She swallowed down a lump that had risen in her throat. “I am certain whoever it is you speak of now is not interested in me either. No one wishes to wed Limping Leonora, and I cannot blame them.”
“I am sorry, my dear,” Mama said in hushed tones. “I did not mean to suggest that at all. Any gentleman would be more than pleased to make you his wife. It is merely that the Marquess of Searle is newly returned from battle, and he is being lauded as a hero, with all the talk of his time in captivity and how he was able to escape at last by building himself a tunnel with nothing more than his bare hands and burrowing his way to freedom.” She fanned herself vigorously as she concluded her rapt retelling of Searle’s reputed heroics.
“The Marquess of Searle?” Everything inside her tensed, her voice emerging as a squeak.
Leonora had consumed every story written about him with great interest. The story of the manner in which he had escaped Napoleon’s soldiers made for excellent reading. At first, she had been swept away by the romanticized accounts. Ladies swooned over the mere mention of his name, and a party was no longer fashionable unless the marquess was in attendance.
But that did not mean she was not terrified of the man. She had chanced to see him recently, at a musicale. His arresting green gaze had burned into hers, riveting her as the realization he had been watching her poured over her.
At the time, she had imagined he found her limp a curiosity. Or that he was bored. For though he had been dressed in the first stare of fashion, sporting a blue coat, fawn breeches which hugged his long, muscular legs to perfection, and a snowy cravat styled in the latest knots, he had also possessed an edge. He had seemed dangerous, as lethal as a blade.
But now, Mama claimed he was watching her once more, days later. Was one limping wallflower of sufficient interest for a gentleman like the Marquess of Searle? She could not believe so. Her hands trembled as they fisted her skirt. The material was cool and soft, ethereal as a cloud, but its opulence did not distract her now. She scarcely felt it against her palms and clenched fingers.
“Of course it is the Marquess of Searle,” Mama admonished. “Who else? Good heavens, I do believe he intends to approach us. Are you sitting straight, dearest?”
Leonora slouched. “I do not want him to approach us, Mama.”
Mama sent a look in her direction. “Sit straight, you vexing girl. No gentleman wishes to make the acquaintance of a lady who cannot even hold herself with proper deportment. Little wonder you have yet to wed.”
Yes, little wonder indeed. She bit her lower lip and cast another, frantic look around the ballroom. The dancers whirled gaily about, another set winding down. She caught one more glimpse of Freddy, blindingly lovely as she traded partners and was opposite Mr. Kirkwood again.
And then, there he was, striding with purpose, his long, well-sculpted legs eating up the distance between where she sat in unobtrusive freedom and him. That gaze was fastened upon her, as if he could devour her with it. He had another gentleman at his side, the Duke of Whitley, and while Whitley was handsome in his own right, he did not command her attention. Not in the manner the marquess did.
Nay, the marquess was different. He stole the breath from her lungs and made her heart gallop, and not just because he was blessed with undeniable masculine beauty, from his dark hair to his slashing cheekbones. But because he was angry. There was a darkness raging inside him. She could sense it in the way he carried himself. His bearing was rigid, from shoulders to jaw, his countenance harsh, as if it had been frozen into joyless place. As if whatever horrors he had experienced at war had robbed him of any hint of softness.
“Do not bite your lip,” Mama admonished lowly as the two gentlemen approached. “You are slouching.”
“I am not slouching,” she managed to grumble, drooping her shoulders. How she wished in that moment she were as invisible as she so often felt.
“Stand,” Mama commanded her at last, rising from her chair like a ship about to set sail. “My head is beginning to ache, and I fear I am suffering from heart palpitations yet again, but if the marquess intends to court you, I shall endure all for your sake.”
If one were to compile a list of Mama’s ailments, it would prove longer than the Book of Genesis, Leonora was certain. But then she reminded herself Mama had made a great many sacrifices for her sake, and guilt instantly struck her for such an ungracious thought.
“Stand,” Mama repeated, fanning herself as if she were in the midst of July heat rather than early spring, just after Easter.
Leonora considered remaining seated, but the thought of the Marquess of Searle hovering over her like a deity made her palms sweat. So, she rose, allowing herself a grimace as a twinge of pain radiated from her ankle upward. She had been seated for too long, and the old injury had stiffened as it tended to do.
“Smile,” Mama commanded.
And Leonora would have, but she had lost the ability to think or breathe or speak. She did not even know she possessed a mouth at the moment, or lips with which to smile. All she knew was the Marquess of Searle stood before her.
“Lady Rayne,” greeted the Duke of Whitley with flawless grace. “Lady Leonora. May I present to you, my lady, a cherished friend of mine, the Marquess of Searle?”
Leonora had not even glanced at Whitley. She was trapped in Searle’s eyes, and at this proximity, they were not merely green. Flecks of cinnamon and gold striated the lush, verdant hue. His lashes were far too long for a man. And his intensity, the manner in which his gaze locked upon hers, sent a shiver straight through her, along with a shocking lick of heat.
For a moment, she could not move. She simply existed, a lowly creature pinned beneath the force of his stare, every part of her body humming with awareness until she tingled from the inside out. Sensations, so foreign and strange, radiated outward much like the ripples of a stone thrown into a lake’s still surface. A strange feeling of finality struck her, as if this was the moment in her life from which all others would spring.
As if she would never be the same from now onward.
And then she realized a question had been posed to her, and she was exhibiting an appalling dearth of manners.
“Yes of course,” she forced herself to say, still unable to look away from the marquess.
His brown hair was worn in glorious waves, longer than fashionable, yet the perfect foil for the harsh symmetry of his face. His countenance made no excuses for its blatant masculinity, and his nose was a slashing blade, his cheekbones high and sharp, his jaw a study in obstinacy, wide and harsh. The sole softness to be found was in his lips, which were well-molded and full. A cleft marked his proud chin, somehow tempering the severity, but his broad shoulders and tall, lean form held an air of command she had never seen on another gentleman.
He bowed with courtly elegance, his expression revealing nothing. “Lady Leonora, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last.”
At last, he’d said. Two words that signified so much. As if he had been anticipating this moment. Leonora could not help but feel as if she had, even without knowing it would ever happen. As if the Fates had destined this man, this meeting.
She swallowed and forced herself to maintain her composure, even as her heart continued to race. The Marquess of Searle was not just compelling and handsome, though he certainly was both, but being in his presence made her giddy and weak all at once. He affected her as no man ever had. Most gentleman bored her. Even when they ignored her, they did not hold her interest.
But this man…
He was different, and she knew it in a deep, primal part of herself. She felt it in the warmth washing over her, as if she basked in the benediction of a summer sun in the country. As if she were whole for the first time. As if she were not Limping Leonora but instead, someone of interest. Someone a gentleman would wish to be introduced to. As if she were a lady a gentleman would want to dance with and court.
This man, he was more dangerous than she had even initially supposed.
<
br /> She forced herself to speak. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance as well, my lord.”
Mama frowned at her, and she well knew why. Her voice sounded rusty and flat. She was incapable of flirting. She had never been seriously courted, aside from the odious Lord Robert Hurstly, who had courted her for a wager with the intent to cause her ruination. Her continued presence in the marriage mart was down to Mama’s determination rather than to any hope a man would ask for her hand after all these years, though a husband and children of her own were all she longed for.
What would it be like to be looked upon with something other than pity, disinterest, or mild disgust? What would it be like to pretend, even for one evening, she too could be light and carefree, capable of gracefully gliding about a ballroom?
She stared at Searle, something at once awful and yet incredible happening inside her.
“We are honored by your presence, my lord,” Mama said in a bright tone Leonora had never even heard. “Word of your bravery has been bandied about everywhere.”
A coldness entered Searle’s eyes, a rigidity seizing his bearing. “Thank you, my lady.”
“It is a miracle Searle is here with us at all,” the Duke of Whitley remarked, something in his expression and tone Leonora could not quite read.
“Would you care to dance, Lady Leonora?” the marquess asked suddenly then, and with such abruptness, even Leonora and her complete lack of experience with suitors was startled.
She wanted to tell Searle she did not dance. That she could not dance, and indeed never had in all the years since her debut.
But then it occurred to her that the reason she had not danced was not because she was incapable. She had taken lessons, and she knew all the steps, could even perform them, though she would never be graceful. No, she had never danced before because no one had ever asked her.
The knowledge sent a fresh emotion coursing through her, burning and fierce, part shame, part determination. She raised her chin. “I certainly would, my lord.”
Chapter Two
She had said yes. Morgan had been brusque and rude, nettled into action by references to his heroics and war. The need to escape had been so fierce, he had not stopped to question the wisdom of playing his card early.
He need not have been concerned. It was a different conundrum entirely facing him now. Morgan led Lady Leonora away from Crispin and the turban, astounded. He had taken his time, conducted his research well, and laid the foundation for his battle plan. Which was how he knew Lady Leonora never danced. Not once.
But she had accepted his invitation.
Now he could not help but to wonder why. He led her slowly, accommodating for the hesitance in her gait. In truth, her limp was scarcely noticeable, but he could tell the leg she favored pained her. She had grimaced upon standing, and her bearing had initially been stiff.
“Thank you for accepting my invitation, my lady,” he said to her softly, because he knew he must say something.
He was meant to woo her, but it had been a long time—and a lifetime ago—since he had last attempted to charm any woman. There had been no need. No space in his mind or his life. There had been only war and then survival, and even now, dressed in his evening finery with Lady Leonora on his arm, he was still merely subsisting.
Surviving his current hell by creating a new one. A hell in which the Earl of Rayne and his glorious, innocent, unsuspecting sister, would join him. He supposed he ought to feel a needling of compunction. Instead, he felt only nothingness. A man did not survive the brutality he had suffered without being forever changed.
“Thank you for offering, my lord,” she returned.
Her voice was husky and sweet, and it settled in his gut with the potent fire of whisky, wrapping around him like ivy. “You are the only lady in attendance I wish to dance with,” he said, and it was true, even if his intentions were impure and cruel.
They established themselves on the dance floor, preparing for the next set to begin. Her lovely face was fraught with concern. Pinched. “It has been some time since I have danced, my lord. I fear I must warn you.”
The trepidation in her tone gave him a moment of hesitation. “Are you certain you wish to—” But before he could complete his question, the music began.
He bowed to her formally, and she curtsied with an elegance he would not have expected and nary a hint of hesitation, though she did not dip as low as some.
Morgan linked hands with her. “Do you trust me?”
She inclined her head then. “My mind is not certain I ought to trust you, my lord, but something else within me says I should.”
Foolish instinct. Foolish, foolish woman.
Victory washed over him. Already, she had made this battle into a decided rout.
“I find it always wise to trust one’s instincts,” he bit out, tamping down a swiftly accompanying wave of guilt.
A sad smile flirted with her lips for just a moment. “Perhaps not always.”
Before he could reply, the dance had begun in earnest. It was a minuet, and he was heartily glad, as it granted him the opportunity to remain near to her without the necessity of trading partners. It was the dance of courtship, and he intended to use every rusty weapon of charm he could unearth to make her vulnerable to his seduction.
As they circled each other, he wondered what had happened to her, if the limb had been her burden from birth or if she had suffered an accident as a girl. And then he told himself her history did not matter.
The only part of Lady Leonora Forsythe which need interest him, was her kinship with her black-hearted, half-brother.
They left each other and then came back together again. His eyes clung to her, watching for any sign of weakness, and spying none. Not even her limp was in evidence as they performed the perfunctory steps. One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four. Her skirts swayed about her. A charming flush colored her pale cheeks, in stark contrast to her white-blonde hair.
Their hands met once more, and they circled each other, gazes meeting. Her eyes were an unusual shade of blue, a light periwinkle. They struck him. She struck him, like a physical blow to the chest.
She was a beauty. By God, she was breathtaking. And she danced like an angel.
Until she didn’t.
As they parted and swirled about each other once more in the course of the dance, she stumbled, catching herself before she tripped. Stubbornly, she continued on, but he saw the pinched expression of pain on her countenance, noted the tightened knot of her otherwise generous mouth.
She was in pain.
Damn it, he intended to use her, not to humiliate her. A protective instinct surged within him, entirely unwanted. He did not know where it emerged from or why. All he knew was he did not want to see her suffer.
The music reunited them, hands linked.
“Do you need a respite, my lady?” he asked.
Her brows snapped together and her shoulders stiffened, her countenance growing determined. “No, though I thank you for your concern, my lord.”
“My lady,” he protested, uncertain where this vein of gentlemanly concern originated.
Her fingers tightened on his. She twirled about with him, not gliding but not allowing her painful limb to limit her. “I am perfectly capable of dancing, my lord.”
The flash of pride in her gaze hit him. He wondered, then, at the reason for her never having danced.
“Of course, my lady,” he reassured her to assuage her pride.
Why had she ordinarily kept stuck to her seat at such events? Was it because no man had ever gathered the courage to approach her blinding beauty and ask? Or was it because every man before him had been reluctant to ask because of her perceived infirmity?
The leg gave her pain, he could plainly see as much from her drawn mouth and the occasional grimace tightening her countenance. But she was determined to persevere, to force her mind to overpower any weakness.
And he could not help but to inwardly applaud her tenacity. Lady
Leonora Forsythe continued to surprise him. If she had been empty-headed or silly, if she had thrown herself at him in an effort to become his marchioness, if she had been anything other than what she seemed to be—an innocent beauty with a fierce determination—he would have already led her away from the dance and the ball with nary a prick of guilt.
Morgan would have convinced her to enter a darkened chamber or alcove with him. He would have lifted her skirts, his hand gliding beneath to touch her, from ankle to cunny. Christ, he would have ruined her already.
And he would have damn well enjoyed it.
Why was he tarrying? Why was he, even now, playing the noble courtier when all he needed to do was to convince her to escape from the ballroom and meet with him in private?
They worked their way back to each other, hands clasped, gazes meeting once more. Her face was more carefully devoid of expression this time, though her limp was growing a bit more noticeable.
“You dance beautifully, my lady,” he praised, rather than inquiring after her welfare once more, something he could sense she would not wish.
Her face reflected her astonishment for a brief moment, before a flush stole over her pale cheeks. Damnation, she stole his breath. She was like a fae creature walking among mere mortals. Too beautiful to be real. He tried and failed to find any physical resemblance to her evil-bastard-of-a-brother. If only she had looked like the dark-haired, dark-hearted one, El Corazón Oscuro. It would have rendered what he must do so bloody much easier.
“I dance beautifully for a lame-legged spinster, you mean to say, my lord,” she responded tartly. “You need not sound surprised. I am as capable of dancing as I am of walking. Unfortunately, my weak limb does not wish to allow me to cultivate grace, regardless of how much I would prefer it.”
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