywood plucked it from his fingers to daub at her cheeks. “You know, you are frightfully disrespectful, Miss Haywood.”
“So I have been told.” She didn’t sound the least repentant. In fact, her voice throbbed with repressed laughter. “I am also a bad influence, particularly on women. I suppose it comes from being an American.”
Ah suppose…. He leaned closer, breathing in the scent of her hair and waiting for the soft, languid flow of her voice. Her expression was all but invisible in the shadows and the faint silver light from the moon glanced off the curve of her cheek and brow, leaving her eyes shadowed in mystery. When she smiled at him, he realized he had miscued and it was his turn in their peculiar conversation.
“Your Grace! Has anyone seen the duke?” Lady Beatrice’s voice pursued them, interrupting before he could speak. “His uncle is looking for him.”
Nathaniel pulled Miss Haywood further down the path.
“Your uncle is looking for you,” Miss Haywood said. “Don’t you think we should go back?”
“Not until I have seen this moth. The buttoned mouth or whatever you said it was.”
“Buttoned Snout, Your Mindless Exaltedness, Buttoned Snout. It has an extended, bulbous proboscis so it is called the Buttoned Snout. Try to concentrate.”
“The Buttoned Snout,” he repeated meekly in response to her mocking tone. A giggle greeted his words and he smiled, his heart bumping again in his too-tight chest.
“Very good. Oh, did you find your lapis fob?”
He shook his head. “It seems to have disappeared, although I am still hoping it may turn up in my carriage.”
“Yes, that would be lucky, would it not?” She paused. “Who is your uncle, anyway? The Prince of Wales? The Duke of Northumberland? Is it not true that all of you dukes are related somehow?”
He couldn’t tell if she was joking or serious. He adopted a light tone, hoping to strike the right note. “Not at all. We are not related to the best of my knowledge, although if you should happen to meet any of the aforementioned personages, you might remember the phrase, ‘Your Grace.’”
“Do you think it at all likely I will need to remember that phrase?”
“Well, I cannot predict the odds on that occurrence.” He remembered Archer’s four aces. “Although stranger things have happened. I would be prepared, just in case.”
“If your uncle is not a fellow duke, then who is he?”
“Mr. John Archer.”
“Mr. Archer?” Her voice sounded as if her fist were jammed down her throat. “Mr. John Archer?”
“Yes. I thought you knew.”
“Oh, dear,” she said. There was silence for a few seconds while she studied his face, the corners of her mouth drooping. Then she looked away and sighed. “Are we related, then, as well?”
“Related? Good G—uh—that is—” It hit him that he couldn’t tell her they were strangers and his uncle had won her in a bet. “I don’t exactly know,” he finished lamely.
“Are we cousins?”
“Cousins?” Without the least warning, his mind suddenly ran through the prohibited degrees of marriage. Definitely not on the list. Definitely. “No,” he replied. “No, we are not cousins. We are very distant relations.”
He turned away on the pretext of glancing along the path to see if Lady Beatrice had followed them.
“I see,” Miss Haywood said. Although her voice was mild, it had a matter-of-fact quality that made him uneasy. “So, we are out here in the dark, stumbling through the shrubbery, and we are not closely related. It is a good thing, Your Grace, that I don’t fear being compromised. Don’t you think we should return?”
“What about the Buttoned Snout?”
“You will not find them out here, they are attracted to the light. Such creatures are always attracted to bright, glittery objects that aren’t good for them.” When they reached the edge of the terrace, she turned to face him, clasping her hands in front of her. “Enjoy your evening, Your Grace. Don’t get caught out here alone.”
In silence, she strode up the steps to the terrace.
When she got to the French doors she paused for a moment. He watched her, waiting for her to turn back and wave. But she merely straightened her shoulders and walked forward, disappearing amidst the dazzling throng.
Feeling as if he had somehow disappointed her, Nathaniel stared after her and reviewed what he had said. Suddenly, the sound of a loud scream startled him. Turning on his heel, he ran through the topiary in the direction of the sound.
He nearly missed his step when another shrill cry tore through the shadows. Several other men joined him. In a loose herd, they converged upon a woman clasped in the arms of a slender young man.
Nathaniel grabbed th
e shoulder of the man and yanked him away from her. “Enough of that! What were you thinking to accost a woman out here?”
“Your Grace!” the man replied, holding the woman’s wrist. “It’s not what—that is—she’s dead!”
The woman wailed anew and flung herself back into the embrace of the slender young man. She buried her face in his shoulder and wept.
“What?” Nathaniel replied. His hands knotted into fists at his sides as he glanced around.
“Your Grace, over here,” another man said, crouching next to a pale form. White silken skirts edged in black billowed over the damp grass, fluttering in the light breeze. “I am afraid they are right. She is dead.”
“Is that you, Jackson?” Nathaniel bent to peer over the man’s shoulder.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Lord Jackson eased the body over, exposing a woman’s white face. “It is Lady Anne.”
Her black eyes were open, staring up at the haloed moon. The mists swirling over the grass left her pale skin dewy with moisture and clung to her lashes in large droplets. While Nathaniel watched, a bead of water rolled down her cheek like a final tear falling from her wide eyes.
Kneeling on one knee, he reached out and closed the dark eyes. With gentle fingers, he wiped the moisture off her cheeks. Her flesh still felt soft and faintly warm although he could already feel the change. He stood, wiping the dirt and leaves from his breeches.
Then he remembered the walk he had taken earlier, before meeting Miss Haywood for the first time.
“Oh, God!” he murmured bitterly as a sense of responsibility for Lady Anne’s death hit him.
He had heard Lady Anne calling to him, asking him to wait while he strolled down the cool, dark paths. She had been one of his most ardent and determined pursuers, made more persistent by his foolish actions this evening. He had lost count and danced with her three times: a stupid, thoughtless action he regretted as soon as he realized it. Then he had compounded the error by fetching her a glass of punch and escorting her to supper.
Even Lady Beatrice had noticed his actions. He had caught her frowning at him while they ate, although she soon covered the expression with a sweet smile.
