Damsel in Distress

by Joan Smith

  The Marquess of Dolmain! Now, what the devil was he doing here? Quite a feather in the committee’s cap to have got him to come. He seldom festooned these social events with his presence. He was extremely eligible. A bachelor—well, widower—of a certain age, good character, excellent fortune. She felt her interest quicken. She lifted her lustrous violet eyes and smiled demurely. Lord Dolmain returned the smile, with a slight inclination of his head.

  Caroline found his stern face was greatly improved by a smile. Although she had known him to speak to for a decade, he had never been one of Julian’s set. It had seemed odd that, while Julian spoke of him as a “youngster,” he was a decade older than herself. Dolmain was a more serious sort of gentleman than her husband. She knew he was a political animal, holding some prestigious post in the government. Horse Guards, was it?

  “As you see, I am rapidly running through my fortune,” she replied nonchalantly. “It is all for a good cause. Are you not betting, milord?”

  “Certainly I am. That is why I am here.”

  “Then place your bet, sir.”

  He placed a ten-pound counter on 16-17, à cheval, and lost. Caro placed one counter on each of the last five numbers, and also lost. They repeated the procedure, using different combinations and numbers, and lost again. Her pile of counters was rapidly diminishing.

  “Why do you not switch to ten-pound counters?” he suggested.

  “Because it is ten times more exciting this way,” she replied.

  He saw the glitter in her violet eyes, and felt a stab of anger. “And ten times more risky,” he said curtly.

  She tossed her head in dismissal of such caviling. “That is what gambling is all about, n’est-ce pas? I like a risk. Are you afraid to play more deeply?” she taunted. “It is all for a good cause.”

  It had been Dolmain’s experience that a gambler could always find a reason—or an excuse. Their luck was running tonight, or if it was not, then obviously their luck was about to turn. Marie had been the same. Lady Winbourne reminded him somewhat of his late wife. She had the same beautiful, impertinent shoulders, and that same lively manner, cavalier, not taking life too seriously.

  He felt a strong interest, and hardly knew whether it was attraction or repulsion. In any case, the lady was certainly losing more than she could afford. It would be a kindness to remove her from the table. It did not occur to Dolmain that he could always find an excuse to throw himself in the path of a charming lady.

  “Come, let us dance,” he said.

  “I should love it of all things!” She scooped the few remaining counters up and handed them to Dolmain to put in his pocket. “I shall play again later,” she said, and they walked away to the ballroom.

  This was the really enjoyable part of the evening for her, and her eyes skimmed the room for eligible gentlemen. She was astonished to realize how many of them she had already tried to fall in love with, and failed. Lord Neville, too stodgy; Sir James Pyke, too rakish; Lord Anscombe, a wickedly engaging fortune hunter.

  The Season was amazingly thin of partis—and there would be so many pretty young debs in competition for them. As her eyes darted from dark head to brown to blond, she felt her enthusiasm dwindle. Really it was all becoming rather a bore. She remembered her first ball—it seemed aeons ago—when she had been so nervous. Now she was one of the blasé matrons. But Dolmain, at least, was interesting.

  She turned to him and said, “I am a little surprised you came here tonight, Dolmain.”

  As he replied, his eyes raked her slowly from head to toe in the age-old way of a gentleman when he has found a lady who interests him. “I am mighty glad I did,” he said.

  She did not lower her eyes in maidenly modesty or blush at his bold assessment. She lifted her head and said flirtatiously, “And so am I, milord. Your pockets are deep. I hope you plan to dip into them for me.” Now, why was he looking at her like that? “For my orphans, I mean,” she added.

  “Shame on you, Lord Dolmain,” she teased. “What were you thinking?” Had she imagined that glint of interest? Was it even remotely possible that Dolmain was on the lookout for a mistress?

  “I was thinking you are a brass-faced minx, Lady Winbourne,” he replied flirtatiously. “I had not realized you considered the orphans your own personal charge.”

  “I have long been interested in them.”

  Dolmain studied her every move. Despite his seldom running into Lady Winbourne, he was by no means unaware of her existence. He had envied Julian his prize the first day he saw her and had followed her career with some interest. One marriage had been enough to satisfy him. Of course, a lord did require a son and heir. He must marry some worthy lady one day.

  In the meanwhile, there was nothing unusual in seeking the company of an obliging young widow to ease the pangs of lonesomeness. Whether Caro was obliging in that respect, he had yet to discover. Certainly no aroma of sanctity surrounded her. She was young; she was beautiful; presumably she missed her husband and was taking her pleasure where she found it—until she nabbed another husband. The trick would be to make sure he didn’t end up in that role.

  “Oh, good! A waltz!” she exclaimed, when the music began.

  Dolmain welcomed the waltz, too. This new fad was the only thing that enabled a gentleman to publicly hold a lady in his arms without censure. Once the music began, he gathered her into his arms; they ceased talking and swirled about the floor in perfect harmony. She moved with the ease and grace of a fairy. Caroline was known as a marvelous dancer; she was surprised to see all her skills were required to keep pace with Dolmain.

  She tilted her head back and gazed at him until he felt he was drowning in the depths of her long-lashed eyes. “Where did you learn to waltz like this?” she asked dreamily.

  “At Whitehall,” he replied soberly, but a lambent flicker of amusement flashed in his eyes as he said it. “Now that I have made my debut, however, I look forward to performing in public again soon—with you.”

  She drew her head back and cast a coquettish smile at him. “How nice. I expect we shall meet here and there.”

  “Very likely, but I prefer less happenstance in my dealings. Shall we say, tomorrow at four?”

  “You have been out of it longer than you realize, Dolmain. Waltzes do not begin at four, unless you are suggesting we attend some deb’s waltzing lessons.”

  “Nothing of the sort. You and I are well past the age where we require lessons, I meant we might go for a drive. It is difficult to hold any rational conversation at a place like this.”

  “I am not much good at rational discourse,” she warned. “I leave that to you politicians. My forte is nonsense.”

  He lowered his head and whispered in her ear, “I shall let you in on all the naughty on-dits at Whitehall.”

  His lips tickled her ear, as he breathed into it. She gave an impish grin. “Is it true there is a war going on with some Frenchie—what is his name, now? Ah, Napoleon Bonaparte. That’s it.”

  “And you told me your forte was nonsense. You are up to all the rigs. But seriously, Lady Winbourne, may I call tomorrow?”

  “I would be honored,” she said graciously. A spurt of triumph thrilled through her. Lord Dolmain would add a touch of class to her court of escorts. Yet she could not quite envisage him being content to be one of a throng.

  When the waltzes were over, he accompanied her to the refreshment parlor. Due to the crowd, he walked a pace behind her. Warmed by the waltz, she let her shawl slip low over her shoulders, revealing the daring cut of her gown. Dolmain’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

  “Don’t say it,” she warned, with a saucy look tossed over her shoulder, for she suspected he would be shocked at her gown.

  “I was not going to disparage it. How else could you show off that charming beauty mark? The gown is very nice, too.”

  “Thank you. Champagne for me, if you please. It is an extravagance to serve it at a charity do, but it draws the better class. Orgeat is so old-fashioned,” she
said, with a tsk of disapproval.

  “I assume, then, that you are a thoroughly modern lady?” he asked, and listened closely for her reply.

  “I try to keep in the vanguard. I approve of all modern innovations—waltzing and Byron’s poems and damped gowns.”

  “We think alike, you and I,” he said approvingly.

  “Then you, too, are ready to return to the roulette table,” she said, when her glass was empty.

  “Have another glass of wine first,” he said, hoping to minimize her losses.

  “Why, Dolmain, are you trying to get me intoxicated?”

  “No, to keep you to myself a little longer.”

  She was flattered that he was enjoying her company, and had another glass. They flirted outrageously, each pleased with the other. The evening was not going as she expected, but it was enjoyable. After the second glass of wine, she insisted on returning to the gaming room, and Dolmain had no option but to return the counters he held for her.

  He suggested she change her hundred-pound chips for ten-pound ones. “You gamble your way, I’ll stick to my own. You must not try to change me, Lord Dolmain.”

  “Oh, come, now. You must allow me to try, at least.”

  As he played macao, he kept one eye on Caroline. He noticed that she was losing steadily, and seemed to be sad. He assumed she was regretting her losses, yet she kept on playing.

  It was her memories of Julian that caused her wistfulness. She was bound to think of him on this special occasion. He was the one who had initiated gaming night, and now it had grown into this spectacular event. It seemed a fitting memorial to him.

  How pleased he would have been to see his scandalous idea so successful—and how amused that it was now as respectable as the queen’s drawing room. Three cabinet ministers were here. As the croupier raked her last counter off the board, she sighed with relief. Now she could go back to dancing.

  Once away from the throng, she was ambushed by memories of other gaming nights, when she and Julian had gone out on the town after the last guest left, then gone home and made passionate love. She retired to a quiet alcove to think.

  It was there that Dolmain found her. He had seen her leave the table, noticed her distraught air, and wondered just how much she had lost. She looked pale and sad.

  “Let me take you home, Lady Winbourne,” he said gently.

  She looked up, startled to see him. Caught up in her memories, at his first appearance she had the absurd idea that he was Julian, “Yes, I would like to go home now,” she said. The dancing she had been anticipating had lost its attraction. She would just go home to bed—and her memories of Julian.

  “I came with Mr. Newton,” she said. “I should tell him—”

  “I shall tell him you are going home with me.” Dolmain called for his carriage, then went to the faro table and gave Newton the message.

  “What, Caro leaving before the last dog is hung?” Newt asked. “That ain’t like her. Too much wine, I expect. Thankee, Dolmain. I have won a monkey. Wouldn’t you know tonight I would win, when I have to stay until I lose it all again.”

  When Dolmain returned to her, he was solicitous of her comfort. He held her velvet wrap, and when he accompanied her to his carriage, he gave her his arm. In the shadowed carriage, he sat, not across from her, but on the banquette beside her.

  “You seem sad, Lady Winbourne,” he said, with some sympathy. “I hope you have not lost more than you can afford?”

  “Oh no. It is not that,” she assured him.

  Of course, gamblers always denied their heavy losses. “Then what is troubling you?” he asked.

  Dolmain didn’t seem the kind of gentleman she could confide her innermost heart to. She shook herself out of her mood and replied, “I was just remembering my first Season. It seems so long ago.”

  “If it is any consolation, mine was a good deal longer ago than yours. You are still young, and very beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” she said, placing her hand on his. “It is sweet of you to try to cheer me up, Dolmain. Actually, I was thinking of my husband. He loved our gaming night. But then, he enjoyed all of life, and made it enjoyable for others, too. Especially me,” she added softly.

  His hand closed comfortingly over hers. “It is hard to let go of the past, when the past was good,” he said. “As you probably know, I am a widower myself.”

  “Yes, I know.” It helped to have someone to share her memories with. Someone who understood, and felt as she felt.

  “Life goes on, and we must go on with it. It is unhealthy to harp on the past. Let us try, if we can, to comfort each other.”

  “That would be nice,” she said.

  He drew her head onto his shoulder and put his arm around her, as the first step to embracing her more fully. He was somewhat surprised when she said in a trusting voice, “I never thought you would be so understanding, Dolmain. You always looked so toplofty, but you are very nice. I expect it was sorrow that made you look so severe.”

  “Severe! Is that how I looked to you? And here I thought I was wearing a smile, at least when I went into company.”

  “You have got it all wrong. A smile turns the lips up.” She playfully placed her fingers at the ends of his lips and drew them up. “Like that. You will soon get on to it.”

  He was about to pull her into his arms when she drew away. Tomorrow would be time enough to sound her out on what he had in mind. He knew Lady Winbourne had drunk a good deal of wine, and it would be ungentlemanly to take advantage of her. When he escorted her to the door of her house, he just kissed her lightly on the cheek, and said, “Sleep tight, milady.”

  Caroline went straight up to bed and fell asleep quickly, but awoke in the middle of the night with a sense of something left undone. What was it? She had said good night to Julian. But she had not told him about Dolmain. Was that it? She thought of Dolmain’s unexpected kindness. Like her, he was lonesome. He must have been very much in love with his wife, to be still missing her after all these years. He seemed very nice. Perhaps she could help him forget....

  Chapter Three

  Dolmain came the next afternoon at four, as agreed. On that fine spring afternoon, he was driving his open sporting carriage, a yellow curricle with shining silver appointments, drawn by a pair of blood grays. Caro knew at a glance that he cared more for his carriage and horses than for his toilette. His jacket was a fine piece of tailoring, but it was simply cut. His shirt points were low, and his cravat neither large nor intricate.

  It was the custom for the ton to meet at the barrier at Hyde Park around four to gossip and discuss their evening plans. She expected they would go there, but when Dolmain suggested a drive out the Chelsea Road, she was happy to go along with it.

  “As I sat in the House, looking out the window at the blue sky, I felt an urge to be in the country—with you,” he said.

  “Why me?”

  “You are a little prettier than my groom,” he replied blandly.

  “Flattery will get you nowhere, Dolmain.”

  “Then I must think of some other ploy. I hope you have no objection to the open carriage?”

  “I love it, especially in the country, with the wind in my hair. I shall take off my bonnet after we get out of town.”

  “Are you not afraid of freckles?” he asked, using it as an excuse to study her face. How youthful she looked, yet she was no green girl. She had been on the town for a decade.

  “Not in the least. Why do you think God created rice powder?”

  Once beyond city traffic, she removed her bonnet. The wind had its way with her raven curls, whipping them to and fro. It also brought a rosy flush to her ivory cheeks. The farms they drove by provided a subject for conversation. He was surprised to hear her speak knowledgeably of cows and corn and chickens. After they had driven five miles, she suggested they turn back.

  “I thought we might stop at some small inn for tea,” he said. In the more intimate atmosphere of a civilized private parlor, the roman
ce would progress more quickly.

  “Would an ale not be more enjoyable? I am feeling bucolic today, after seeing all those cows. We passed a small tavern on our way out of town. There it is, Jack Duck’s Tavern.”

  He blinked in surprise. “But ladies don’t go to places like that.”

  “I do. I depend on you to protect me.”

  “I doubt we will be physically attacked in broad daylight,” he said uncertainly.

  “Daylight is a sovereign prevention to be sure, but I only meant an attack on my fair name, if anyone should see us being so unstylish.”

  “Who will protect my reputation?”

  “No one would dare to censure Lord Dolmain. You are above reproach. Something quite new for me, to have such an escort. What is the point of stepping out with such a top-of-the-trees gentleman if he cannot protect you from censure?”

  “In that case, we may misbehave as much as we like, I take it?”

  “Why, we may even throw caution to the winds and have two glasses of ale.”

  He admired her adroit manner of ignoring his leading statements. Caro paid no heed to the sawdust on the floor and the plain deal table. When the innkeeper’s dog strolled in and sat at her feet, she reached down and patted it.

  “That dog has fleas,” he warned her.

  “Poor dog. Why don’t they give him a bath with lye soap?”

  “I see no evidence of soap ever being used in this place,” Dolmain replied, casting an eye over the dim windows.

  After two tankards of ale, Caro suggested they return to town. Dolmain was sorry the outing was over. He had enjoyed himself—but he had not gotten an inch closer to seducing her.

  “Will you be at the ball this evening?” she asked, as they drove back.

  No further identification of the party was necessary. “The ball” that evening was Lady Castlereagh’s ball, the first large one of the new Season. It promised to be a glittering affair. Castlereagh was the foreign secretary, and his wife was one of the patronesses of Almack’s, the most prestigious club in London. Dolmain’s work brought him in frequent contact with Castlereagh, and despite the difference in their politics, they were friends. Dolmain had previously accepted an invitation to dine with the Castlereaghs before the ball, so Caro would go with Newt, as she had already arranged.