He said this with so much the air of one bestowing an extravagant amount of praise that Gabby’s lower lip quivered, and her smile turned, momentarily, genuine with real amusement.
Then it faded altogether as she pictured herself on her wedding night, in his bed.
But now was not the time to be thinking of that.
“Thank you,” she said, determinedly smiling again.
“Oh, look, there’s Wickham. I asked him most specifically to come tonight, but as it’s almost eleven I had nearly given him up. Well. What a splendid figure he cuts, to be sure.”
Aunt Augusta’s voice in her ear prompted Gabby to glance up. There, indeed, was Wickham. He stood just inside the doorway, resplendent in elegant black evening attire, glancing about him as he talked in a desultory fashion to another gentleman who had apparently entered with him.
“He is quite the best looking of the Bannings, I think,” Lady Sefton observed judiciously from Aunt Augusta’s other side. “Except for Lady Claire, of course. They are quite a dazzling pair of siblings.” She lowered her voice and spoke only to Aunt Augusta, no doubt expecting that in the hubbub no one else would be able to hear her words. “I understand that the youngest one is no beauty either?”
Gabby, thanks to a sudden hush, overheard and understood the implied insult to herself, but wasn’t troubled by it in the least. Wickham was the masculine equivalent of Claire, she thought. She observed that a great many feminine heads had turned to remark his entrance. The ladies whispered to each other behind their hands, and then let their gazes linger on him for rather too long for mere casual interest in a new arrival. Realizing that she, too, was guilty of staring, she took herself in hand, and turned her attention firmly back to Mr. Jamison.
“Your brother is coming this way,” Jamison said, defeating the purpose. He had released her hand and was looking past her, and something in his expression told Gabby that he found Wickham intimidating. Of course, for all Mr. Jamison’s maturity, Wickham’s consequence was by far the greater, and as for his person—well, there was no comparison. Mr. Jamison continued hurriedly: “I will come for your answer tomorrow, if I may, when we may be private together. I should never have said so much as I did, in such a public place, but you may flatter yourself that my eagerness is such that I simply got carried away.”
On pins and needles at the prospect of Wickham’s imminent arrival while simultaneously striving to appear unconscious of it, Gabby managed a dutiful smile and a nod for her suitor. Inwardly, she was most thankful for the reprieve.
Having resolutely refused to look his way again, Gabby felt his presence before she saw him. As acutely as she might sense heat from a stove, she felt the force of his presence as he stopped at her side. Then he said something and she could no longer avoid looking up. When she did, it was to find him looming above her, greeting Aunt Augusta and Lady Sefton with a smile, and shaking hands with Mr. Jamison, who was on his feet now, before glancing down at her.
“Enjoying yourself, Gabriella?” he asked with a lazy smile.
“Immensely,” she replied with cool self-possession.
He laughed, and turned his attention to Mr. Jamison. The two men stood chatting for a few minutes, quite ignoring her, while Gabby responded at random to some remark of Aunt Augusta’s that she never even heard and struggled to keep a pleasant expression on her face. He had come tonight purely to torment her, she knew—and torment was exactly the right word for what he was doing. She was hideously conscious that he stood no more than an arm’s length away, though she never once glanced his way.
Suddenly he was at her elbow again, looking down at her. She had, perforce, to glance up. Something in his eyes—a wicked gleam, a teasing smile—warned her, but she was powerless to prevent what happened next.
“My dance, I think, Gabriella,” he said. She looked up at him with eyes grown suddenly wide. The musicians, she realized, had struck up a waltz.
“Lady Gabriella does not dance,” Mr. Jamison interjected in an urgent undertone, as though to remind Wickham of Gabby’s affliction, before Gabby could reply.
“Oh, she does with the right partner,” he replied carelessly. “Our steps are well matched.”
“My dear, if you can dance, by all means do so,” Lady Augusta muttered in her ear. “I had thought—but seeing that you can do so might make all the difference.”
Gabby pursed her lips, but had no chance to reply to this. Lady Sefton was smiling encouragingly at her.
“You’d best hurry along, Lady Gabriella, or you’ll miss your chance. Wickham is a partner most ladies would kill for! Of course, he is your brother, which I am sure quite takes the thrill out of it, but still. You may go along.”
“Gabriella, you observe me still waiting,” Wickham said with a smile, holding out his hand to her.
Not wishing, in so public a venue, to plead her lameness as an excuse, especially when Wickham, the rat, was perfectly capable of overriding such a concern anyway, Gabby smiled, too, and placed her hand in his, allowing him to draw her to her feet. Under Aunt Augusta’s and Lady Sefton’s benevolent gazes, and Mr. Jamison’s slightly frowning one, Gabby tucked her hand in Wickham’s arm and was thus borne away.
“You beast. I don’t wish to dance. Especially not in public. How dare you force my hand in such a way?” she hissed as they walked away.
“You deserve to dance, Gabriella. Take my word for it, you don’t wish to be wed to a man who doesn’t realize it.”
They had gained the dance floor, and he was taking her into his arms.
“What would you know about it?” As his arm slid around her waist and he took her hand in his, she suddenly looked at him with horror in her eyes. “You aren’t by any chance married, are you?”
He grinned. “There’s that unfortunate jealousy of yours again. No, I’m not married. Come, Gabriella, stop scowling at me. People will think we’re quarreling.”
“We are quarreling,” Gabby said through gritted teeth, as he swung her into the dance. But she smiled at him, nonetheless, and danced, and took joy in the dancing. His arm around her was firm, his hand holding hers was warm, and the shoulder she rested her hand on was wide and strong. She knew that she was safe in his arms, knew he wouldn’t let her fall, and so she was able to follow his lead with confidence, and even relax. The music was intoxicating, and, she discovered with some surprise, she was actually having fun.
“You were born to dance, Gabriella.” He swung her expertly around. “You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you? Your eyes are sparkling and your cheeks are pink and you’re smiling at me quite nicely now.”
“You are utterly loathsome, you know.” But she said it without heat, and her eyes as they met his gave her words the lie.
“And you are beautiful. Here, don’t color up. You blush far too easily.” He was laughing at her.
Aware that her cheeks were indeed flaming—blushing easily was the curse of the fair-skinned—Gabby glanced self-consciously at the dancing pairs around them. To her relief, she saw that no one seemed to be paying them the least attention, for which she was thankful. In truth, being held so close to him was wreaking havoc with her senses. She was noticing things about him that it would be better, perhaps, if she did not. The shoulder beneath her hand was solid with muscle. The cloth of his evening coat felt silky smooth. His hand holding hers was decidedly masculine in feel, and far bigger than her own. His throat was a strong brown column, and the faintest shadow of stubble could be seen on his strong jaw. His mouth, that beautifully shaped mouth, was smiling. . . .
“There’s no need to offer me Spanish coin,” she said with dignity, taking care with her steps as he whirled her around with the rest of the circling couples. Balancing on the ball of her foot worked well, she thought; unless someone looked very closely, she doubted that they would be able to tell that she was lame. She found it marvelous, suddenly, that she had never before realized that she could dance. But then, until now, she had never had a reason to want to.
“What, don’t you think I meant it? I did, I promise you. Shall I go into detail? Fairest Gabriella, your eyes are the color of small flat stones at the bottom of a sparkling clear pond. Your hair makes me think of the richest of autumn leaves. Your mouth—but there you go blushing again. I’ll have to leave off, or we’ll have everyone in the room wondering what we’re talking about.”
Gabby indeed felt another rush of heat to her face, and narrowed her eyes threateningly at him.
“I wouldn’t blush if you wouldn’t tease.”
“What makes you think I’m teasing?”
He wasn’t smiling now. Their gazes locked, and Gabby felt suddenly very, very warm. Something of what she was feeling must have shown in her expression, because, as his gaze moved over her face, his eyes darkened until they were the color of a stormy midnight sea.
31
The music ended then with a flourish. He twirled her around and they both came to a stop. Then, while Gabby was still dizzy—from either the dance or him, she wasn’t quite sure—he lifted the hand he still held to his mouth, and pressed his lips to it.
“To me, you are the most beautiful woman in the room,” he said softly.
She looked up at him, speechless, lips parting as she drew in a long, shaky breath. Their gazes met and held. The heat of his mouth seemed to sear her skin like a brand.
“You deserve better than Jamison, Gabriella.” His voice was softer still.
All around them couples were leaving the floor. Another dancer’s skirt brushed against hers, and, glancing instinctively at its wearer, Gabby intercepted a curious look. Brought back to reality just that suddenly, Gabby was alarmed by the realization that they were making a spectacle of themselves. Pulling her hand from his, aware too late that wondering glances were being cast their way, she stiffened her spine and lifted her chin with the effort of mentally pushing him away.
“I think you should take me back to my aunt.” Her voice was steady, and amazingly cool.
Apparently realizing, as she had, that they were attracting undue attention, he made no dissent, but did as she suggested. They were both of them uncharacteristically silent as he escorted her from the floor. He even, she saw with a sideways glance that she absolutely could not prevent, looked a little grim. Mr. Jamison was waiting, faithful as a dog, beside her aunt. Gabby could not help but compare the two men, to Mr. Jamison’s decided detriment. But, she reminded herself firmly as she released Wickham’s arm to move to Mr. Jamison’s side, there was style and there was substance, and Mr. Jamison was substance.
Wickham said no more than the few words civility dictated, then took himself off with a bow. Lady Maud came up just as Wickham was leaving, and settled into Lady Sefton’s vacated seat.
Gabby sat down again, discreetly fanning herself, and tried not to feel disgruntled as she watched Wickham leading first Claire, and then one of her blushing friends, onto the floor. What he did or whom he danced with was no concern of hers, she told herself sternly, and prepared to listen to Mr. Jamison prosing on about his children for the rest of the night. But that gentleman was unusually quiet, and Gabby began to frown as she caught him once or twice out of the corner of her eye, looking at her a little askance. Her worst fears were realized when Lady Maud, with a malicious glint, said brightly during the next intermission, “You are to be congratulated on having acquired such a—very fond brother in Wickham, Gabby.”
Gabby was proud of herself. Although the remark was a shock, in the face of such an emergency she didn’t even change color. Instead she managed a careless little laugh. “Indeed, Beth and Claire and I consider ourselves supremely fortunate. Wickham is the dearest creature. Having been raised in Ceylon, he has no notion of how cold-blooded we English generally are. He is most kind and affectionate to us all.”
Lady Maud looked disappointed, Gabby saw with satisfaction, and to her relief said no more on that head. Even Mr. Jamison, clearly having had a question he had not asked acceptably answered, seemed to warm up after that. Gabby watched Wickham go down the room with Lady Ware, and set her teeth. It was going to be a long night.
Mr. Jamison finally excused himself and headed for the card room; Lady Maud was drawn away by one of her friends. No sooner had they gone, leaving her temporarily alone with her aunt, than Aunt Augusta leaned over and hissed in her ear: “What was Wickham thinking, to kiss your hand like that? It looked most odd, let me tell you, such a gesture from your brother. I declare, I could shake the boy for so forgetting himself, foreign raised or not. Everyone was staring. Well. It is certainly no wonder. I was myself.”
Gabby, meeting her aunt’s condemnatory look, thought fast.
“He was apologizing,” she said with as much unconcern as she could muster. “We quarreled. He does not think I should marry Mr. Jamison, you see.”
Aunt Augusta looked full at her then, her eyes rounding with excitement, her mouth forming a little o. “Never say that Mr. Jamison has made you an offer?”
Gabby nodded, feeling suddenly rather wretched. Now, more than ever, she did not want to accept. Once Aunt Augusta knew, however, the die was all but cast. “He called on Wickham earlier today.”
“Oh, my dear, that’s just what I hoped would happen when I introduced you. Wickham does not favor the match? Why not, pray?” Aunt Augusta visibly bristled.
“I think he feels Mr. Jamison is rather old for me. But whatever he thinks, I mean to accept.”
Aunt Augusta’s face was suddenly wreathed in smiles, and she reached over to squeeze Gabby’s hand with approbation. “You are a smart, good girl. Wickham knows nothing of the matter, and so I mean to tell him before he is very much older. It’s all of a piece: clearly he has much to learn of our English ways. Well. It is not official yet, so I will say nothing more until it is! But you have done well for yourself, Gabriella. I am most pleased.”
Gabby knew her aunt was right: in attaching Mr. Jamison, she had done better for herself than she had had any right to expect. But the prospect of being wed to him was making her feel less happy by the moment, and her unhappiness had nothing to do with his prosaic appearance or his advanced age or even his seven children.
The cause of her unhappiness with her chosen lot stood well over six feet tall, smoked smelly cigars, and had truly gorgeous blue eyes. His touch set her on fire; his kisses made her head spin; twirling around the room in his arms—and she had done that, she reflected with pride, quite remarkably well—had made her realize that his arms were the only place on earth where she wanted to be.
Moonbeams and hot air or not.
But reality was a harsh, cold thing, and reality was what she had to face. Mr. Jamison was her future; Wickham—or whatever his true name was; it said much about the idiocy of her infatuation that she didn’t even know that much—was no more than a besotted maiden’s foolish dream.
A dream that threatened all she had worked so hard to achieve, she reminded herself sternly. There could be no more dances, no more kisses, with him. Tonight the polite world had had occasion to look at them askance. Rumors, once started, could be ruinous, she knew. She meant to give the gossips no more opportunity to dine out on tales of her behavior, on pain of endangering everything for herself and Claire and Beth. On the morrow she would accept Mr. Jamison, then wed him with the smallest possible delay, and thus assure her own and her sisters’ future.
Then she would sever all contact with Wickham.
When the inevitable happened, and he was found out, she, Claire, and Beth would be safe.
Wickham must have caught wind of the gossip as well, because he did not come near her again. He danced twice more after standing up with Lady Ware, once, crafty creature, with Desdemona and once with a female Gabby didn’t know. Then, scan the crowd though her wayward eyes might, she did not see him again. After a while she assumed, with a bewildering mix of emotions, that he must have left. Mr. Jamison reappeared, and asked her, wi
th a touch of self-consciousness, whether she would care to attempt a dance with him. When she assured him, with perfect truth, that she would not, he accepted her refusal with transparent relief and sat talking with her a while longer, until at last, at long last, it was time to go home.
Mr. Jamison had already taken his leave and she and Claire and Aunt Augusta were in the vestibule waiting for their carriage to be brought round, when Gabby suffered her second upset of the night. Stifling a yawn with difficulty, reflecting with increasing glumness on the prospect of becoming betrothed on the morrow, she stood in the shadow of one of the tall, slightly dusty potted palms that decorated the entry hall, a little way apart from the others, who were talking to various of their friends who likewise waited for their conveyances.
A gloved hand touched her bare arm just below the spangled scarf she had draped over her elbows. Gabby glanced around with a questioning smile that froze in place as she encountered, without warning, the Duke of Trent’s obsidian gaze. He was standing in the shadows, in full evening dress with a greatcoat thrown over all, his hat and the ubiquitous silver-knobbed walking stick in one hand. Obviously he was preparing to depart the premises. Had he been at Almack’s all the evening? If so, she hadn’t seen him. Perhaps he had been hidden away in a card room, or even in some quiet corner, watching the dancing. The thought of him spending all the evening so near, and her unaware, made her shiver.
“Ill met by moonlight, eh, Gabby?” he said in a low voice, and smiled at her. “Or should I say, from my point of view at least, well met?”
Gabby, glancing around, saw that their conversation was unobserved. Claire had her back turned and was laughing at something one of her friends had said, while Aunt Augusta, her head close together with that of Mrs. Dalrymple, had walked a little way apart with that lady, arm in arm.
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