Julia’s mouth twisted ruefully. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘I won’t hold you responsible for your mother’s plans. I know you don’t agree with them.’
‘Not at all,’ cried the girl, anxiety clouding her face. ‘The problem is, they’re hatching another plot. That’s why I came. I don’t know what it is, and this time they aren’t going to tell me, so it may be more difficult to thwart their plans. I know you have some interest in Lord Thorwynn, and I wouldn’t ruin that for anything.’ She walked to the window, looked outside briefly, and then turned. ‘Besides,’ she said, with a mischievous twinkle, ‘as I said before, I have no desire to marry Lord Thorwynn.’ She shuddered elaborately.
Had Amelia actually called him an ogre, earlier? It seemed incredible. But meanwhile, Julia really needed to clarify matters with the young debutante, once and for all. ‘As for Lord Thorwynn, I have no interest—’
‘You don’t need to pretend with me,’ said Amelia, looking mischievous. She took a seat close to Julia on the settee. ‘Don’t worry. Your secret is safe. I would never mention a word to anybody.’
It was no use arguing. Amelia had made up her mind. In any case she was discreet, and she liked Julia well enough not to wish her harm.
They parted on the best of terms. The confession had taken a load off Amelia’s back, to judge by the way she almost skipped down the stairs as she walked out. Not a cherub at all. More like a kitten, with some good, healthy claws.
Meanwhile, Julia puzzled over Amelia’s certainty that she had an interest in Lionel. She shrugged. She supposed Amelia was basing it on the kiss her mother had interrupted in the library.
The memory of the kiss evoked a small quiver that passed through every inch of her. Odd, that she should remember it now that the relationship between them had ended. She found herself lingering over that kiss. Reliving the sensations that had passed through her at the time, interrupted so abruptly by Lady Medlow. And to her dismay, she found herself longing for more.
*
Lionel downed his third glass of brandy. It burned its way through his throat. Damn, but it was good to rid himself of all those entanglements. The last two weeks had been like some strange nightmare in which he played a role, but didn’t understand the rules. That Swifton hoyden had led him on a merry chase. Well, he was certainly glad it was over. Now he could enjoy life again.
‘You’re very distracted this evening,’ remarked Benny, amusement plain on his face. ‘I’ve called you twice, but you haven’t heard me.’
‘I very much doubt it,’ said Lionel. He picked up the decanter, and saw that it was empty. ‘You’ve been drinking rather a lot,’ he commented to Benny, and signalled the waiter for another bottle. ‘I’m simply relishing my lack of commitments.’
‘Why are you scowling so darkly, in that case?’ asked Benny. ‘And why are you hunched up over your brandy like a miser?’
Lionel drew himself to his full height, or as close he could, given that he was seated, and that he had swallowed down his brandy very quickly. ‘I’m scowling because I know if I see that Swifton chit again, I’m going to strangle her.’
‘Well, you need not see her again. Not for a very long time. You are hardly on visiting terms, and you have no more reason to attend any balls. It’s unlikely you’ll run into her. That should cheer you up.’
It should have, but it didn’t. He tried to account for that lingering feeling of – something he couldn’t put his finger on. Malaise? No, hardly that. Agitation? No, why should he be agitated? Unease? That was it. He searched about for a reason. He found one. Aha. ‘I’m not yet sure she’s safe from that snivelling scoundrel,’ he said.
To Lionel’s astonishment, Benny threw his head backwards and laughed.
‘What’s so funny about that?’ he said, feeling thunderously angry. ‘I would think that you, of all people, would understand what she went through.’ He rose. He was not going to sit here and let that whey-faced grinning idiot make fun of Julia’s misfortunes. ‘I’d better leave, before I land you a facer and my membership in Brooks’s is brought into question.’
Instead of drawing back, Benny’s grin grew even wider. ‘I can’t believe it. You’re besotted. Totally besotted.’
‘I’m not besotted,’ growled Lionel, irritated beyond reason by Benny’s remarks. He wondered why he had ever regarded such an addle-headed muttonhead as a friend.
‘Sit down then and let’s discuss it like gentlemen, shall we?’ said Benny, still grinning.
The waiter arrived with the brandy. He eyed Lionel uncertainly, wondering no doubt if he was going to ask him to take it back.
He sat down reluctantly. There was absolutely nothing to discuss. But he could not think of anything else to do that night. He may as well stay and drink the brandy.
‘Since this topic is so irritating to you,’ said Benny, ‘let’s talk about something else. It’ll give you time to a take a hold on your temper.’
‘There is nothing whatsoever wrong with my temper,’ said Lionel, between gritted teeth.
Benny looked at the ceiling. Fortunately, he kept quiet.
‘Any thoughts on what we are going to do with Neave?’ asked Benny.
This was hardly an improvement on the last topic. In fact, Benny seemed bent on provoking him. ‘If I had any ideas I would have implemented them already,’ he snapped.
Julia’s face in the library as she emerged from behind the curtains came back to him. He would never forget the mix of emotions there. Terror, horror, suspicion and uncertainty all at once. Then relief when it registered that he had been doing nothing worse than tickling her. Fortunately, she had never asked him who he thought he was tickling behind the curtain. Maybe she had reached her own conclusions.
In any case, it didn’t matter. But Neave’s intentions mattered a great deal. Lionel wanted more than ever to haul him by the throat and toss him into some filthy cesspool to drown.
Yet he was doomed to fail, mainly because there was no way to accuse him without bringing ruination on the lady involved. And he knew it. Lionel’s fingers twisted into fists. If there was some way to bring him to justice….
‘You’re doing it again,’ said Benny.
‘Doing what?’ said Lionel, taking the carafe and sloshing the liquid into his glass. It was the colour of dried blood. He had never noticed. He put his glass down with a thump.
‘Scowling,’ said Benny, ‘horribly.’
‘What do you expect if you bring up Neave?’ he said, not growling now, just talking through his teeth.
Benny had the grace to look contrite. ‘Yes, that wasn’t very good of me, was it? It’s just that I wanted to see how far I could push you before you cracked and admitted it.’
Lionel blew out a heavy breath. ‘I thought we weren’t going to discuss that topic.’
‘Which topic?’ Benny asked, false innocence written all over his face. ‘Oh, yes, now I recall: the Swifton chit.’
‘Don’t call her that.’
‘The Swifton chit?’ He was grinning again.
Lionel lunged for him and gripped him by the neckcloth. The conversation at the tables around them ceased. Those gentlemen who had their backs to him turned and craned their necks.
He let go. ‘Truce?’
Benny rubbed his neck pointedly, although Lionel had only touched his cravat, which looked slightly crumpled. ‘Truce. Remind me not to mention her again.’
The moment he said that Lionel felt an almost overwhelming compulsion to talk about her.
‘She’s not so bad. Not really a hoyden, you know. Quite levelheaded in fact. Just doesn’t like men very much.’ He winced as he said it.
‘Men, or rakes?’ said Benny, leaning back and watching him with a half smirk. Lionel ignored the question.
‘I’ll concede to you that it seems to be rakes she objects to.’ Even as he said it, a heavy gloom seemed to descend on him and pin him to the armchair. He eyed the thick russet liquid in his glass.
He could not cha
nge who he was, any more than that brandy in the glass could turn to something else. Ratafia, for example. That’s what she wanted. She wanted him to become docile ratafia, when he was a fine, well-honed brandy. How much more unfair could the situation be?
‘Perhaps you could convince her otherwise.’ He looked up to find Benny watching him. He was more earnest now.
‘Convince her?’ asked Lionel, having lost thread of the conversation.
‘Not to object to rakes. Or at least, not to object to this one particular rake.’
He raised his brow. ‘How do you propose that I do that?’
‘Talk to her.’
It seemed such a simple thing, when one said it like that. So simple it was doomed to failure. But the more Lionel thought of it, the more appealing it seemed to be. Why not? It would not hurt. It might even do some good.
He put the glass down. ‘I think, for once, Benny, you’ve made a sensible suggestion. Let’s go.’
‘Go?’ he asked. ‘Where to?’
‘To the Coppertons’ ball. To see Miss Swifton. To talk to her.’
Julia was driven by the same restless energy that drove her earlier into obsessive cleaning. She was surrounded by suitors the moment she entered the ballroom, and she had not yet sat down for a dance. Her card was almost full.
Almost, because she had left the spaces beside two of the waltzes empty. She glanced at those empty spaces now and wondered what had prompted her to leave them open. The blank whiteness of those unclaimed lines seemed a chastisement, a reminder of the many follies she had committed in the last two weeks.
The strains of the waltz floated towards her. The chatter of the young men around her irritated her nerves like pepper on an inflamed cut. She needed a moment to herself, or she would snap at them. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen, but I’m feeling rather faint. I need to find my grandmother and withdraw to the retiring room.’
There were a few murmurs of protest, and a few offers of assistance, but she declined them with a tight smile and moved away to where she had last seen Lady Bullfinch.
A dark wall rose up before her and she slammed into it, the very breath knocked out of her.
Strong arms steadied her. The heady aroma of a familiar perfume filled her nostrils.
She allowed the arms to hold her, just for one moment. Then she stepped back.
‘I am very sorry, Lord Thorwynn,’ she muttered.
‘My apologies, Miss Swifton,’ he murmured, in unison.
She kept her eyes down. His touch had provoked a riot of feeling and she did not want to look at him until the sensations had subsided, which was difficult when he was standing so close.
‘Good evening, Miss Swifton.’
Startled, she looked around Lionel’s shoulder, which was very much in the way.
‘Lord Benedict,’ she said, smiling at him warmly. He was a wonderful distraction. Her heart calmed down and her breathing returned to normal.
‘Why don’t I get such a pleasant smile?’ said Lionel, in a pretence of wounded pride.
‘Perhaps you don’t deserve one. Whereas I …’ said Lord Benedict.
She smiled at Lord Benedict. ‘Do deserve one. Of course you do. As for your friend,’ she said, unable to resist teasing Thorwynn, ‘he doesn’t need my smile. There are enough young misses throwing smiles in his direction in one evening to last him the next two years.’
Lionel looked around him, as if noticing the smiles for the first time. ‘The simpering smiles of girls ordered to smile by scheming mamas hardly count.’
‘I have only now realized my disadvantage,’ replied Julia. ‘I have no scheming mama to tell me to smile at you.’
She expected him to laugh, or at least smile, but his brows knotted and he seemed displeased by her statement.
‘I would not tease Thorwynn tonight, if I were you,’ said Lord Benedict. ‘He is in a thunderous temper.’ He paused and rubbed his neck dramatically. ‘He might even decide to grab you by the neck as he did with me earlier in the evening, so beware.’
Thorwynn confirmed Benny’s statement by sending him a murderous glance that promised future retaliation.
‘Then perhaps I should avoid him altogether, as I would avoid a wounded bear,’ she said, still talking to Benny.
‘As I have never seen a wounded bear, I cannot comment on that comparison, but it seems to me a good way to describe Thorwynn.’
Thorwynn simply glowered.
Julia, in contrast, began to experience that strange bubbly feeling again, laughter rising to the surface.
‘Well, then, I’d better disappear from here in full haste, before the bear decides to pounce.’
She excused herself, a little smile playing on her lips. The ballroom no longer seemed oppressive, and she looked forward to supper with anticipation.
‘I thought you were going to talk to her,’ said Benny. ‘Instead you stand there scowling at her as if her very sight disgusts you.’
‘Who appointed you as my keeper? If I wish to glare at a lady, I do not need your permission to do so.’ In fact he wished he had not brought his friend to the ball. He had always been aware of his friend’s good looks, and was well aware that many young women found Benny very attractive, even though he rarely made the slightest effort to deliberately attract attention. But tonight he found Benny’s handsome face distinctly unpleasant.
‘I thought you wanted to talk to her,’ said Benny.
‘I didn’t exactly have a chance,’ remarked Lionel, coldly. ‘You seemed to be manipulating the conversation yourself. I could hardly get in a word myself.’
Benny looked at him incredulously, then burst into laughter. ‘I think you’d better go somewhere else tonight. Or better still, go home and sleep it off. Perhaps tomorrow you’ll be more rational.’
‘I’m perfectly rational,’ said Lionel. He watched as a young man waylaid Julia and led her to the dance floor. ‘What does that puppy think he’s doing? I distinctly heard her say she’s feeling faint.’
‘She seems to have recovered,’ said Benny.
And in fact she looked quite animated. The pallor that had marked her face just a few minutes ago had disappeared. She appeared very pleased about something. A huge smile lit up her face.
Lionel followed the line of her vision, and cursed inwardly.
A young athletic-looking gentleman was heading towards her, and he was clearly very welcome.
Lionel decided to retreat. Benny seemed for once to have the right of it. Tonight he would accomplish nothing.
He turned on his heels, prepared to ram his way out through the crush of people. An instant later, however, he came to a complete standstill, his eyes narrowing on a figure dressed in the elite green uniform.
Neave stood in the shadows, observing Julia, his face twisted with malice.
Lionel changed direction, hovering near the dance area. The next dance was a waltz, and by God, Julia was going to dance it with him.
CHAPTER 15
He summoned up his most charming manner. He would not permit her to turn him down.
She had scarcely left the dance floor when he stepped up to her, bowing gracefully and smiling his most dazzling smile.
‘I believe this waltz is ours, Miss Swifton?’
She looked down at her dance card.
‘I think you put my name down earlier,’ he said, quickly, before she could say anything, before she had time to read someone else’s name. He took her hand, trying to make the gesture graceful so it would not look as if he was grabbing her.
Her eyes swept up from under heavy lashes. Dark and thick, they framed those fluid eyes. For an endless moment he found himself drawn inside them. Then the music started and he sought a place for them on the dance floor.
Her hand rested delicately on his. He swept her into the dance, noting with satisfaction that this time she did not resist as he drew her just a little closer, perhaps, than he should.
By the time he realized it was a mistake, it was too late.
He could not very well push her away. But he eased her away from him, because to hold her so close strained every muscle in his body that seemed to be determined to crush her to him. His body reacted to every small move of hers; her fingers flickering lightly on his shoulder; the edge of her thigh grazing his; her foot touching his calf when she missed a step; even her breath as it stirred against his cheek. Every tiniest action caused a rush of desire in him.
His senses had become so attuned to her presence that he could almost hear her heartbeat, without actually being close enough.
When had that happened? Just two days ago he sat serenely in the library of his mother’s house as she told him she did not want to marry him. So why was he reacting this way?
He edged away from her, leaning backwards, striving to avoid all contact. The waltz that had started so gracefully turned into a stiff march across the ballroom, his arms hard and his body unyielding. He would have laughed if he could, but he was incapable of laughter. She must think him no better than a lump of metal. Which is what he had become. He had no choice in the matter. It was either that, or finding himself swept out of the ballroom into the darkest corner he could find.
After what seemed like a year, the waltz ended. They parted awkwardly, wordlessly. He bowed formally to her and made his escape, looking for the quickest route out of the room.
He had not counted on the old tabbies, however. They waited. They hovered in the ready, their eyes fixed on him. The moment he left the dance floor, they steered their young debutantes straight at him. A flock of white-clad girls fluttered and twittered around him, and he was forced to be civil because, God forbid he should offend the sensibilities of these young innocent buds. It was Benny, of course, who had pointed that out during one of the numerous balls he seemed to be attending. He had reminded him there was no call for him to be uncivil to them, when it was his fault for coming to the ball in the first place.
His glance went over their heads, ignoring the diffident smiles in front of him. His mouth somehow produced words that must have been appropriate because no-one looked shocked. His eyes attempted to pierce through a group of young gentlemen thronging around Julia, but all he could see was the top of her brown head.
An Improper Suitor Page 15
