Fortune's Lady (2 page)

“Like the divine Maria. She is expensive, but she named her price at the outset and has never wavered from it. And she is worth every penny. Not only is she, ah, extremely skilled, she is content to accept my, ah, protection without demanding eternal devotion, constant companionship, or even my occasional escort. She is a delightfully practical creature who does not bore one with tears, tantrums, or jealous fits, all of which I am certain our celebrated beauty over there has on a regular basis.”

“But surely with that face, that fortune, that lineage, she is entitled to a little show of temperament.”

Gareth snorted. “Perhaps those poor deluded fools hanging on her every word are prepared to suffer, but I, Ceddie, am no fool. I suffer no illusions about beautiful incomparables.”

“No, that you do not.” Ceddie regarded his friend thoughtfully. “But I am not so sure that your cynicism makes you any happier than their delusions make them.”

“Ceddie, your skill at the card table is infinitely superior to your talent for philosophy. I suggest you abandon your attempts to analyze my state of mind and stick to piquet—so much less complicated, is it not?” Gareth took his friend’s arm and, without a backward glance at the offending Ice Princess, steered his friend toward the refreshment room.

Chapter 2

Dismissed so contemptuously by the Marquess of Harwood,
the object of his disgust had just become unpleasantly aware of his scrutiny. Oblivious to the crowd of young men around her and wishing that she were anywhere but where she was, Lady Althea gazed desperately across the crowded ballroom seeking she knew not what, a friendly face perhaps, or the knowledge that there was at least one person in that glittering crush of people who thought there was something more to life than spending one’s days with dressmakers in order to appear more noticeably fashionable than the rest of the world.

As her glance swept over richly turbaned heads clustered together in gossiping groups, their feathers and jeweled aigrettes waving as they exchanged the latest
on dits,
it encountered, for the briefest of moments, the scornful stare of a haughty dark-haired man on the other side of the room, who appeared to tower over the rest of the throng. He seemed to be less a participant than an observer of the fashionable crowd before him. His gaze passed from her to the rest of Lady St. John’s guests and Althea realized, with a shock, that to him, she too was part of this indistinguishable crush of social aspirants hoping to win distinction in the rarified atmosphere of the haut monde. In fact, if she had been asked, she would have had to admit that the cynical stranger’s sardonic expression had grown even more derisive in the few seconds that his glance had met hers.

Althea drew an angry breath. The insolence of the man was infuriating in the extreme. How dare he pass judgment on her? How dare he condemn someone he did not even know, someone he had never encountered before in his life?

“My dear, I
do
wish you would not scowl so. It makes you look positively hatchet-faced, and if you do not have care, you will get wrinkles.” The Duchess of Clarendon, about to lead her daughter toward more promising company than the group of young bucks surrounding her— men of greater fashion than eligibility—allowed herself the faintest of reproving sighs. An air of aloof superiority was one thing; after all, a certain amount of pride was expected in someone of Althea’s distinction, but the ferocious frown wrinkling her brow was quite another. Her daughter’s undeniable beauty quite naturally attracted universal admiration, but sooner or later her obvious disgust with the Season and its time-honored rituals was bound to put off even the hardiest of suitors.

But at the moment Althea’s expression was more than one of vague distaste, it was almost angry. In an attempt to determine the source of her daughter’s annoyance the duchess surveyed the room. It seemed that Althea’s eyes had strayed to and then been hastily averted from one particular area of the room dominated by a tall dark-haired gentleman. “Harwood.” The duchess snorted. “Do not bother to dignify him with the slightest glance, my love. No well-brought-up young woman would have anything to do with a man who spends his time in gaming rooms among such company as should not even be mentioned. Fortunately for all of us, it is a well-known fact that he is a confirmed bachelor who has never acknowledged any woman with anything more than the briefest of nods. One wonders that he is here at all. But look, there is the Duchess of Wroxleigh with her son Rupert. The Fortheringay family isn’t so distinguished as the Beauchamps, but they do have extensive holdings in Hampshire and Wiltshire as well as several plantations in the West Indies. You could do worse than becoming the next Duchess of Wroxleigh.”

Althea eyed the chinless, sandy-haired young man with some misgiving. Perhaps it was only shyness that gave his face the vacant expression of a flounder, but it did not look promising for any sort of conversation, intelligent or otherwise.

“My dear Duchess, it has been an age since I last saw you. And this must be your charming son.” Althea’s mother propelled her daughter forward with a firm but imperceptible thrust of the elbow. “How delightful that he and Althea are at last able to meet. This is her first Season and she quite longs to see a friendly face.”

“Rupert!”

Prompted so peremptorily, the unhappy Rupert shuffled forward, his pale, freckled skin turning even paler. “Ah, er, yes, delighted.”

Feeling sorry for someone who was obviously more miserable at finding himself in the countess’s magnificent ballroom than she, Althea could not help warming to the unfortunate Rupert at least a little. “And how are you enjoying your stay in London, my lord?”

“Not at all.”

Even Althea, firm believer in plain speaking that she was, found this to be a little blunt for her tastes. “Ah, then you must be missing the peace and quiet of the country, or perhaps you are an avid horseman who finds the metropolis far too confining?”

“Umm.”

“Dear Rupert is a quiet lad. He minces few words, so very much like his father and not at all like these gentlemen of today, who are all flattery and no character, all talk and no action.” Rupert’s mother fixed a wasp-waisted young buck sporting a quizzing glass and elaborate cravat with a basilisk stare and sniffed disapprovingly. “I am sure he is longing to have you join him in the quadrille, Lady Althea.” Striving to prove her son the man of action she claimed him to be, the Duchess of Wroxleigh gave him a none-too-gentle push in Althea’s direction, and they were off to the dance floor where couples were just beginning to take their paces.

Watching her partner stomp through the figures of the dance, Althea kept telling herself that he must shine in the saddle or in something that would account for his singular lack of conversation, not to mention grace. Victim of an overbearing mother herself, she knew what it was to be told constantly how to behave, to have the words taken out of her mouth before she could even frame a reply.
But at least I have the appearance of looking awake on all suits,
she told herself as she tried to smile encouragingly at her glassy-eyed partner whose expression had not registered the slightest change since the very beginning of their encounter.
And if someone were to take even the smallest interest in me I should at least have the civility to respond.

She was thankful to her partner, however, for freeing her from her mother’s watchful eye. With her daughter safely on the dance floor, partnered to a peer of unimpeachable credentials, the Duchess of Clarendon was free to search the ballroom for other eligible prospects, though there were few who could match her daughter in family and fortune.

The duchess allowed herself a tiny smile of triumph as her glance fell on Lady Belinda Carstairs. The chit was well enough dressed, for her mother frequented only the most select of the fashionable establishments in Bond Street, and she carried herself gracefully enough, but she could not hold a candle to Althea. Her color was unbecomingly high and her nose was a vulgar snub. The duchess was forced to admit to herself rather begrudgingly, however, that Lady Belinda seemed to be enjoying herself. Still, she lacked the distinction that Althea’s air of cool detachment gave her.

Her Grace’s smile disappeared quickly enough as she caught sight of her daughter and Rupert going through the figures of the dance. Puppets would have been more animated and certainly more self-possessed than the heir to one of the kingdom’s most important families. No matter, the duchess consoled herself. Though Rupert’s mama had done nothing to ensure that her son had any style or address, a strong-willed mama-in-law with a distinct air of fashion and boundless determination would be able to work wonders with the lad in spite of his unprepossessing countenance.

At last the dance ended. Lady Althea was restored to her mother and Rupert bolted like a frightened rabbit toward the refreshment room and several glasses of fortifying punch. The duchess nodded condescendingly at Rupert’s mother. At least her daughter, though less animated than a mother might wish, was not an arrant coward. “So charming to have encountered you and your son. I look forward to further acquaintance, but now I see Lord Foxworthy nodding in our direction. Such a distinguished gentleman and quite taken with Althea, if you will forgive a mother’s natural partiality.”

Reestablishing her grip on Althea’s elbow, the duchess propelled her toward a portly self-satisfied-looking gentleman whose thinning locks betrayed the number of years he had spent waiting until a partner worthy of his name could be found among the crop of hopeful young misses who frequented the most select gatherings each Season.

But before the duchess was within speaking distance of this eligible prospect, her daughter broke from her grasp. “There is Grandmama. She looks quite worn out with the closeness and the heat. I shall take her to the card room and send someone to procure refreshments.”

“Really, Althea, there is no need to concern yourself. You can see that she is quite enjoying her conversation with Lady Alderly.”

But her daughter had already escaped and was eagerly accosting her grandmother. “Grandmama, here you are at last. I have come to take you with me to the card room.”

The Dowager Duchess of Clarendon looked up and smiled. “How very kind of you, my dear.” She turned to her companion. “If you will excuse me, the heat and the crowd are quite overwhelming.”

“I agree it is rather close in here and naturally you wish to join your charming granddaughter.”

“Thank you, my dear.” The dowager patted Althea’s hand as they made their way to the card room. “Though I suspect you are rescuing yourself quite as much as you are rescuing me.”

“You know how I detest these affairs, Grandmama. I feel like a prize thoroughbred at Tattersall’s being scrutinized and rated on all my finer points by people I have never met and care even less about. Mama is thoroughly put out because I do not revel in it the way she does.”

“Well, she was a great beauty in her day, and to her, such attention and admiration are the very stuff of life.”

“But not to me. I loathe being stared at, and I am bored to distraction by the conversation, if I am fortunate enough to be conversed with at all. I would much rather play whist. At least in the card room I can put my mind to good use.”

“And so can I.” Althea’s grandmother grinned conspiratorially. “You are not the only one forced to endure dull conversations, if what you rescued me from can even be called conversation. I have known Lydia since she was a schoolgirl, years before she met Alderly, but despite her years and experience, she is as empty-headed now as she was when I first met her.”

At last they reached the card room and the dowager paused in the doorway surveying the dozen or so baize-covered tables in search of worthy opponents. Close behind her, Althea tried to peer over her shoulder without appearing to do so. One of the few benefits of her enforced visit to the metropolis was the opportunity to match her wits and card-playing skills against truly challenging opponents. While her grandmother was a formidable adversary and her parents competent enough in their own right, Althea had grown accustomed to their styles of play. The card rooms of the
ton
offered a wide array of experienced players and, if it could be said that she looked forward to anything at all in the mansions of London’s most renowned hostesses, it was the chance to pit herself against those who had spent the better part of their adult lives haunting gaming tables where the stakes were higher than most average men could even comprehend.

A burst of raucous laughter to one side of her made Althea long to push through the doorway quickly and escape into the peace and quiet of the card room. “You ain’t the Duke of Wroxleigh yet, Fotheringay, but I see your expectations alone were enough to get you a dance with the Ice Princess, you lucky dog. The rest of us are never even allowed to get close enough to the Ice Princess to feast our eyes on ...” The laugher drowned out the young buck’s words, but the meaning was clear enough to send the hot blood rushing to Althea’s cheeks.

“Aye, she wanted me well enough, but she is not my type.” Rupert, a little worse for the glasses of punch he had gulped down after their dance, laughed uproariously.

“Not your type? What is wrong with you, man? The woman is a goddess.”

“Nose ish too long.” Rupert hiccoughed. “Lipsh are too thin, and the neck ish too scrawny. A man wants a real woman to love.”

Glancing out of the corner of her eye at Rupert’s narrow shoulders, sickly complexion, and protruding middle, Althea ground her teeth.
Scrawny neck!
At the moment she could think of nothing more satisfying than wrapping her hands around his skinny neck until the pale protuberant eyes bulged out even more, miserable worm! Althea had not deigned to exchange glances with him, had only given him the very tips of her fingers to clasp during the dance, and yet he now had the unmitigated effrontery to pass judgment on her. Oh, it was beyond all bearing.

“Ha, ha.” A pimply young man even less prepossessing than Rupert giggled. “You devil you, Fotheringay, but the fortune is nothing to sneeze at.”