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“There is nothing I wish to do less than attend another ball,” said Isobel, pulling her long white gloves up to the elbow with uncharacteristic force. “There is always such a crowd, and so many people to speak to, and such noise that nobody can even hear the music! And whenever I find a quiet spot to sit by myself and think, some officious old matron or another takes it upon herself to find me a partner!”
“Oh, the indignation!” said Selina, giving a theatrical sigh. “Only imagine having too many willing partners at a ball!”
“I will not listen to your admonishments,” said Isobel, as a footman settled her long red cloak about her shoulders. “You never dance. Why should I? I am one of nature’s wallflowers. I should not be expected to chatter and – and flirt!”
Selina put on her own cloak, navy blue and edged with white fur, and put her hand on Isobel’s shoulder to steer her out of the front door. “Nothing is preventing you doing exactly as I do, and saying no. The right of refusal is a lady’s prerogative, after all.”
“Oh, I should never dream of refusing someone the way you do! I would surely offend them, and then I would never forgive myself.”
“Then I believe your chief complaint is an excess of sympathy for the poor gentlemen who ask you.” Selina smiled indulgently as they settled themselves inside the carriage. It was a good thing that only the two of them were going, for the confusion of skirts and furs took up most of the available room.
Isobel pressed her lips together and looked out of the window, her eyes taking on a tearful brightness. Selina realised that there was more to her complaints than an unwillingness to dance.
“There is something else that’s troubling you, isn’t there?”
No response. Selina leaned forward and squeezed Isobel’s hand.
“If you are concerned that a particular gentleman will be at the ball – a particular gentleman who has recently returned to England, perhaps – then you needn’t fret. He was not invited. I saw Mrs Whitby at the dressmaker’s yesterday, and I made a point of asking.”
Isobel pulled out her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “I am a silly goose,” she muttered, mostly to herself. “Forgive me, Selina. I did not mean to be cross.” She tucked the handkerchief away and forced a smile. “I am glad you made me come. I would not wish to offend Mrs Whitby, or dear Georgiana.”
Georgiana Whitby was a close friend of Isobel’s, and the ball was in honour of the occasion of her twentieth birthday. It would be a private ball, as intimate as such things ever were, and Mrs Whitby was the nominal chaperone for the two Balfour ladies. Though Selina felt that her need for a chaperone grew more ridiculous each day.
Everything would be much simpler when she was well into middle age and could go about as she pleased without anyone remarking on such unnatural independence in an unmarried woman. After all, nobody ever suspected Aunt Ursula of impropriety, and she was not only unwed but a great deal more prone to misbehaviour than Selina had ever been.
“I wonder if we will see the Duke of Caversham this evening?” Isobel mused aloud. Selina was jerked from her pleasant thoughts of spinsterhood with a nasty start.
“Is he likely to be there?” It had not occurred to her to ask Mrs Whitby about the duke. Though, if she was honest with herself, perhaps the omission had been deliberate.
Selina did not like thinking too much about Malcolm. She particularly did not like to remember the way he had held her face for one strangely long moment in the drawing room, the laughter in his eyes replaced by something else entirely.
“Georgiana certainly wanted to invite him. She’s one of the chief followers of His Gorgeous Grace.” Isobel rolled her eyes upwards, pretending to faint and fanning herself vigorously. “The other day, would you believe, he tipped his hat to her in the park! A sure sign that he has taken a fancy to her.” She snapped the fan closed, smiling fondly. “She was full of envy when I told her he had dined with us. The Whitby sisters have been begging their father to ask him all Season.”
“Caversham is a dreadful flirt,” said Selina. “If I were Georgiana Whitby, I would keep my distance.”
“He flirts with you, Selina,” said Isobel sagely. “I don’t know that he has ever bothered with Georgiana, poor girl.”
“If he flirts with me – and I do not necessarily agree that he does – it is only an attempt to sway me in the matter of the Twynham election.”
“I’m sure.” Isobel’s smile was almost saucy, but of all the Balfour sisters, she knew best when to keep her own counsel. She did not mention the Duke of Caversham again until they arrived at the ball.
Georgiana Whitby was flitting energetically from one end of the ballroom to the other, dressed in frilled pink and attended by several breathless gentlemen. One of these attendants wasted no time in asking Isobel to dance, and the would-be wallflower was whisked away almost too fast for Selina to hear her whispered warning:
“He’s behind you. Don’t forget your political principles.”
She turned, thus forewarned, to meet Malcolm with an imperturbable smile.
He inclined his head. He was wearing a well-cut topcoat that showed off the rugged broadness of his figure, a crimson waistcoat shot with gold thread, and a set of breeches that were likely to make Georgiana Whitby faint.
“I didn’t bother with the champagne this time,” he said, and offered his arm. “Walk with me?”
Selina placed her hand lightly just below his elbow. “I hope you’ve asked the birthday girl to dance. She’ll be mortified if you do not.”
“Fear not. I have done my duty by Miss Whitby and am free to abandon the dance floor for the rest of the evening. Unless Lady Isobel would benefit from a waltz with a handsome duke. Does she have a suitor I could turn green with jealousy?”
“Is there a handsome duke on hand? I have yet to spot one.”
“Very amusing.” He led her out into a corridor, down which several couples were ambling on their way between the ballroom and the supper room. He looked from side to side in a faintly suspicious manner, then lifted a curtain to reveal a large bay window.
Selina took a step back. “I agreed to walk with you, not hide in clandestine corners.”
“Trust me,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting into that smile that sent strange flutters through her stomach. “You will appreciate this, I know it.”
Selina glanced behind her and, seeing that no one was looking in her direction, followed him quickly behind the curtain.
Malcolm dashed the curtain closed and stepped up onto the seat of the bay window. Selina sat down, carefully averting her eyes from his breeches, which were awkwardly level with her face. “Is there a reason for all this intrigue?”
Malcolm had found a small crack in the wood panelling on the wall beside the window, and carefully inserted his hand into it. “I used to knock about with Lucius Whitby at Eton. He showed me round the house once… ha!”
He twisted something inside the wall, and the wood panelling opened inwards, revealing a corridor beyond lit only by small slits of light in the walls. Malcolm jumped down from the window seat, rubbing his hands together. “There we have it!”
He took a step into the hidden corridor and turned, extending his hand for Selina. She did not take it.
“You asked me to trust you. I don’t know that I do.”
Malcolm cocked his head, the thoughtful expression on his face half-lit by a strip of light. “I cannot offer you any assurances now. If you follow me, you may learn something to your advantage. If you stay here…” He gestured towards the noise of the ballroom. “You’ll pass another dull evening watching less interesting women dance.”
Selina hesitated, watching his outstretched hand as though it were a snake that might strike at her.
A murmur of conversation grew steadily louder as a courting couple outside came down the corridor. Selina weighed up the certain embarrassment of being caught hiding in a window seat with the Duke of Caversham against the potentia
l humiliation in store for her if she followed him.
She took his hand. Malcolm pulled her into the corridor, making her gasp, and shut the wood panel door.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. She clutched at his topcoat for balance, blinking hard. She thought she could hear the change in his breathing as he smiled.
“Why, Selina. I never thought I’d persuade you into a clandestine liaison.”
She gave his chest a reproachful tap. “This is not a liaison. I did not agree to a liaison.”
He moved away from her, scraps of light illuminating an arched brow here and a sharp jawline there. “An illicit encounter, then. A secret meeting.” His hand brushed down her arm until it entwined with hers. “An entanglement, even?”
She pinched his thumb. “That’s enough!”
“Hush.” Malcolm moved softly down the hidden corridor, his booted feet making only the faintest of sounds, and Selina followed, keeping her hand in his. Only for fear of losing her footing. “We can’t be seen, but we can still be heard.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“You’ll see.” The passageway made a sharp turn to the right, and Malcolm followed it. The music swelled, reverberating around the tiny space, as they passed the ballroom. Selina strained her ears to catch individual words in the flurry of noise.
Rascal! someone shouted, and your glove, my lady and my foot! and may I have –
Another twist in the passageway. They left the ballroom behind.
Malcolm came to a halt once the music had all but faded. Selina, paying more attention to her ears than her eyes, nearly stumbled into him.
She would have gasped, but he pressed a finger to her lips. His head bent beside hers, and he murmured in a voice so soft it made her ear tingle,
“Careful, now. Listen, but don’t speak.”
His hand went to the small of her back, steadying her. Selina tried to drag her attention away from the gentle pressure of that hand. She closed her eyes, the better to listen. There was a warming scent to Malcolm that she had never been near enough to notice before. He wore a fresh, woodsy cologne, but beneath that was a hint of a spice she had never tasted, a scent that was rich and exotic. The scent of a man, somewhere beneath the starched cravat and the crimson waistcoat.
She almost forgot that he had brought her there to listen.
“…see what you are saying, Griggs, but the question is not whose speeches you most admire. The fact is that you must choose whom you would rather cross – the jumped-up lawyer and his lady, or the Duke of Caversham.” The speaker stopped to blow his nose. “Your move, I believe.”
There was a pause. “Ha!” The voice of Mr Griggs, the Twynham voter. “Another pawn down, my friend.”
“You’ve put me in a predicament here, old boy.”
“And you have given me something to think about, indeed.”
The second speaker had a voice Selina recognised, but couldn’t quite place. He was hoarse, rasping through a bad cold, and stopped every so often to give a loud sniff. “Which inducement would you most favour, Griggs? The carrot –” sniff – “or the stick?”
Griggs waited a long, thoughtful moment before answering. “It would depend on the carrots on offer, my friend.”
The second speaker coughed, muffled, as though using a handkerchief to dampen the sound. “I’m sure I could find something to tempt you.” He evidently made his move, for Griggs let out a woeful groan. “Check.”
Selina opened her eyes. Accustomed now to the dim light filtering through the cracks in the panelling, she saw Malcolm’s jaw tighten. He knew the second speaker, she was sure of it.
“Bribery?” she mouthed. Malcolm gave a tiny shake of his head, warning her not to speak. The hand that still rested on her back flexed subtly, the fingers curling. She could feel how angry he was.
Someone was trying to buy the Twynham election on Malcolm’s behalf, and he was not pleased to discover it.
But that did not explain why he had brought Selina here to listen to Mr Griggs and his unsubtle attempts at intrigue. She was Malcolm’s rival, wasn’t she? Why would he offer her an advantage she could never have discovered by herself?
“I admit that the idea is intriguing,” Mr Griggs was saying, but Selina did not hear his companion’s response.
Her attention was too consumed by the sudden, soft sound of feet coming down the passageway towards them.
Malcolm’s eyes flared wide. Without hesitation, he caught Selina by the wrist and pulled her further down the passageway, deeper into the dust-smelling darkness.
The footsteps, stealthy and slow, had almost turned the corner to their part of the passageway. Selina’s breath burned in her throat, Malcolm’s hand painfully tight on her wrist, her heart racing.
She had no good explanation for following Malcolm into the Whitby family’s secret passageway. None that would not be overridden by gossiping tongues keen to root out a scandal, anyway. She did not need Anthea’s talent for headlines to imagine what the papers would say.
Lady Selina Balfour—caught in the arms of the Duke of Caversham! Will her brother Loxwell call him out? Or is a wedding on the cards?
As Malcolm pulled her around a second corner, away from the intriguing chatter of the game room, she worried for a wild second that she was going to be sick.
But Malcolm moved gracefully, soundless as a shadow, and Selina did her best to match him. They stood together, connected by the pressure of his grip on her wrist, in cool darkness. Neither one breathing. Both straining to listen.
The footsteps stilled behind them. By Selina’s best guess, the interloper had paused just where she and Malcolm had stopped to eavesdrop on Mr Griggs.
Malcolm’s grip relaxed. She made out the silhouette of him covering his mouth with a hand, gesturing for silence, and rolled her eyes. As though she needed to be told!
She had far more to lose than he did if they were caught hiding alone together.
Malcolm took a careful step sideways and ran his hand along the wall beside them. Selina could not see what he was doing, but a crack of light formed a tall rectangle around him; the shape of a door. As he pushed it open, she saw that he was not covering his mouth to hush her.
He was biting his knuckle, trying not to laugh.
The nausea of their almost-discovery still roiled in her belly. She was tempted to slap him. If he had not looked so joyous, so suddenly young and carefree and debonair, rejoicing in his mischief, she would have done it.
The door let out a loud creak.
Malcolm’s face snapped from amusement to horror in a second. There was no time to run – no time to think. The stranger around the corner began walking towards them, his footsteps louder now, not bothering to conceal himself.
Selina knew her terror was written plainly on her face, but Malcolm’s did not reflect it. He seemed to know what to do on instinct – an instinct that probably did not bear careful examination. He whipped off his topcoat and flung it around her, covering her head, her shoulders, the top half of her dress.
Then he caught her in a crushing embrace and pressed her face into his shoulder.
Nothing but a linen shirt came between Selina’s lips and his bare skin. The scent of him was stronger here. It reached inside her, the way a strong glass of wine did, uncoiling tendrils of heat in her innermost places.
The nauseating fear was forgotten. Selina’s heart was pounding for an entirely different reason.
She pressed her hands against Malcolm’s chest, struggling to push herself free, but he held her tight. She felt his sharp intake of breath as the footsteps approached them, and finally understood.
Whoever had entered the passageway behind them could see them plainly. Or rather, they could see Malcolm, caught in an intimate embrace with a woman whose face he had covered with his jacket.
Selina let her body still. It took all her strength not to cry out when she heard what came next.
“Caversham!”
&nb
sp; It was a pleasant voice, clearly that of a gentleman, with an all-too-familiar drawl that could not help but identify the speaker.
George Bonneville, Anthea’s husband. The latest but one addition to Selina’s ever-expanding family.
“Good evening, Streatham.” Malcolm’s voice was perfectly even. His arms, clutching her shoulders in the most unnervingly intimate way, did not tremble. In fact, he took the opportunity to stroke a teasing caress down her arm. “I see you were one of Whitby’s Eton chums, too.”
“Cambridge, actually.” George sounded faintly amused. “Sorry to disturb. Are you in need of the – er – the private corridor?”
Malcolm’s fingers curled around Selina’s elbow. She wondered if he knew that it would make her whole arm tingle.
She wondered further what he would do if she sunk her teeth into his shoulder by way of vengeance.
“We were just stepping out,” said Malcolm. He shifted, taking a look out of the doorway he had just opened. “The library seems unoccupied.”
“Well, I wish you a pleasant evening.”
“Streatham?”
Why on earth had Malcolm called him back? Selina gritted her teeth. He rubbed a soothing hand over her back, as though he could sense her discomfort.
“Yes, Caversham?” She could picture the exact way George’s eyebrow would rise, languid and ironical, in a way that Anthea had confided drove her absolutely wild.
“You’re not, ah…” Malcolm cleared his throat delicately. “I thought you and Lady Streatham…”
“Oh, good lord! No, I’m not here on your sort of assignation.” There was an awkward pause. “I had to make a quick escape to avoid the subject of my wife’s latest column,” George explained. Selina could not say why, exactly, but she had the distinct impression that he was lying. “Not the done thing, you know, to cause a scene at a party.”
“No, not at all. Well, I shall leave you to your hideaway.” Malcolm edged Selina towards the door, moving awkwardly so as not to dislodge the jacket. She tried not to think about what it was doing to her hair.
No Dukes Need Apply (The Impossible Balfours Book 4) Page 7
