A Summer to Remember (5 page)

“And light can be a distraction too,” he said, tightening his hand at her waist so that for a moment she became even more aware of his nearness and feared that her bosom would brush against his chest. His head dipped closer to her own as he spoke so that she felt the warmth of his breath kiss her cheek. “As can crowds of people.”

How dared he! She had been quite right to suspect . . . No gentleman . . .

But he had not stopped dancing, and with one more twirl they were back in the ballroom, having entered it through the other French windows less than a minute after leaving it. The withering setdown that was forming on her lips died unspoken as she met his laughing eyes and was once more caught up in the magic of the dance with a virile, attractive partner. Her little rebellion was proving undeniably enjoyable, she admitted ruefully to herself. He was a practiced charmer, of course. Lauren Edgeworth was not the sort of person with whom men flirted. She never had been even when she had been young and happy.

Now for the first time in her life she was being flirted with. And it felt rather pleasant—provided she did not for a moment allow herself to be beguiled by it.

She did not attempt any further conversation. Neither did he.

When the waltz was over, Viscount Ravensberg offered his arm to escort her back to her own party.

“I will not suggest leading you to the refreshment room, Miss Edgeworth,” he said, the laughter in his voice now as well as his eyes, “even though I daresay you are
very
thirsty by now. Your family would not approve. They can scarce wait for you to return to their midst so that they can inform you that you have just risked your reputation by waltzing with London’s most notorious rakehell.”

“And have I?” she asked him.

“Waltzed with a rakehell? Oh, undoubtedly,” he murmured.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said politely when he had returned her to Aunt Sadie’s side. She regarded him with deliberate, cool hauteur. He was not even
ashamed
of his own reputation?

“The pleasure was all mine, Miss Edgeworth,” he told her, and before she could realize his intent, he had possessed himself of the hand she had just removed from his sleeve and raised it to his lips. Her hand was gloved, but even so the gesture seemed starkly, shockingly intimate. She resisted the urge to snatch away her hand as if it had been scalded and so draw unwelcome attention to herself. There was nothing so very improper about such a gesture, after all.

And then he was gone—not just from her side, but from the ballroom itself. She watched him go with considerable relief—and with a strange, unwilling awareness that the rest of the evening was going to seem very flat indeed.

Perhaps even the rest of her life, she thought with uncharacteristic hyperbole.

3

D
espite the lateness of her return home from the ball, Lauren was up at her usual time the next morning to accompany Elizabeth on her daily walk in Hyde Park. The air was brisk and chill, though it promised fair for later in the day.

“Exercise
does
feel good,” the duchess said as they approached the house on their return. “I feel remarkably fit despite a growing ungainliness, and I am quite sure it is the walking and fresh air that does it, despite Lyndon’s anxieties.”

Marriage suited Elizabeth, Lauren reflected. She had wed for the first time just seven months before. Pregnancy suited her too. There was a new glow about her.

The footman who opened the door to their knock bowed deferentially as he stood aside to allow them in. “A bouquet has been delivered for Miss Edgeworth, your grace,” he said. “Mr. Powers had it carried into the salon.”

“For me?” Lauren asked in some astonishment.

But Elizabeth was laughing as she took Lauren’s arm and turned her in the direction of the visitors’ salon, which led off the hall. “A bouquet the morning after a ball?” she said. “Goodness me, Lauren, you have a
beau
.”

“Nonsense!” Lauren winced. “I daresay it is from Mr. Bartlett-Howe. He danced with me twice last evening and led me in to supper. But I
did
try not to encourage him. How very embarrassing.”

“A gentleman’s admiration need never embarrass you, Lauren,” Elizabeth said, “even if you cannot return it.”

Lauren bit her lip when she entered the salon and saw the handsome bouquet of at least two dozen red rosebuds amid lavish sprays of fern, already arranged in a crystal vase. She crossed the room and picked up the card that was propped against the vase. She hoped fervently he had not made a cake of himself with extravagant sentiments.

“They are quite lovely,” Elizabeth said from behind her. “Roses must have been difficult to find this early in the year. And exorbitantly expensive, I daresay. Poor Mr. Bartlett-Howe. He is so very earnest and worthy.” But there was a tremor of laughter in her voice.

“Alas,” the writing on the card said, “I could find no violets to do justice to your eyes.” The signature was scrawled in a bold, careless hand. “Ravensberg.”

His laughing gray eyes, his devil-may-care smile, his slender grace, his male vitality, the indefinable air of danger that clung about him—Lauren had seen them all behind her closed eyelids as she had tried to fall asleep after the ball. And she had pictured the same man half naked in
his skin-tight breeches, uttering shocking profanities. And holding a young woman in his arms and kissing her with obvious enthusiasm.

“The flowers are not from Mr. Bartlett-Howe,” she said. “They are from Viscount Ravensberg. I waltzed with him last evening.”

The duchess looked over her shoulder at the card. “Oh, goodness,” she said gaily, “he is smitten indeed, Lauren. He has complimented your eyes. Who is he? The name is not familiar.”

“He told me,” Lauren said, replacing the card against the vase, “that he sought an introduction to me to discover if my gown matched my eyes in color. Have you ever heard anything more absurd?”

“He does not sound like the sort of gentleman the Earl of Sutton would present to you.” Elizabeth’s voice still shook with amusement. “It must have been Joseph, the rogue.”

“It was Lady Mannering,” Lauren said. “Aunt Sadie and Wilma almost had the vapors. They told me after I had danced with him that I must cut his acquaintance if he should presume upon it again. Uncle Webster called him a black sheep. Joseph told me he was a cavalry officer until recently. He is heir to the Earl of Redfield.”

“Ah.” Elizabeth nodded. “Yes, of course. The earl’s eldest son died a year or two ago, I remember.”

“Elizabeth?” Lauren turned to look at her, and she could feel her cheeks grow hot. “He is the gentleman who was fighting in the park last week.”

“Oh, dear.” But Elizabeth, after the first moment of surprise, chose to laugh again rather than blanch with horror. “Poor Lauren. You must have felt trapped indeed when Lady Mannering presented him and good manners forced you to dance with him—to
waltz
with him, did you say? And now he is sending you flowers. I did notice on that infamous occasion, of course, that he is a remarkably handsome young man.”

“Not extraordinarily handsome.” Lauren flushed. “Next time I see him, if there
is
a next time, I shall incline my head just so, thank him for the roses, and make it perfectly clear that I desire no further acquaintance with him.”

“You depress pretension so well,” Elizabeth said, her eyes dancing with merriment. “There is no more perfect lady than Lauren Edgeworth.” She linked her arm through her niece’s. “Now, let us go for breakfast. I shall have a footman carry the vase up to your sitting room so that you may be reminded for the next few days that there is a gentleman in town who is so lost in admiration for your eyes that he searched for flowers to match them in beauty—and was forced to settle for roses instead.”

“It is no laughing matter, Elizabeth,” Lauren said reproachfully, though she smiled despite herself and then chuckled.

Kit jumped down from the high seat of his curricle in Grosvenor Square and tossed the ribbons to his tiger, who had already scrambled down from his perch behind and rushed to the horses’ heads. Kit approached the front door of the Duke of Portfrey’s town house and rapped the knocker. He had ascertained ahead of time that this was one of the afternoons on which the duchess was regularly at home to callers.

At least Lauren Edgeworth was beautiful, he thought. Extremely lovely, in fact, even if one discounted those extraordinary, almost smoky violet eyes. She was no young girl, of course, but then the dignity of extra years enhanced her good looks rather than detracting from them. He was almost thirty himself and was not remotely interested in simpering young misses. Miss Edgeworth bore herself with proud grace and wore on her face the sort of perpetual half smile he had seen on certain Greek statues. Last evening she had given the distinct impression that she was immune to charm and humor and even the mildest attempt at flirtation. He had been somewhat disconcerted by her chilly demeanor, if the truth were known.

But therein lay the challenge.

The door opened, the ducal butler bowed with such stiff hauteur that the uninitiated might have mistaken him for the duke himself, and Kit tossed his card onto the silver salver the man held.

“Viscount Ravensberg to call upon Miss Edgeworth,” he said and stepped boldly into the hall.

It was to be easier than he had expected. Perhaps so few visitors were turned away on these at-home days that it did not even occur to the butler to carry the card upstairs first to ascertain that the lady was willing to receive him. Or perhaps the butler recognized his name as the sender of roses this morning and assumed his visit in person would be welcome. Or perhaps it had not occurred to Portfrey—as it doubtless would have to Anburey—to leave instructions that he was to be denied admittance if he called.

“Follow me, if you please, my lord,” the butler said with another bow before leading the way to the staircase.

The sound of voices engaged in polite conversation wafted from the drawing room as soon as a footman opened the doors at their approach. The butler stepped into the doorway.

“Viscount Ravensberg for Miss Edgeworth, your grace,” he announced.

An unnatural silence fell as Kit strode into the room. He recognized Sutton and Attingsborough in one swift glance about the room. And he saw too that Lauren Edgeworth, seated in the middle of a group close to the window, was rising to her feet, a look of astonishment on her face. A handsome lady of regal bearing—despite the visible evidence that she was breeding—was hurrying toward him, her right hand outstretched, a smile of polite welcome on her face. Kit bowed to her.

“Your grace,” he said and took her offered hand in his.

“Lord Ravensberg. How delightful.” If she was shocked at his appearance in her drawing room or chagrined with her butler for allowing him up without question, she was too well bred to show it.

“Ravensberg?” The Duke of Portfrey, whom Kit knew by sight, had come to stand beside his duchess. He was rather more poker-faced than she.

“I have come to pay my respects to Miss Edgeworth. She was gracious enough to dance with me last evening,” Kit explained. The room, he was aware, was half filled with visitors. Most of them were still gaping at him rather as if Portfrey’s butler had just committed the faux pas of ushering the chimney sweep into their presence. This moment, he suspected, would be discussed with some relish in a few more drawing rooms before the afternoon was out.

Miss Edgeworth came toward him herself, then, and the duke and duchess returned their attention to their other visitors. Those same guests had recovered their manners and were resuming their interrupted conversations.

“How kind of you to call, my lord,” she said. “Thank you for the roses. They are exquisite.”

If the roses were in front of her face at that particular moment, he thought, they would surely freeze upon their stems, her gaze was so cold.

“It was not merely the reflection of your gown, then,” he said softly, dipping his head a little closer to hers. “Today you wear green, but your eyes are still unmistakably violet.” She looked every bit as lovely as she had last evening even though her dark, glossy hair was dressed with a great deal more simplicity today.

She showed not the slightest pleasure in the implied compliment.

“Do have a seat, my lord,” she said with gracious condescension—a stranger would surely have mistaken
her
for the duchess. She turned and indicated an empty chair in the midst of the crowd of young people among whom she had been sitting. “I shall fetch you a cup of tea.”

When she took her place again, he noticed that she sat very straight, her spine not quite touching the back of her chair. She launched into conversation about music, and a spirited discussion of various composers and the relative merits of different solo musical instruments followed.

Kit did not attempt to participate but amused himself by observing the other members of the group. His appearance had obviously discomposed several of them. The red-haired Lady Wilma Fawcitt was looking prunish, Sutton haughty, Attingsborough watchful and faintly amused. The skeletal young man whose name had escaped Kit for the moment was looking irritated, George Stennson openly hostile. Miss Edgeworth seemed the only one who was serenely unaware of his very existence. Kit sipped his tea.

“Miss Edgeworth,” he said at last, taking advantage of a brief lull in the conversation, “would you allow me the honor of driving you to the park in my curricle later this afternoon?”

He was gazing directly at her and so was fully aware of the momentary widening of her lovely eyes and parting of her lips. The next moment she was looking coolly back at him, her expression politely bland. He was sure she was about to refuse him. Perhaps he had proceeded too precipitously. How would he win his wager if she said no?

“Oh, I say,” the skeletal, still unidentified young man said indignantly, “I came to ask the same favor, Miss Edgeworth, but thought to do the correct thing and wait until I could speak privately with you when I took my leave. I was here before Viscount Ravensberg,” he added feebly.

Kit raised his eyebrows. “I do beg your pardon,” he said. “Did I do the
incorrect
thing? Having spent so many years of my adult life away from England, I must confess myself unsure of the finer points of etiquette.” With his eyes he laughed at Lauren Edgeworth.

“Oh, I say!” The anonymous gentleman sounded distinctly uncomfortable. “I did not mean to imply—”

“I believe,” Attingsborough said smoothly, “it might have been for this afternoon that you and I made our appointment to drive to the library together, Lauren. You will refresh my memory if I am wrong.”

“Sutton has quite set his heart on taking you and me for a turn in his new barouche after tea, Lauren,” Lady Wilma said with a toss of her red curls. She tittered. “I am quite counting on you to act as my chaperone.”

Kit continued to smile into Lauren Edgeworth’s violet eyes, which had not wavered from his own. There was not the faintest suggestion of an answering smile there.

She looked away. “No, you are wrong, Joseph,” she said. “It was not for today. And you certainly do not need a chaperone when riding in an open carriage with your betrothed, Wilma. Perhaps some other day, Mr. Bartlett-Howe? Thank you, Lord Ravensberg. That would be very pleasant.”

He had the other members of the group to thank, of course, Kit realized as he rose to take his leave. He was quite certain she had been going to refuse him until they had all rushed in so gallantly to rescue her from the horror of being obliged to drive out with a notorious rakehell. She might be cold and imperturbably self-contained, his intended bride, but she was not immune to a challenge.

It was an intriguing thought.

“Until later, then, Miss Edgeworth,” he said, bowing to her, nodding affably to the group at large, and then strolling across the room to take his leave of the Duchess of Portfrey.