by Jo Beverley
He peeked around the pillar. They hadn’t seen him, thank God. He watched their bony backsides move past. It was not an inspiring sight.
Were all young women today small and angular? Surely not! There must be some female who would be a good match for a man his size. He was built on a different scale than the usual, just like Grandda had been—and Grandda had found Grandmamma.
Ah. He closed his eyes. He still felt a heavy melancholy when he thought of them, but at least now it was only a dull ache and not the overwhelming, almost physical pain it had been. True, they had both been over seventy, but they’d still been healthy, vigorous, more alive than many people half their age—until their blasted carriage had slid into the big oak at the bottom of the hill between Clifton Hall, Alex’s estate, and Riverview.
They should have stayed the night with Alex. Alex had urged them to. It was dark and rainy. But Grandda was as stubborn as a mule—Grandmamma, too—and they both liked to sleep in their own bed.
And now they were both dead.
Life was indeed fragile—a gift that could be taken back at any moment. He must wed—and bed—someone soon. He would not have the title die with him.
But he didn’t want to wed one of these stick-figure girls. No, he wanted a woman with some meat on her bones. A soft armful—a woman with full breasts and hips who made a comfortable bed herself—sweet, yielding, warm. No, not warm—hot. A woman with a body that made a man forget his own name.
A woman like the one who’d just entered the ballroom.
Zounds! He straightened and closed his mouth. He did not care to appear the complete gape-seed if she should look in his direction.
She was beautiful. Tall, much taller than the older woman at her side, with glorious, wonderful, lusciously full curves. The neck of her gown was, sadly, too high—it covered far too much of her lovely porcelain skin. He would love to touch that skin with his fingers and lips and tongue. Mmm.
And her hair? Also lovely. It was gathered high on her head, a few tendrils escaping to frame her face. His fingers twitched to burrow through that silky mass, freeing the copper-colored length to tumble over her shoulders. Her naked shoulders.
Her naked breasts.
Could they be as large as they looked?
She took a step; turned to talk to her companion. The skirt of her dress pulled tight for a moment, outlining her hips and long, long legs.
Bloody hell, he was almost panting.
Who was she? Perhaps Alex knew. “Alex.”
“What is it?” Alex glanced over his shoulder. “Are you still hiding?”
“No. The Addisons are on the other side of the room. But come here, will you? I’ve got a question for you.”
“Very well.” Alex stepped around the palms. “Always glad to be of service, of course.”
David gestured toward the ballroom entrance. “Who is that woman?”
“Which woman? Surely you aren’t interested in one of the elderly ladies tottering down the stairs?”
“Of course not, you cabbage-head. It’s the tall, beautiful girl on the landing I’m asking about.”
“Oh.” Alex raised his eyes. “How should I know? She must have been in leading strings—if she was even born—last time I was in London.”
“So you have no idea who she is?” Damn. David felt a stab of disappointment.
“No.” Alex raised an eyebrow. “Why are you so anxious to identify the chit? Has she stolen something of yours that you need to alert the Bow Street Runners about?”
Yes. My heart.
God, he hadn’t said that aloud had he? No, Alex was still looking at him with that faintly amused expression. If he’d spoken it, the man’s jaw would be on the floor.
And it wasn’t true in any event. Yes, one of his organs was definitely engaged—and wished to be much more intimately engaged—but it wasn’t his heart.
“Of course not. It’s just that I’ve decided…” David cleared his throat. “That is, I believe the lady would make an excellent baroness.”
“What?” Now Alex’s jaw did drop, and he sloshed champagne on his waistcoat. “Are you daft?”
“No.” David might not know the woman’s name, but he knew he wanted her. She was the first woman he’d seen who’d provoked any, er…interest in him at all. In fact his interest was so great it threatened to become embarrassing.
She wouldn’t be crushed in his bed. He might need to be gentle with her sensibilities, but her body would fit his perfectly. He took a mouthful of champagne, but he barely tasted it. Regrettably, his body was all too anxious to see exactly how well they would fit. He’d best find a way to control his raging interest before he made her acquaintance. She might be more than a little startled if he fell on her like a lust-driven schoolboy.
Her companion had stepped forward so her profile was now visible. David nodded at her. “Perhaps you know that woman, then. I imagine she must be the girl’s mother.”
“I don’t know why you think I—” Alex looked up at the woman and stiffened. “No.” He sounded oddly agitated. “I wouldn’t…she’s rather…she looks—” He made a strangling sound.
“What’s the matter?” Alex was reacting damn peculiarly. David studied the older woman. She wasn’t doing anything unusual—just looking around the ballroom. Her gaze came to Alex…Her mouth fell open, her eyes grew wide, and all the color drained from her face. She grabbed her daughter’s arm.
Ah, the daughter. She was looking at him now, and a very attractive flush swept up her neck to cover her cheeks. Did it also sweep down her body? How fervently he wished he could see…
He could almost feel her eyes on his shoulders, his face. Her tongue slipped out to moisten her lips.
He’d seen women look at him before. This girl wanted him. She probably didn’t know that yet…she was far too innocent to recognize what she was feeling, but he would be more than happy—dashed delighted!—to explain it all to her. In detail. In lovely, hot, wet, slow detail.
“Bloody hell,” Alex murmured. It couldn’t be. Alex squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them again.
It was. Damn. It was Kate.
After all these years, he was in the same room as Lady Kate Belmont—except now she was the Countess of Oxbury.
But Oxbury was dead, had been dead a year. He’d died around the same time as Mama and Da.
Kate had closed her mouth and was turning away, her hand grasping the arm of…her daughter?
No, that wasn’t her daughter. It couldn’t be. He’d kept track. She and Oxbury had had no children. No sons—the title had passed to Oxbury’s cousin—but no daughters, either.
He was embarrassed to admit it, but it had always comforted him that Kate had had no children with Oxbury. He snorted. Did he think her relationship with her husband had been platonic? Unlikely, though Oxbury had been thirty years older than she.
He watched her walk off with the girl. She was still very pale.
David grabbed his arm again. “You do know the pair. Can you introduce me?”
“No!” Kate would have nothing to do with him or with David—with any Wilton. And the girl…she must be a relative. Kate’s brother, the Earl of Standen, had had a daughter…
Even worse.
David was scowling at him. Alex took a calming breath. “The older woman is the Earl of Oxbury’s widow.”
“And the girl? They are obviously together. They must be related in some way—the age difference is too great for them to be merely friends. Yet if the matron is the Countess of Oxbury…”
“She is definitely the countess. I think the girl must be her niece—the Earl of Standen’s daughter.” The bloody bastard.
“So, can you introduce me?”
“No.” Approach Kate? She would probably spit on him.
“Why not? You obviously know Lady Oxbury.”
“I knew Lady Oxbury. I doubt she’d recognize me now.”
David choked on his champagne. “Oh, I’d say she definitely recognizes you, Unc
le Alex.”
Why the hell was David grinning at him? “I meant recognize. She’ll give me the cut direct if I try to speak to her.”
“I don’t think so. Introduce me,” David said. “I may not be quite as lofty as an earl, but my barony is an old, respected one. I—”
“You have not been attending. Clear your mind of lust. This has nothing to do with you. Did you not hear the girl’s father’s name? She is the daughter of the Earl of Standen.”
“So? I can—oh.” David’s arrested expression would have been comical in other circumstances.
“Exactly. Standen. The man whom your mother, Lady Harriet, jilted to run off with your father. I assure you, the Earl of Standen hates all Wiltons. He will not—he will never—consider your suit.”
David considered Alex’s slightly strident tone, flushed face, and set jaw.
The Earl of Standen’s daughter…damn. That was a problem, but not an insurmountable one, surely? He’d never met Standen, but the man couldn’t be a complete idiot. He must have moved on from those long ago events—he’d married, had a daughter.
“Surely Standen has got over his disappointment,” David said.
Alex snorted. “The earl has got over nothing.”
“But the scandal was more than thirty years ago. From what Grandmamma said, the earl should be falling on his knees every night and thanking God he didn’t get buckled to mama. She was much too young and too wild to suit him.”
Alex shrugged. “I can assure you the earl harbors no good thoughts concerning our family. He’d drag his sister naked down St. James’s Street before he’d give his consent for a Belmont to marry a Wilton.”
“How do you know that?”
“He told me so himself,” Alex said, his voice more bitter than David had ever heard it, “twenty-three years ago when I asked to marry his sister.”
Chapter 2
“Are you certain you’re all right, Aunt Kate?”
“Ah. Oh. Er…” She certainly was not all right. Thank God the retiring room was empty. Her loss of composure was bad enough—at least she was not enacting a spectacle for an interested audience.
She had to get hold of her emotions before she went back out into the ballroom.
Kate clasped her hands and tried to stop gulping air. If only she could loosen her stays. She should never have had Marie, her maid, lace them so tightly, but she’d stupidly wanted to look young again, slim and virginal and seventeen. Impossible. Marie could tighten her stays until the strings broke, she’d still have lines at the corner of her eyes, threads of gray in her hair…
She wasn’t seventeen any longer. Alex must have been shocked—horrified—to see how she’d aged.
Oh, Alex…
Kate moaned slightly. Breathe in through her nose; out through her mouth. In. Out. Stop panicking.
“Here, try your vinaigrette.” Grace waved the small, aromatic box under Kate’s nose.
“No, I—ah!” Kate’s head snapped up as she inhaled the pungent scent.
“Do you feel better?”
“Ah.” No, she was just more aware of how miserable she felt. Could she spend the entire evening here in the retiring room?
Definitely not. She was Grace’s chaperone. She had to go out into the…
Breathe.
Grace was still waving the vinaigrette in her face. Kate snatched it from her and snapped it shut.
Most likely Alex—Mr. Wilton—hadn’t even noticed her entrance, didn’t remember her or the unfortunate incidents of her long-ago Season, had absolutely no recollection of that mortifying scene in this very garden…
“Ohh.” She covered her face with her hands.
“Aunt Kate, you sound like you’re in pain.”
“No, no, I’m fine.” She waved the hand with the vinaigrette in Grace’s direction.
Had Alex noticed her arrival? She’d been too shocked to see, let alone comprehend, his expression.
“What is the problem?” Grace said. “Is there something…odd about those two men?”
Two men? There were two men? Kate tried to clear some of her distress from her mind. Oh, yes—the other man—the younger one who looked so like Alex. He must be Alex’s nephew, the product of the first Wilton-Belmont scandal.
Why in God’s name was Alex here anyway? He should be safely in the country. What infernal coincidence had sent him to London precisely when she’d chosen to come?
His parents had died around the same time as Oxbury. Perhaps that was it. Death did have a way of making one reevaluate one’s life. Oxbury’s passing had certainly forced her to do some soul searching.
“Aunt Kate…”
Kate flushed. She had barely admitted it to herself, but she had thought…only in a general way, of course…that while Grace was looking for a husband, she might also take a glance around the London ballrooms. Oh, not for another husband—though Oxbury’s heir was certainly making living in the dower house miserable—but for…
Well, she was a widow, and widows were allowed—almost expected to take—certain…liberties. She’d considered…
But she had never expected to see Alex.
Twenty-three years ago, she’d been eager for excitement and surprises. She’d had her head full of silly dreams of handsome men and stolen kisses. Of love and marriage. Of happily ever after.
She was wiser now. She knew life might hold contentment, if one worked hard and had a modicum of luck, but happily ever after? That was only for fairy tales.
But Alex was here. Could it be…was it possible…?
“Aunt Kate, what is the matter with you? Are you ill? Do you need to leave?”
Yes, yes. She needed to leave—leave this ball, leave London. Go home where it was safe, where she could hide.
But she couldn’t hide. Oxbury, with its comforting, orderly house and neatly trimmed lawns, wasn’t her home any longer, and if she fled Town, Grace would have to go with her. She’d miss her Season and her chance to find a husband of her own choosing.
She would not let Grace be forced by circumstances—by Standen—to make the same mistake she’d made…not if she could help it.
“Aunt Kate!” Grace had resorted to shaking her shoulder.
“What?” Kate blinked and looked up. A very worried expression twisted Grace’s features.
“Should we send someone to fetch the carriage?”
“No. No, of course not.” Kate moistened her lips and smoothed her skirt with hands that didn’t shake very much at all. “I am perfectly fine.”
Grace opened her mouth, but Kate put up a hand to stop the words she knew were coming.
“No, truly. I am fine. I had a brief attack of nerves, that’s all.” She forced a smile. “It has been many years since I’ve stepped into a London ballroom. I was momentarily overcome, but I have recovered.” She stood and shook out her skirts. “Come, let’s go back to the ballroom.”
Grace crossed her arms. “Not until you explain what just happened.”
Kate wished Grace wouldn’t loom in such a disconcerting fashion. “I have just explained. I lost my composure briefly.”
Grace’s left eyebrow flew up so she looked just like her father at his most skeptical. Kate had always hated that expression on Standen. Since their parents had died when she was young, she’d seen that look growing up more times than she cared to consider. At least it was better than the cold, haughty expression he assumed when he was furious—as he had been the last time she’d been in London.
“I may be new to Town, Aunt Kate, but I am not a complete flat. You’ve been remarkably calm this whole trip. I cannot think even a ballroom full of the ton could set you to quaking—especially as your nervous attack did not commence until you saw the tall, older gentleman by the potted palms. Who is he?” Grace grinned. “And, more importantly, who is his companion?”
Oh, dear. Grace’s eyes were sparkling. This would never do. Of all the men in London—of all the men in the world—this was the one man Grace could never have.
“I’m not certain.” Kate tried to leave, but Grace caught her arm.
“Who do you think they are?”
Kate sighed. Grace obviously wasn’t going to let her leave without giving her an answer. “I haven’t seen the older man in years, and I’ve never met the younger, but, well, I believe…”
“Yes?” Grace’s nostrils flared and her jaw clenched. If she were her father, she’d start shouting now. “Who are they, Aunt Kate?”
“I believe the older gentleman is Mr. Alexander Wilton and the younger is Mr. Wilton’s nephew, Baron Dawson.”
“Oh.” Grace blinked.
Kate felt slightly relieved. At least Grace appeared to be aware of the problem. She should only require a small word of warning to avoid the men. “I assume your father has mentioned the family?”
“Occasionally.” Grace bit her lip. Yes, she’d heard Papa mention the baron—this baron’s grandfather. Usually it was “that bloody Dawson” followed by a detailed condemnation of the man and his family, past, present, and future. She’d made the mistake once of asking Papa why he disliked Lord Dawson so much. She’d never got a clear answer, only more curses and then tight-lipped silence.
The old baron died a year ago, shortly after Lord Oxbury. That was also when Papa decided she needed to marry John. She’d thought the impetus for his matrimonial mania had been Lord Oxbury’s demise, but now she wasn’t so sure.
“Why does Papa dislike the Wiltons so, Aunt Kate? It’s not as though they are our neighbors. As far as I know, Papa has never met the two gentlemen who are here tonight. Or is it only the old baron he detests? I’ve asked him, but he won’t say.”
Of course he wouldn’t say, Kate thought, and he especially wouldn’t tell his daughter. It was not Kate’s place to reveal Standen’s secrets—and she didn’t relish discussing her own past indiscretions, either. “It’s enough for you to know you must avoid these men.”
Grace’s brows snapped down. She looked extremely mulish—another expression she’d got from her father. “That’s ridiculous. If you can’t—or won’t—tell me what the problem is, then I’ll just have to ask Lord Dawson.” Grace lifted her left eyebrow again. “I assume he knows?”
