As Rich as a Rogue (7 page)

That brought his gaze back hard to her. “You don't dance it? Whyever not? It's all the rage in India.”

“I've never received permission.”

That wasn't exactly true. She'd never
asked
for permission. Even though every other debutante eventually got the nod for the scandalous dance, she'd never taken the risk, fearing it would appear too wayward.

“That's nonsense,” he said. “You're not a green girl. Just dance it.”

She didn't dare, and she was about to say so, but she'd run out of time. The first notes of the next dance had started, and Mr. Midean was clearly irritated. That would never do. He was a rising star in the legal arena, and she considered him an excellent potential husband. Number 31 on her list, in fact. Her father wanted a title, but she was more interested in intelligence and potential influence, which Mr. Midean had in abundance. So she pushed Lord Whitly from her thoughts—or she made a valiant attempt at it—and turned her smile onto Mr. Midean.

An hour later, she was still thinking of Lord Whitly instead of her dance partners. She'd seen him talk with Lord Rimbury, then steadily make the rounds of the room. He greeted many people, danced with a few young misses, especially the wallflowers, which she thought was sweet, and then sort of meandered about the room.

If he'd settled with one knot of gentlemen or another, she would have known better what to think of him. If he'd stood with the bankers, well then he was a man of finance. If he'd stayed to chat with the politicals, then she could classify him with them. It was clear from his dress that he was neither dandy nor Corinthian, though he was greeted by both sets.

In truth, he seemed to be wandering in search of something or exploring to some mysterious purpose. But what? She hadn't the slightest clue, except he spent an inordinate amount of time catching her looking at him. Annoying man. What was he doing watching her so closely? And why was she looking back all the time?

She refocused on her partner, finished the set, and then instead of wandering to where Lady Eleanor was holding court—which happened to be near where Lord Whitly stood talking with an aging solicitor—she went to her more typical place near the dowagers. They greeted her like a Greek chorus, all happily in accord. But that lasted only as long as it took for them to smile.

“Goodness, my dear, we all thought you'd forgotten about us.”

“Of course not—”

“Lady Mary here thinks Mrs. Wotton has suffered a brain fever that hurt her sense of color. Look at that gown. It's purple!”

Mari glanced across the room at the gown in question. It was a beautiful color in her estimation, and worn by a married woman with two nearly grown girls. Eminently proper, but apparently the dowagers didn't agree. She was about to express that she admired the gown, but Lady Mary spoke first. “Mari dear, will you pick up my shawl? It seems to have fallen, and Lily will step on it before long.”

“Of course—”

“I wouldn't step on it if it wasn't always underfoot.” An aged hand clutched at her elbow. “Would you mind getting us something to drink? I don't know about these footmen. Not a one has come 'round to bring us refreshments. Most disgraceful.”

Then they were back to being a Greek chorus, all nodding as they disparaged the staff at various parties dating back two score years.

She left them to it, heading to the tepid punch. She would have to make several trips for all of them, but she was used to it by now. She was just considering whether she could manage a fourth full glass without spilling when they were all plucked from her arms by a set of large hands.

“What—”

“Why the devil are you acting as a servant?” Lord Whitly's expression was fierce, and his hair had gone even more askew than before.

“I was getting drinks for the dowagers. They—”

“I'm well aware of what you're doing, but it's not your job.”

She huffed out a breath. “Of course it's not my job, but they're thirsty, and no one—”

He snapped his fingers beneath one footman's nose. “You will get a tray and serve every one of those ladies punch. And claret. And anything else they want. Do you understand?”

“But…but, sir…” The hapless man gestured to the punch bowl. Apparently his job was to pour lemonade.

“What is your name, young man?”

“Thompson.”

“Well, Thompson, I expect you are capable of figuring out how to have the lemonade bowl manned
and
get the ladies their drinks, are you not?”

“Er, yes, sir.”

“My lord,” Mari corrected.

“What?” The man turned widened eyes to her. Truly he was rather young, and she felt bad for putting him on the spot like this.

“This is Lord Whitly, young Thompson. And I shall stand here and explain the situation to anyone who asks. So do what you must to get the ladies served.”

“Yes, my lady.”

She smiled at the boy, and he blushed all the way up through his ears. But then paled when Lord Whitly practically growled at him.

“She isn't waiting long, Thompson. Go.”

“Oh! Yes, sir. Er, my lord. Um…”

Lord Whitly bared his teeth and made shooing motions. The footman scampered away.

“And that,” said Mari, “is why I gave up trying to get the servants to carry the drinks. You've not only frightened that poor boy—”

“If that frightens him, God help him if he ever sees battle.”

She snorted, a most inelegant sound that she immediately regretted. “He's a footman. He's not likely to see battle. And now you've probably upset things below stairs. It's a delicate balance down there.”

“Bollocks. They weren't doing their job.”

She sighed. “Have you been gone so long from London Society that you have forgotten everything? Or did you never pay any attention to it in the first place?”

“You think you will be the topic of conversation tomorrow for this?”

“I do.”

He frowned at her. “Very well, shall we make a wager on it?”

“I am attempting to be circumspect.”

“This is a perfectly proper wager. If not a single word of gossip ensues from this dastardly lemonade bowl incident, then you shall walk with me in Hyde Park during the fashionable hour. I regret that we cannot go driving, as I have not yet purchased any type of conveyance.”

“That shall not be a problem, my lord, as you have no chance of winning.”

He arched a brow. “Very well, and your forfeit shall be…?” He lifted his chin as he appeared to think about it.

“Another apology for doubting me?”

He waved that aside, then snapped his fingers. “You'll go riding with me instead. Do you have a horse?”

She did, though she was not a very accomplished rider, and rusty to boot. Horsemanship was one of those wild activities denied to someone who wanted to prove she wasn't wayward.

“I haven't been riding in a very, very long time.”

“Then you should enjoy it.”

Assuming she didn't fall on her face in the mud. “You must swear not to laugh. My horse is very sensitive to laughter.”

“Your horse?”

She shrugged. “Her feelings are easily hurt.”

“I shall endeavor to be deadly serious all morning.” He gave her a teasing look. “I will meet you at nine of the clock tomorrow.”

Just then young Thompson scurried back to the lemonade bowl, so Lord Whitly extended his arm to her. It would have been rude not to take it, so she set her fingers on his sleeve and tried not to marvel how, even through the layers of clothing, she could still feel his muscles flex.

Over six Seasons, she'd held the arms of scores of men. Dandies, Corinthians, impoverished lords, and a few nabobs. None of them had made her aware of his muscles or size beside her. Neither had they made her feel comfortable. Always she was an accompaniment to the gentleman's presence. She was the woman on his arm, the lady who added to his consequence.

She felt none of those things beside Lord Whitly. She simply felt at ease. She wasn't intimidated by his size. In truth, he made her feel rather womanly beside his broad shoulders and powerful stride. His arm was there to support her if she should stumble. He didn't seem to need her to compliment him. Indeed, she tried by mentioning that his coat fit him very well and he looked quite fine in it.

He gave her a glance and a shrug, almost belatedly remembering to say, “Thank you.”

She chuckled, because truly, she'd never met a gentleman of the
ton
who had such little vanity. It put her quite in charity with him. So they ambled happily to the dowagers, who simpered and flirted with him, greatly honored that he'd condescended to pay them any mind.

He charmed them smoothly, though she could tell only part of his attention was on them. He was distracted, for all that the elderly women were flushed with pleasure. She wanted to ask what he was thinking. She wanted to push to a deeper intimacy with him, and yet that was the most ridiculous thought ever. Friendship could not be sought in the middle of a London Season. And intimate friendships were impossible.

There was no time during a ball to discuss anything of substance, no space for more than a nod and a smile. There were dozens of people she saw every Season and knew nothing more about them but the cut of their clothes and their attitude on the weather. And yet here she was desperately trying to think of a way to ask what was he thinking? What disturbed him so deeply that he'd pulled at his hair and forgotten to greet her properly? And why was he still at her side, discussing knee pains with the dowagers when he should be attending to whatever had him so distracted?

Then the musicians started tuning again. The break was over, the next set beginning to form. No time to ask. No silence in which to push for understanding.

“Oh, listen,” said one of the dowagers. “They're starting again. You young people go dance. That's what we're here for, you know, to watch you enjoy yourselves.”

“Oh, and look, Miss Powel, here is that handsome Lord Byland come to claim you. I'm afraid you'll have to give her up, Lord Whitly.”

“I'm afraid I must,” Whitly said, and he almost sounded regretful. “Fortunately, I will reclaim her hand soon enough. She has consented to waltz with me.”

“Waltz?” gasped the nearest dowager.

“Miss Powel, really?” cried the next. “You're going to waltz?”

“Oh, my dear, I don't think that's quite proper,” added a third.

On the objections went. Enough that it became quite uncomfortable, until Lord Whitly raised his hand for silence. Strangely enough, it worked, and each member of the dowager chorus quieted.

“I cannot believe my ears,” he said solemnly. “How could you think the waltz is anything but proper? Is it possible that you've never tried this dance yourselves? Can it be said that you condemn something without having tried it?” She had no idea how he could know that, but it was true. As far as she was aware, none of them had ever tried the waltz.

The dowagers gasped. And then quick bursts of answers exploded all around.

“Well, we'd never!”

“Not at our age!”

“Such a thing to ask!”

He waved away their objections with a casual sweep of his large hand. “Then I shall make it my purpose to get each of you a partner for the waltz. You can't very well object to something unless you've tried it.”

“What?”

“Oh goodness, no!”

“Who would want to dance with us? No, no, that's for young people.”

Mari glanced to Lord Whitly. His eyes danced even as his lips curled.

“You like the challenge,” she abruptly said, surprised enough to speak her thoughts aloud.

His gaze jumped to hers. “What?”

“Everything's a wager to you. Will the footman leap to your tune? Will there be a scandal as a result? Can you get the ladies to dance?”

He straightened. “Yes, no, and of course.” She snorted, and he arched his brow. “Do you doubt my ability?”

“Of course I do! You can't get all of them to dance, and certainly not the waltz.”

His grin widened. “And if I manage it? Before the evening is done?”

Mari didn't know how to answer. She was acutely aware of Lord Byland standing, cooling his heels, and yet she couldn't force herself to move away from Lord Whitly. Not with him turning that arch look straight at her.

“If you manage it, my lord, I shall…I shall tell you a secret. About me.”

His eyes widened. “What ho, that's an exciting forfeit.”

“And if you fail—which you surely will—then you shall tell me one about you.”

He chuckled, the sound rich and deep. “And if I have no secrets?”

“That's a bounder, if ever there was one.”

He nodded. “True enough. Very well, I accept.” Then he turned a gimlet eye on each of the dowagers. “And I expect you ladies to help me win my forfeit.”

“No,” Mari returned archly. “I have spent the last six Seasons in attendance on these venerable ladies. I assure you, they will help me.”

Then there was no more time. The first notes of the new set began, and Mari had to rush with Lord Byland to find their places.

But what about the waltz? she wondered. And what secret was she about to learn from Lord Whitly? Because she knew the dowagers. They had been damning the waltz since its first appearance in the London ballrooms. Even so charming a man as Lord Whitly would fail in getting them on their feet for so scandalous a dance.

Right?

“Lady Stott, I implore you,” Peter said in the most charming voice he could manage. “Surely you would enjoy a dance. I'll go as slow and gentle as you like. You must know, I could carry you if you stumble. Never fear that you will fall.”

“It's not fear, my boy,” the elderly woman said, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks flushed. “I will not do such a scandalous thing in public. I will not.” She punctuated the statement with a thump of her cane.

“But, my lady,” Peter pressed, “all the other women have consented to join.” They damn well ought to have. He'd pressured, cajoled, and outright bribed gentlemen to get their elderly relatives onto the dance floor. It had been a devil of a difficult thing to accomplish, but he had managed it. All except for Lady Stott. She'd outright refused her own grandson, and now Peter was at his wits' end trying to win her over.

Meanwhile, a sweet chuckle sounded to his right. It was warm and seemed to reverberate down his spine. Miss Mari Powel, of course, coming to his side for her very first waltz.

“I brought you more lemonade, Lady Stott,” she said as she extended the drink.

“Thank you, my dear. Now go on. They've started the waltz.”

“I don't think so,” Miss Powel said firmly. “I've decided to sit down with you for this dance.”

“What?” Peter said, frustration making his voice curt. “You can't possibly mean to deny yourself—”

“As all of Lady Stott's friends have deserted her…” Miss Powel gestured to where the dance floor appeared a slow whirl of septuagenarians. “It's only fair that I remain with her. After all, she's doing this to help me win my wager.”

No, the woman was doing it because this was the most attention she'd been paid in a decade. Lady Stott needed a good spanking for putting her own needs ahead of Miss Powel's, but he couldn't say that. Instead, he turned to his intended waltz companion.

“Miss Powel, I insist,” Peter huffed. “You have promised me this dance. You cannot deny me the pleasure of your company.” Or the chance to touch her again. Through the fabric of their gloves, of course, but he would take what he could get. And if he managed to brush her anywhere more intimate, then it would be a victory indeed. But he couldn't do that if he couldn't get her on the dance floor. “It wouldn't be sporting,” he said with what he hoped was a cajoling smile.

“I've never quite understood men's definition of ‘sporting,'” she said, rather gleefully he thought. And full of mischief. “Besides, you may have my company right here. We can converse however you like.”

Well, that was an opening she was going to regret, but he knew better than to grin. Instead, he turned to the dowager. “Do you know that Miss Powel has promised to tell me a secret if I get you to dance?”

“I'm not deaf. You said it right here.” Then she tapped Miss Powel's leg with her cane. “But as she has no secret to share, I'm afraid we will have to content ourselves with hearing about yours.”

Not bloody likely. Whatever he shared, it would not be with an aging dowager with a taste for gossip. “Every lady has a secret,” he said, deciding to try flattery. “I'd wager you have plenty, and you are definitely a lady of the first order.”

The woman chuckled, her pale cheeks flushing. But then a moment later she was waving her hand in dismissal. “Women's secrets are boring. They're always about who said something cutting to someone else.” She leaned over toward Miss Powel and spoke in a loud undertone. “Men's secrets, on the other hand, are so much more interesting. Especially a man who made his fortune collecting money from those Indians.”

Never, ever. But he was playing the dandy right now, so he put a hand to his chest in pretend shock. “Miss Powel, surely you wouldn't share whatever secret I confess.”

“Only with me,” put in Lady Stott.

“With no one,” corrected Miss Powel, her expression prim as she turned to the lady. “You would not respect me if I were a gossip.”

“Tut, tut. Gossip is the only thing that makes you interesting, my dear.”

Miss Powel shook her head. “That's other people gossiping about me. I will not swell their ranks by joining them.”

Peter smiled, at last seeing his opening. His whole goal had been to get the woman to dance, but now he saw a larger possibility. “Lady Stott, did you truly mean that gossip was the most interesting thing about Miss Powel? Surely not.”

“Well, of course she has many commendable attributes.”

“Thank you—” said Miss Powel.

“But you are correct, my lord. Gossip about her is our primary pastime.”

It took a moment for Miss Powel to understand the statement, and Peter took pains not to interrupt. “What? Surely you don't mean that.”

“Of course I do,” said Lady Stott, clearly unrepentant. “Not in a nasty way, of course, but because we adore you. What else would we have to discuss if not who had wronged you, what you should do about it, and how you fared today? Plus, we've spent many evenings trying to guess what phrase you intend to teach Greenie.” The lady turned to shoot Peter a glare that was equal parts threat and glee. “After tonight's demonstration, my lord, you are likely to be discussed in great detail.”

“Not in a nasty way, I hope.”

Lady Stott lifted her chin and sniffed. “That remains to be seen.”

Meanwhile, Miss Powel seemed to be completely nonplussed. And no wonder. She had just realized that her staunchest allies were the ones who perpetuated the very gossip she apparently abhorred.

“B-but you cannot mean you discuss me often. I'm completely unremarkable!”

Lady Stott thumped her cane on the floor. “We discuss that as well.”

While Miss Powel stared, Peter had a chance to appreciate her shocked expression. He could tell her mind was churning away, but at what, he had no clue. He rocked back on his heels and enjoyed the shifting rose of her skin, the dark red of her mouth, and the way her bosom lifted and lowered in agitation. The sight would fill his fantasies for some time to come, he was sure. Especially if he imagined other places for her mouth. Or that she would be arched above him—

“The dance is over, my lord,” Lady Stott said. “You have lost your wager.”

He brought himself forcibly back to the present. One quick glance around showed him that indeed, all the dowagers were tottering flushed and happy back to their seats. Unless…oh dear. Flushed was certainly true, but not a one appeared happy.

He had thought by forcing the dowagers to dance he could show Miss Powel that defying convention was simply a matter of deft handling. That even the staunchest detractors could be brought around.

Apparently, he'd vastly overrated his ability to persuade elderly ladies of anything. Every one of them was complaining as she tottered to her seat.

“Damned difficult thing to do on these old bones.”

“Charlotte, mind your tongue!”

“My grandson can't manage to step to the rhythm for all that he smiles and tries to charm everyone. Can't keep his feet going where they ought.”

“Horrible dance, twirling a woman around like that. Made me quite dizzy.”

Peter desperately tried to salvage the situation. If the women kept up their complaints, he'd never have the chance to dance in close quarters with Miss Powel. “Surely, ladies, it wasn't that bad,” he ventured. “Now you can see—”

“We have tried your dance, my lord,” snapped a woman he'd never met before. “And we declare it to be scandalous.”

He looked to the dance partners, all gentlemen he'd somehow badgered to do their parts. They didn't meet his eyes. To a man, they were all bowing as fast as possible before beating a hasty retreat. But he was quicker than one fellow. A man he'd gone to school with who had condescended to dance with his aunt for the ghastly sum of three guineas.

“What happened, man?” he asked in as low an undertone as he could manage.

“Exactly what I told you would happen. They danced. I believe Aunt Agatha even had a lovely time, though my arms will never be the same. Woman has a grip like a strangling snake. But if there's one thing these ladies like more than the attention, it's the pleasure of ruining everyone else's fun.”

“That's harsh,” Peter said, but one look about him proved the point. The ladies each looked mighty pleased with herself even as she condemned the activity.

“Oh, go on with you!” snapped the man's aunt. “Call my carriage. I feel quite ill.”

A chorus of agreement sounded from all around.

And that was it for the dowagers. They all started gathering their things. Soon there wouldn't be a one left.

“Not so fast,” he said, his voice taking on as much of a commanding air as he dared. It worked. They all stopped and looked at him. “I am dreadfully sorry that you disliked the dance, but I am afraid I cannot be swayed by your opinion. I adore the waltz, as I'm sure Miss Powel will too.”

“Harrumph!”

“Cheeky boy!”

“Ridiculous dance!”

“And now,” he continued, doing his best not to let panic enter his expression. “Lady Stott, if you would please take my hand? I shall have the orchestra play a special waltz just for you and me.”

Lady Stott had been busy gathering her shawl, but at his words, she lifted her chin and pursed her mouth. Then while everyone in the ballroom listened, she turned to Miss Powel.

“My dear, you have won your wager. I am going home.” Then she winked at him. Him! “Best make it a good secret, my boy. Otherwise this whole display will have been for naught.”

“It was meant for me to learn her secrets,” he grumbled.

“Then next time, do not place a wager against a clever woman.” And with that, she stomped her cane down with a thump before walking regally away.

One by one, the other dowagers made their exits as well, each giving him a sniff of disdain. He looked to Miss Powel, his expression bemused. He had no idea how he had suddenly become an object of such fun for them. And not just them, but one glance around the ballroom showed that everyone, from the guests through the servants, were watching the exodus and turning sympathetic gazes on him.

“Huh,” he finally said. “That certainly was not what I expected.”

Miss Powel laughed. It came out at first like a snort, and she rapidly covered her mouth. But a second later, she could not restrain herself. A peal of delight burst from her lips—high and musical—and she was soon joined rather awkwardly by others. Quiet titters, a couple of “By Jove's,” and Miss Powel giggling hard enough that she had to press a hand to her side in apparent pain.

Then she looked at him, amber eyes tearing, her perfect mouth drawn back enough to show white teeth, and such merriment of body and soul that he had to laugh with her. How could he not? She was a delight to look at as she gasped for breath. And besides, he deserved it.

So he laughed, and as he burst into amusement, so too did the rest of the ballroom, until everyone declared this the best ball of the Season. Which meant that when he'd regained his breath and she hers, he held out his hand to her.

She looked at him, her brows pinching a little above her nose. “What?”

He pitched his voice loud enough for the musicians to hear. “I believe we missed our waltz, Miss Powel.”

She straightened and looked at her card. “Don't be silly. It's a cotillion next.”

He turned and looked at the musicians. “A waltz, if you please,” he commanded.

The conductor nodded and lifted his arms. A moment later, the first notes of a waltz began. And while she was still staring at the musicians, he stepped forward and took her hand, pulling her upward from where she'd been leaning against a chair. A quick tug, and suddenly she was in his arms.

“You are a complete hand, aren't you?”

“I am trying to lose gracefully. You have won our wager.”

“Really? And yet somehow I feel as if you have gotten exactly what you wanted.”

He waggled his eyebrows at her. “Then perhaps I am an equally clever gentleman.”

She smiled at him, her expression the warmest he had ever received from her. “It occurs to me that you have also won our other wager.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” she said ruefully. “No one is likely to discuss our display by the lemonade now.”

He'd been so focused on getting the dowagers to dance, he had forgotten all about the lemonade. Goodness, he was on quite a winning streak with her. Too bad the main prize was still well out of reach.

“My lord?” she asked as she settled into position in his arms.

“What?”

“You looked quite serious there for a moment.”

“I'm always serious,” he said, his voice grave, “when I have a beautiful woman in my arms.”

Then he swept her into her very first waltz.