A Rake by Any Other Name (24 page)

Oh, no, my dear, I never waltz. And don't think to persuade me by telling me the Prince Regent approves of the dance. Anything that young reprobate commends is bound to lead to scandal.

—Phillippa, the Dowager Marchioness of Somerset

Sophie's new slippers pinched her toes, but she wasn't allowed a moment's respite. Her dance card was prefilled with every available man in attendance, be he dandy or dotard. In fact, just as the string quartet started a tune in three-quarter time, Sir Alan Westerling started shuffling in her direction.

Sophie checked her card. Sure enough, the half-deaf fellow was the next one on her list. After her last partner trod on her toes several times, she wasn't looking forward to one who had no chance of keeping up with the music.

“Antonia had a hand in this dance card,” she grumbled.

“I doubt she planned this diversion from it.” Richard had slipped up behind her and scooped her into a waltz hold without preamble. “Shall we?”

“You're supposed to ask a lady for the pleasure of a dance, you know,” she said as he swept her into the turning and dipping throng. They moved together so easily, as if their bodies spoke a secret language and setting it to music only broadened the vocabulary. “
Shall
we
could mean anything.”

He arched a brow at her. “I like the sound of that. What do you want it to mean?”

Her insides did a slow melt. She wanted him in her arms, in her bed, in
her
. There was that ache again, sharp-edged and throbbing. Richard was fast turning her into a shameless wanton.

“I'll take that blush for a compliment,” he said with a grin. “Besides, if I asked for the dance properly, you'd have been obliged to tell me it was already spoken for.”

“Yes, I would. Poor old Sir Alan is still looking for me.”

“Then he'll just have to keep looking. I intend to keep behaving like a barbarian, flouting convention, and stealing you away.”

“Do you promise?”

His dark eyes smoldered. “I do.”

As they made another circuit of the room, Richard waltzed her into one of the curtained alcoves and drew the draperies closed behind them. Before her skirts stopped swirling, his mouth claimed hers in a kiss.

“I've wanted to do that all day,” he said when he finally released her.

“I wanted you to do it all last night.”

He kissed her again, groaning into her mouth.

“Careful,” she said, pulling back. “The music isn't that loud, and we've only a bit of velvet between us and the ballroom.”

“Sophie, I'm surprised at you.” He nuzzled her neck. “You're not turning into a pattern sort of girl, are you?”

“Heaven forbid.” His lips on the tender skin of her neck made her eyes roll back in her head. “The idea of fitting in is still repellent to me, but I don't want to spoil Ella's come-out with a scandal, and there'll be one if you and I are caught in an improper situation.”

“Improper, eh? I do love the way your mind works.” He planted a kiss on her forehead. “And your lips.” Another appropriately placed kiss. “And your…” He grasped her bum and pulled her flush against him so she could feel his thick hardness through the layers of clothing separating them.

“Honestly, Richard, when I first met you over your grandmother's roses, I had no idea you were such a wicked rake.”

“Even then I wanted to do this.” He pressed her spine against the Doric column next to the window and rocked his body against hers. “Now you know the wickedness was there all along, just beneath the civilized surface.”

She smiled. “So I do, and I'd better be the only one.”

“Always.”

Sophie tipped her head back, allowing him to kiss down the bare expanse of her throat to where her bosom threatened to pop out over the top of her bodice. Her nipples ached at the nearness of his mouth, but they were discretely tucked beneath silk and Egyptian trim.

And
to
think
Eliza
thought
it
was
cut
too
low.

***

From her place on the other side of the velvet curtain, Antonia's cheeks heated. She forced herself to look out over the ballroom with a falsely bright smile. She had plenty of which to be proud. The décor was a classical theme with papier-mâché columns and an exquisite centerpiece on the table featuring a tableau of figurines of Bacchus and his nymphs in the midst of their revels. It was sure to appeal to the prurient natures of some, but with an elegant twist that allowed those with more moral fortitude to give baser desires a wink and a nod.

All her guests were having a splendid time. And she did think of them as hers, since Richard was hers as well—or would be after this. Somerfield Park might not be her home yet, but she would be the marchioness here someday. In the light of this social triumph, Antonia would be seen as the future mistress of the estate by all. Lady Ella was meeting the right people and making a solid impression. Even Lady Wappington, the spiteful old cat, had only good things to say. The evening was an unqualified success.

Except for the fact that the man she intended to marry was in the alcove behind her with that horrid little Goodnight trollop. She wished they'd start talking again because her imagination ran rampant during their silences.

She wasn't jealous of the amorous attention he was giving Sophie Goodnight. Good heavens, she knew what men were. After seeing her mother turn her head and feign ignorance of her father's peccadilloes as a wife should, Antonia was under no illusions about what to expect from marriage to a titled gentleman. In truth, she hoped Richard
would
set up a mistress once they were wed, so she'd be bothered by that sort of attention as little as possible.

But she expected he'd wait until after the ceremony to choose his ladybird. Antonia was not going to be embarrassed by amours being played out under her nose. No wife was pitied over her husband's affairs unless he conducted them in a flagrant manner. Hartley was going to have to behave—if not for her sake, then for his family's. Surely he realized a vulgar affair flaunted in such a public way would stain the Somerset name.

Richard and Miss Goodnight were talking again. Antonia turned her head and leaned back into the velvet curtain as far as she dared.

“The waltz is ending, Richard. We can't stay here, much as I'd like…”

Then the light skirt's voice faded, and Antonia did a slow burn as she imagined what had silenced her. What if Lady Wappington caught them in there? Richard would be obliged to marry the upstart heiress.

Antonia's father had once said in passing that she ought to arrange to be caught with Richard in an indelicate situation in order to force his hand. She exhaled noisily. It wasn't the most elegant of solutions, but it would solve her problems.

“I have to see you. I need to be with you,” Richard's voice came again, husky with desire. Antonia had never heard him like that before. Even though his passion was directed toward another woman, something about the sound of his voice made her toes curl inside her slippers.

“Tonight? After the ball?”

“Sooner,” he demanded. “In three dances, there's another waltz. When it starts, slip away and meet me in the second floor parlor.”

There was another long pause, some rustling and a low moan.

“Careful, you'll wrinkle my gown. Oh…”

Then Miss Goodnight made a little noise of pleasure that convinced Antonia she didn't give two figs what might happen to her gown.

“I need you, Sophie.”

Then there were a few unintelligible mumblings that included something about her being so sweet he could eat her up. It might be undignified, but all the same, something in Antonia wished he'd say that about her.

“I'm desperate.” Richard's voice came again. “A quick tryst, love, and then we'll announce our betrothal at the midnight toast.”

Antonia never swore. It was ill-bred. It was common and vulgar. For the first time in her life, a ripe curse slipped from her lips.

“Good heavens. There's someone on the other side of the curtain,” Miss Goodnight hissed.

“Of course there is. There's a whole ballroom full of people. Meet me upstairs, Sophie. Say you will.”

Antonia didn't wait to hear her rival's capitulation. She was certain it was coming. Those
nouveau
riche
types had no class, no sense of what was appropriate. Imagine, slipping off to dally and then coming back to the ballroom to announce their engagement, as if the world were obligated to wish them happy even though their happiness would destroy Antonia's carefully laid plans. Even though—

A way to entrap Richard and foil Miss Goodnight leaped full blown into Antonia's mind like Athena springing from the head of Zeus. It was perfect. All the pieces would work together with the precision of a Swiss clock. It was slightly distasteful, but bold enough to succeed. She couldn't wait to see the look on Sophie Goodnight's face when it did. Antonia hurried to find her mother to put her plan into motion. She already knew she could count on her father's help.

There wasn't much time.

***

“You must pardon me, Mr. Seymour,” Sophie said when Lawrence presented himself before her as the next waltz began. Over his shoulder, she spied Richard slipping out the ballroom doors. A little thrill coursed through her. She couldn't wait to join him. “I'm afraid I've overdone myself and need to find the retiring room for a moment.”

“Certainly,” Lawrence said with a bow from the neck. “Looks like Lady Petra is permanently affixed to the wallpaper next to the punch bowl. I believe I'll go rescue her.”

“Ask nicely, or you'll be wearing some of that punch.” Sophie found him direct and engaging, but for some reason, Petra didn't seem to like Richard's friend much. Lawrence Seymour was a pleasant change from the stiff and pompous lordlings being encouraged to flock around Lady Ella. The fact that Seymour bypassed the obvious beauty of the family to bedevil Richard's plainer sister endeared him to Sophie.

Not to Petra, however, who complained that Lawrence only wanted to tease her at every opportunity.

A
little
teasing
can
be
a
good
thing,
Sophie thought as she made her way around the edge of the dance floor. Richard's talented hands teased her in a very good way indeed. How odd that torment could be pleasure, and that the naughtiness she and Richard were about to get into would be socially sanctioned and not naughty at all once they wed.

“Oh, Miss Goodnight, there you are. Slow down and I'll take a turn round the room with you.” Lady Pruett practically dashed to her side. “Lady Wappington overheard you tell Mr. Seymour you were on your way to the retiring room. Even though this is nothing like the usual rout, I need a bit of air myself. I do believe I've forgotten which room has been set up for the ladies' use. May I accompany you?”

Without waiting for a reply, she linked her arm through Sophie's.

“Do you know one time at Lady Wappington's town house”—Lady Pruett chatted on amiably—“there were so many packed into her ballroom, if one wasn't on the dance floor, one was in serious danger of asphyxiation from the press of people?”

“Is that so?” Sophie's chest tightened as if she were in such a press.

“Indeed. In fact, I have it on good authority that at least one little wallflower did faint dead away.”

“How horrid for her.” Sophie glanced longingly at the door through which Richard left. The old Sophie would have shaken her arm free and made good her escape, but if she was going to marry Richard, she needed to learn to be gracious. Especially to people she didn't like, and she sincerely didn't like Lady Pruett at the moment. “Was the young lady embarrassed?”

“Few people ever knew of the incident because, though she was insensible for about half a minute, she remained upright the whole time due to the crowd around her propping her up.” Lady Pruett sounded downright gleeful about her ghoulish little tale. “Come now. You and I can have a nice little chat and get to know each other better. At the very least, we'll get away from the music for a while. I say, isn't the second violinist abysmal? I'll warrant the man has been a quarter-tone flat all evening. Tell me, what was the music like in India? I've heard it is the most unpleasant noise imaginable, utterly incomprehensible.”

The most unpleasant sound Sophie could imagine was Lady Pruett's voice droning on and on. And unfortunately, she didn't have to imagine it. The woman scarcely drew breath between one rambling sentence and the next.

I'm sorry, Richard.
She thought it so loudly, surely he could hear up in that second floor parlor where he waited for her.
Soon
we
won't have to slip away for a stolen
tryst.

***

“Thank you for rescuing me from that awful Mr. Seymour,” Petra said.

“Not at all. Thank you for agreeing to show Lady Wappington your mother's rare art piece,” Lord Pruett said as he offered Petra his arm.

“Indeed. Not many Vermeers are extant, and to have one here at Somerfield is something of a minor miracle—not that most of my family members ever trouble to appreciate it. The painting ought to be the focal piece of the gallery, instead of squirreled away in a second floor parlor,” she said. “It's not Vermeer's fault he failed to paint a Barrett, is it?”

Lord Pruett laughed as he guided her along the edge of the crowded dance floor. “No, but if it is, we must forgive him. The man was a genius. Now, there's Lady Wappington waiting for us by the door. The second floor parlor, you say?”