A Dangerous Beauty (19 page)

Thank God she had refused him. The look on Ata’s face when he had suggested marrying her had been enough to break an ogre’s heart. It wasn’t until that moment and listening to her premature deathbed plea that Luc realized how much his grandmother wanted an heir from him. How was he going to ever explain to her that he would never be able to give her one? He held his temple in his hand. He was going to disappoint Ata. It was quite fitting, actually. Rosamunde would be allowed to disappoint him as penance.

He would be damned if he would take a wife as a broodmare. He’d seen enough of that in his lifetime to know how disastrous that could be.

He steepled his fingers and looked beyond the smudged windows of the closed carriage. A figure was walking along the lane. He rapped the lacquered roof with a walking stick and the cabriolet lurched to a stop. Without waiting for the steps to be let down,
he wrenched open the door and leapt to the ground.

“Lady Sylvia,” he called out.

She stopped in her tracks and dropped her bag. Lady Sylvia almost crumpled before him.

Luc rushed to her side and half carried her to the carriage, motioning away one of the drivers. He tossed in her bag and lifted her inside before commanding his man to take the longer route on the return to Amberley.
Propriety be damned.

Seating himself opposite her, he took a good look at her. It was remarkable, really. At first glance, Lady Sylvia appeared extraordinarily like her sister, with the same raven hair, same profile and height. Well, she was a tad more delicate-looking with that air of restrained refinement about her. She was the sort that inspired a protective instinct in men to shield her from the ugliness of life.

But her eyes were very different from her sister’s. Those sad, doelike brown eyes held none of the sparkle or intensity of Rosamunde’s. A man could melt in Lady Sylvia’s elegant eyes if he was a proper, poetry-loving Englishman. To a coldhearted demon, she only inspired pity tinged with exasperation.

“I received the note from Miss Clarendon.”

She nodded, her head bowed.

He really didn’t want to hear a single syllable about whatever had occurred. He was up to his teeth in female problems. Perhaps there had been a reason he chose to lose himself in the Royal Navy, where cannons and cutlasses solved almost every problem quite easily. But then hadn’t he always tried to turn away
from the messy problems females seemed to inspire? He sighed and felt the bone-deep guilt of his mother wash over him.

“Perhaps you would like to tell me about it?”

She looked toward the window and he could see a flood of tears delicately balancing on her lower lid. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, that you had to bother yourself. But I’m very happy to see you are much improved.”

Silence. Not another blasted word. Lord, he was going to have to force her. “I am guessing you had a row with Charity, or was it with Rawleigh? Why he ever thought he could dress like a vicar and parade about like an angel is beyond me. He has a countenance that might look cherubic, but I assure you he is as sinful as the rest of us. He’s not to be taken seriously.”

She swallowed and finally faced him. “You’re wrong. He is the perfect man for the clergy. He’s very attentive and forgiving—”

“Well, he’d better be forgiving, knowing how often he has sinned,” he interrupted. “And I’m certain this is his fault. Why—”

“No. You are not to say a word against him.”

And then of course, the dam broke and tears spilled down her cheeks and Luc kicked himself.

“It’s my fault. All of it. But no one ever blames…” her voice trailed off.

“Just because you refused Rawleigh…That’s what this is about, is it not?”

She nodded almost imperceptibly to his query. “Well it’s his fault then. He obviously didn’t go about it in the proper manner. Knowing Rawleigh, he prob
ably botched the entire affair, telling you about how little he could offer, and how hard your life as the wife of a parish vicar would be, and how little he could give you, and how you’d never have pretty bonnets or seasons in town and the like. I hope you threw a slipper at him and told him to take his sorry, er, face from your sight.” He had no idea what inane things he was offering up. It was all said to give her time to try and stop crying, collect herself, and maybe even laugh. But it wasn’t working.

She was still soaking her scrap of a handkerchief and Luc didn’t want to have to give up his own. It was the last one he possessed. It was amazing the number of handkerchiefs one could lose track of when surrounded by a gaggle of widows.

With a sigh, he offered his last square of linen. “Come, come, my dear. No one is worth this.”

“You’re quite wrong. Sir Rawleigh is everything good and kind.”

Females. He would never understand them. “Well, if that’s the case, why won’t you have him?”

Sylvia stared at him. “It wouldn’t do for me to marry him. Please don’t argue the point as he did. You will never understand how ostracized my sister and I have been for almost a decade. You’ve only known us a few weeks. People have acknowledged us while we’ve stayed with you and your grandmother, if only because they think we’ve managed to ingratiate ourselves under your roof. But now…now, with this new scandal…” There was a question in her eyes.

“Yes, yes, I know all about that nonsense,” he said quickly.

“Well, we cannot stay here.”

He ignored her. “You aren’t actually going to be that noble, are you? Rawleigh could give a hoot about scandal. Why, in a fortnight something new will take its place. We’re removing to London, but you would do better to stay here and marry Rawleigh, since it’s painfully obvious to everyone that you love each other given these overblown ideas you’ve both conceived. No,” he held up a hand, “don’t defend him. I’ve seen the calf’s eyes he makes at you. And by the by, he’s never made such a sap of himself before. So he does love you, if you were in any doubt. My dear, don’t play the martyr. That went out of style during the Crusades.”

Luc noticed they were rounding the last turn to Amberley’s lane, canopied with high arching branches of majestic oaks, and inwardly cursed the efficacy of his driver.

Lady Sylvia looked at him with haunted eyes. “Please Your Grace,” she gulped, “don’t force me to accept him. I cannot.” She resolutely looked away as the footman opened the carriage door.

And Luc had always thought men to be the more obstinate sex. Clearly the Earl of Twenlyne’s daughters had invented the word.

Witch,
n.
1. An ugly and repulsive old woman, in a wicked league with the devil. 2. A beautiful and attractive young woman, in wickedness a league beyond the devil.

—The Devil’s Dictionary, A. Bierce

London, Helston House

L
uc took pleasure in trimming this particular quill for the last time. He had begun writing the book in Helston House library with this quill and he would end the draft with this one. There had been many others in between. Sprawled before his desk in town, he dipped the translucent goose-feather nib into the crystal inkwell and wrote,
Finis
. Certainly “The End” was the most beautiful sentiment, in Latin or English.

Then he paused and added one last quote: “War, n. A crimson arena painted by the best and worst of man
kind.” He shuffled the leaves of paper and allowed himself to ponder the dilemma for which he had only himself to blame. What was he—

A knock sounded.

“Come,” he growled and pulled at his fob to glance at his pocket watch. Damn, most of the day was gone. “Yes?”

“Your Grace, the landau has been ordered from the mews. Her Grace asked me to inform you that…”

“Well, out with it.”

The face of the Helston House footman turned a deep burgundy, rather like the Chateau de La Chaize wine Luc had gotten for a bargain from his favorite importer, er, smuggler.

“She said that if you leave her waiting for longer than a quarter hour she will take the ribbons herself.”

He pursed his lips to smother a smile. “You may inform Her Grace that I shall be there shortly. And by the by, Toby, you may remind Her Grace that we are down to the last acceptable carriage, due to the last time she decided to take the reins.”

Toby had a hard time keeping a straight face. “Yes, Your Grace.” He bowed and shut the door quietly.

Luc flexed his ink-stained fingers and examined his hands. In the past fortnight, the tingling sensation had lessened as had his grandmother’s symptoms. His sight had improved steadily, thank God, with only a slight problem focusing when he was tired.

Luc steepled his fingers and closed his eyes in thought. Even work couldn’t erase her from his thoughts. He had tried to steer clear of her at every op
portunity to avoid pain, but had redoubled his efforts to ease her back into society. The tension of knowing she was under his roof sleeping in a bedchamber not fifty yards from his own was killing him. He must help her regain her footing in the polite world and then settle her with her sister and the eldest widow of the club in a pied-à-terre.

So far his idea of Rosamunde brazening it out in town had met with little success. And Luc hated to be proven wrong. It seemed the
ton
had changed their feathers. He had always known most peers of the realm to cold-shoulder minor infractions within their ranks with a holier-than-thou attitude. But being human, the members of the
beau monde
had never been able to ignore the fascination of the more notorious characters.

And that is what he had counted on. And what had failed.
So far
.

Oh, as soon as the Duke and Dowager Duchess of Helston had put up their knocker on Number Twelve Portman Square in Mayfair, the invitations had arrived in stacks that would have made a wallflower weep with envy.

All the cream vellum cards were “charmed to include the Mesdames Wilde, Ashburton, Sheffield, and Winters” for a dizzying array of balls, dinners, musicals, private theatricals, and routs. Three quarters of the more daring mentioned Lady Sylvia. But not one invitation included the name “Mrs. Alfred Baird.”

The Upper Ten Thousand had pronounced judgment. Silently and lethally.

Rosamunde didn’t know. Ata had simply refused every invitation. With any luck Rosamunde, having never been to London or experienced the whirl of a season, would never learn the truth.

However, he would have to force the issue. And there was only one person who could help him. The Countess of Sheffield. Luc hated to ask her. Hated to ask a woman who was charming and engaging and who had been besotted with him since the day he had first met her, at the age of ten.

Grace Sheffey’s grandmother had shared a bedchamber with Ata when they had been allowed a year or three at Miss Dilford’s School for Young Ladies more than a half century ago. Luc was certain the two old birds had cooked up an eventual joining of their families in that nursery for ninnies. It was just very unfortunate it was going to fall to Luc to have to break the two grannies’ hearts.

After his brother had died, Ata had turned to him, as her last remaining relative save for Madeleine. He had ignored Ata’s obvious desire for so long that it had become second nature, although to be truthful, he had probably assuaged his guilt by attending to every need of the Widows Club and then some.

He foresaw disaster on so many fronts by asking Grace to help the lady he loved in secret, but there was nothing to be done. He would do whatever it took to effectuate Rosamunde’s reentry into society, and at least see her settled in comfortable circumstances. It would have to be soon.

As long as she was permitted entry into a respect
able number of homes, she would find a modicum of happiness.

And at that point Luc would be able to resume his old life. Alone, but at least not plagued by this awful sensation that seized his heart whenever he was around her.

Then he would have to make a decision about Grace Sheffey. She was everything Ata wanted, everything he was supposed to want, and everything he did not want. Deep down he doubted he would be able to do it. Besides, why ruin a perfect streak of breaking the heart of every woman he knew?

And so as he walked to the front hall precisely fourteen minutes after Toby had knocked on his library door Luc reformed his plan to thaw the doors frozen to Mrs. Rosamunde Baird, widow extraordinaire. This first event would put a crack in the ice, and subsequent entrées would effect little chips until an ice floe was achieved.

“Ata, Grace, your servant.” Luc made a perfunctory bow, and belatedly saw Grace pull back her proffered gloved hand discreetly. Thoughts of Rosamunde were clouding his mind and his manners.

Ata harrumphed.

He reached for Grace’s fingers, letting his hand hang in the air until she slowly offered her own. Luc leaned down and kissed the air a fraction of an inch from her fingers and looked up at Grace’s hopeful, pert face.

“Ladies, Hyde Park awaits.”

“Don’t forget, Luc, we’re to stop for the others at Gunther’s.”

He nodded and handed them into the open landau that was to carry the Helston flock to Hyde Park to preen during the fashionable five-o’clock ritual. He had a quarter hour to charm Grace Sheffey.

“Grace, you’re looking uncommonly fetching today. It’s good to see you out of mourning. Lavender suits you.”

Ata snorted.

Luc raised his brows and looked at his grandmother. “You, stay out of this.”

“She’s been out of mourning for three months,” Ata muttered.

Grace laughed and the sound was slightly irritating, a little nervous and a lot like a titter. “Thank you, Luc. What do you need?”

She might titter, but Grace had never been a fool. So much for his legendary charm. “A favor, if you must know,” he muttered.

“Well, I think I will need to know if you want me to help.”

“Yes, well…”

“Out with it,” said Grace, smiling. “I’m honored you would ask for my help. It’s surely a first.”

“I would be very beholden if you would host a ball.”

Both ladies’ eyes widened. They exclaimed, “A ball?” together.

“A ball.”

“For whom?”

“Wait. It must be an event so mysterious and spectacular no one would ever dare give it a miss.”

“And?” Grace prompted.

“And I will, of course, insist that the bills be sent to me.”

“And…” Both ladies were exasperated.

“And the official hosts must be you, Ata, at least one of Almack’s patronesses and Rosamunde Baird.”

Only the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves on the cobblestones could be heard in the silence that followed.

“Luc…” Ata whispered.

Grace, to her credit, kept her eyes unwaveringly on Luc’s own.

“This is your club, Ata,” he said to his grandmother. “And you would like to settle her, wouldn’t you? I think it fair to go the extra distance considering our family’s devastating influence on her head.”

Ata appeared to consider his words, then turned to Grace. “It’s true. What do you think?”

“I think Luc is right. The only way to do it is if the event is at Sheffield House. We must give the appearance that people outside the Helston family are willing to accept her. And Lady Cowper owes me a favor involving Lord Palmerston, her lov…ummm. Well, suffice it to say it’s a rather large favor.”

“You are a lady to be admired, Grace,” Luc murmured. “I shall not forget this.”

“Oh,” Grace purred, “I shall not let you.”

Luc looked into Grace’s demure eyes and saw a witchlike hunger that would strike fear in the heart of many a lesser bachelor. Undoubtedly there would be a price to pay and it would not be met with jewelry unless, of course, it was that strangling circlet of
gold most unmarried females seemed to crave.

Ata glanced rapidly at one and then the other, hope in her eyes.

Luc longed to squeeze his own eyes shut. Instead he returned Grace’s gaze and nodded slightly.

The landau lurched to a stop, the carriage driver cursing a cockney blue streak at a rider who had cut him off. Gunther’s Ice Shoppe was a half block away. Grateful for the interruption, Luc called to the driver to “circle ’round” whilst he retrieved the other ladies.

The street teemed with foppish dandies and ladies wearing bonnets displaying far too much fake fruit and real feathers. This was to be expected with the annual return to town after a lazy summer spent planning the seasonal assault. Within a week, the milliner’s windows would be stripped bare of even the most hideous fashions, due to the voracious appetite for anything new no matter how atrocious. For the mothers were in full force in the fall. It was time to nudge their female ducklings from under their breasts into the well-feathered nest of an endowed drake, er, rake.

Luc ushered Rosamunde, Georgiana Wilde, Elizabeth Ashburton, and Sarah Winters into the now cramped landau.

“Really, Luc, I’m not certain we’ll all fit,” Ata said.

“And whose fault is that?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The phaeton was so damaged it will be a fortnight before the smithy is done replacing the tiger’s stand.”

“I’ve told you it wasn’t my fault. And besides, what
has that to do with anything? That little toy of yours could barely fit three.”

“It has everything to do with it since I could have driven two of you in it today,” he replied.

“Well, you did say I was to amuse myself,” muttered his grandmother.

“Very amusing indeed.”

All the ladies were giggling now. He wouldn’t be able to stand an hour of this insanity. “I think I’ll share a bench with Mr. Jones,” he said, nodding to the driver.

Ata smiled widely. “What a wonderful idea. Besides, we ladies have a ball to plan.”

He had been watching Rosamunde from the moment he had ushered the group to the landau. At the mention of a ball, her eyes had darted to him and then looked away, her lips pressed into a thin line. It did not bode well. Just wait until she found out she was one of the hostesses. The driver’s bench looked inviting indeed.

Rosamunde tiptoed past the breathtaking frescoed upstairs gallery of Helston House. She had been in awe since the moment she had set foot on the pavement two weeks ago and stared at the imposing Corinthian columns fronting the Mayfair mansion. Inside, severe Greco-Roman simplicity was echoed in every detail. While she walked through the upper floor’s wide halls, she again glanced in wonder at the exquisite combination of exotic fabrics and elegant shapes of furniture made of precious rosewood and marquetry ornamentation.

She quickened her steps toward the boldly curved
staircase to the front hall. She had learned the only way she could chance a morning walk alone was if she went at dawn and bypassed the other inhabitants of the house and the servants as well.

But there was one person whom she hadn’t had to worry about running into during the last fortnight. Luc St. Aubyn had assiduously avoided her. Or perhaps it was she who had guarded her own movements. It was just too painful to endure his casual disinterest. Mealtimes were the worst. Each time she found herself in the same room with him, she feared she would say or do something that would make her fragile façade crumble. She loved him with such fierce longing it made it nearly impossible to speak. In the privacy of her room she relived every moment she had spent with him. The rides together, scaling the cliffs, the laughter, his blue eyes looking at her, and the way they darkened with mystery when he…

She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. She had tried so hard to stop the thoughts.

She hated the situation. And hated herself even more. She was now in a position even worse than before. One afternoon spent on the Bay of St. Michael with Luc St. Aubyn had ruined her first true chance in eight years to rejoin reputable society. She, of all people, should have known a lady’s reputation was as fragile as a butterfly’s wings. A single whisper dismantled freedom irrevocably.

There was only one reason she was still here. Two or maybe three reasons, actually. The first was Sylvia. Rosamunde still held on to a slender branch of hope that
the dowager duchess would arrange a union. Why? Because Ata was a force of nature. She had witnessed firsthand the power of the tiny lady’s persuasion. Ata had extracted a promise from Sylvia and Rosamunde to stay with her through the season and help her plan a ball. And while no one said it, it was obvious it was all being done for Rosamunde.

She was horrified. Horrified by the expense and by the potential for disaster. But she had agreed, for no one dared refuse Ata.

The last reason she remained ensconced in the charming little room at Helston House—which, ironically, had once belonged to Luc’s brother, Henry—was because she had nowhere else to go and little money. But she was placing her hopes on Phinn. She had written to her brother begging him to help her find a position by the end of the season. And Phinn, who had said the entire family was in town for the season, would do it. She was certain.