Heartless (6 page)

“Enjoying yourself, are ye, lad?” he asked. “Egad, but you have turned some heads tonight. 'Tis the fan that has done it—again.” He chuckled.

“I thought,” Luke said, taking the offensive, “that I might get you to present me to Lady Sterne's goddaughter, Theo. She is the older one? The one wearing green?”

The look of suppressed triumph on his uncle's face was almost comical. “Aye, lad,” he said. “And all my fears were for naught. The gel has not missed one set. You have noticed her, then?”

“Only because you mentioned her,” Luke lied. “I will dance with her if I may, Theo—as a courtesy to Lady Sterne.”

The dancing was between sets in the ballroom. Luke followed Lord Quinn across the room to where Lady Sterne was standing with her two charges. The elder of the two stopped fanning herself when she saw him approaching and then began again at an almost furious speed. She lowered her eyes for a moment and then raised them again boldly. They were large green eyes, he saw as he drew closer, made more green by the color of her mantua.

“Well, Marjorie, m'dear,” Lord Quinn said in a loud and hearty voice, “lookee here at whom I ran into in the card room. And I was saying to you not half an hour since that in all the crush it seemed I was not going to have a chance to exchange a word with my own nephy.”

“Harndon,” Lady Sterne said, smiling graciously, “I am pleased to see you again. And lud, what a happy chance it was that took Theodore past the card room.”

Ah yes, indeed, Luke thought, a co-conspirator without a doubt. “Madam?” He made his bow to her.

“May I present my goddaughter to you?” Lady Sterne asked. “Lady Anna Marlowe, daughter of my dear late friend, the Countess of Royce. And Lady Agnes, her younger sister. His grace, the Duke of Harndon, Anna.”

He bowed deeply while both young ladies dipped into curtsies. He included both in his bow, but it was on the elder that his whole attention was focused. “Charmed,” he murmured.

A Parisienne would have considered herself half naked without cosmetics quite heavily applied and without patches artfully placed. Lady Anna Marlowe wore none. Her complexion was delicate and clear and healthy, he noted. Her lips were curved in a smile and her eyes sparkled. There was no pretense of indifference now that he was close. A flirt she might be; a coquette she was not.

“His grace has recently returned to England after spending a number of years in Paris,” Lady Sterne was explaining.

“Lady Anna has recently arrived from the country after a lengthy term of mourning for her parents,” Lord Quinn was explaining almost simultaneously.

Lady Anna, looking as if she had never mourned or entertained one sad thought in her life, smiled at him.

“My condolences,” he said, including both sisters again in his bow.

“How fascinating that must have been,” Lady Anna said at the same moment. Her voice was light and as eager as her expression.

She smiled. He inclined his head.

His dealings for years past had been almost exclusively with sophistication. The woman's open appraisal of him and her very obvious delight in her surroundings made him feel slightly dizzy. Slightly dazzled. Lines were forming for the next dance, a set of country measures.

“Madam.” He bowed once more, but directly to Lady Anna this time. “May I hope that you have not promised this set? May I have the honor of leading you out?”

“Thank you.” Her answer was made almost before his question had been completed and she was reaching out a hand to set in his. “Yes, thank you, your grace.” The whole of the sun seemed to be behind the smile with which she favored him.

“How fortunate,” Luke heard his uncle say. “'Tis the supper dance.”

Ah, yes, of course. His uncle, the consummate schemer. Luke led his partner to the end of the line of ladies and took his place opposite her in the line of gentlemen. The music was beginning.

She danced with a light grace. He was accustomed to partnering graceful dancers. Dancing was an accomplishment much cultivated by the fashionable. But Lady Anna Marlowe danced with more than grace. It was almost as if she took the music inside herself as it played and became music and harmony and rhythm as she moved. Dancing was more than an accomplishment with her. It was a delight and a self-expression. And all the while she danced, except for the occasions when the patterns of the dance took her away for a few moments with other partners, she kept her eyes on his and smiled into them.

And how did he know that? he asked himself before the set ended. How could he know it unless his eyes were upon her too? She had a loveliness and a directness that he found rather refreshing, rather different. He did not know how old she was though he guessed that she had passed the age of majority. She had been kept in the country by a double bereavement. That must have been sad for her, especially if they had been a close family. But apart from that, he judged that she was a woman of little experience and therefore of little depth of character. She did not look like someone who had suffered a great deal in life.

And yet there could be something dazzling about innocence and simplicity when it was combined with smiles and exuberance. He was not sorry that his uncle had maneuvered him into leading her into the supper dance. He looked forward to the opportunity to talk with her. He hoped she had some skill at conversation. He hoped she would not merely blush and giggle, the common malady of girls with no experience in life and society.

•   •   •

It
was an evening Anna knew she would remember for the rest of her life. It was an unexpected and priceless jewel in the dark path of her life and she clutched at it greedily, knowing that it might be the only one that would ever come her way. Tomorrow life would return to normal and though she would be spending almost two more months here in town, she would not expect any more evenings like this one. There could be no more like this.

He had lived for years in Paris. That explained a great deal. It was said that the people of Paris were years ahead of the English in fashion and in frivolity. The lady who had approached him soon after his arrival and had proceeded to dance with him was also from Paris. Anna had found that out in the course of the evening. She was the Marquise d'Étienne. Her hair was shorter and more tightly curled than anyone else's and her cosmetics were worn strangely. Her powder was white and heavy, her rouge very bright and worn in large circles on her cheeks, with no attempt at blending. Her lips were a corresponding red. It was the French way, Anna had been told. It was very hard not to stare at the woman.

He had lived in Paris. He was a duke. And she had been right about his eyes. Everything about him was graceful—a sort of languid grace. Everything except his eyes. They were dark gray and they were very keen despite the fact that he frequently drooped his eyelids over them. She suspected that his eyes did not miss much. And she had been right about something else too. There was an indefinable but quite unmistakable air of masculinity about him despite outer appearances. And it was not just his eyes.

He made Anna breathless. She had always thought that her dream man would be tall. This man was no more than a few inches taller than she. And yet she found herself imagining how much more comfortable it would be to be held in this man's arms than in those of a tall man. So much more comfortable on the muscles of the neck.

She was briefly appalled when she caught the direction of her thoughts. She was not given to lascivious thinking. Besides, it was all quite pointless and only likely to give her more pain when the night was over and she realized again how very alone she was and would be for the rest of her life. And yet—she shivered inwardly—she should be thankful for aloneness. If
he
came back, she would not even have that. But she would not think of him. Not tonight on her magic night.

It was their turn—hers and the Duke of Harndon's—to twirl down the full length of the empty space between lines. She would remember this, she thought, feeling his warm hands clasping hers, forever and beyond forever. They were strong and handsome hands. When she smiled up into his eyes, her lips were only inches from his. Her eyes dropped to them for a brief moment.

He was, she judged, a man who had spent his adult years in fashionable society. In Paris. A man of sophistication and charm—she had felt his charm even though she had not spoken with him yet. A man of frivolous character. Someone with whom she had flirted and was flirting without fear. Someone with whom she could relax and talk for the half hour of supper. An unthreatening man.

Someone so very different from—
him.
She thought for a moment about that other man, about his tall, thin body and narrow handsome face, his soft, pleasant voice. On first acquaintance she had liked him. Everyone had liked him and probably still did. She had thought him her savior. She had expected him to offer her marriage and had been ready to accept—not out of love, perhaps, but out of respect and liking and out of what she had thought would develop into devotion. But it had not been marriage that was on his mind—or seduction either. And that latter point puzzled her and disturbed her perhaps more than anything. If he did not want to marry her and did not want to use her body outside marriage, then why . . .

But no. No! He had controlled her life and haunted her to the core of her soul for two years even though he had been absent for one of those years. But not this evening. This was her magic evening and she was not going to allow another thought of him to intrude.

Anna listened regretfully as the music drew to an end. But there was still supper. Still perhaps the best part of the evening, which was already perfect. How could anything be more perfect than perfect? She smiled.

“Madam.” The Duke of Harndon held out an arm for hers. “Will you honor me by taking supper with me?”

She set her own arm along the shimmering satin of his sleeve and felt the warmth of his body heat. “Thank you, your grace,” she said.

Prince Charming, she thought, and smiled gaily at her own fancies. She wondered if Cinderella's prince had worn scarlet and gold. And then she wished she had not remembered the old fairy tale at all. At midnight all of Cinderella's finery had turned to rags and her prince had been left behind and she had found herself sitting on a pumpkin. And there was no point in reminding herself that Prince Charming had retained one of the glass slippers and had been able to use it to find his princess again.

Cinderella had lived in a fairy tale. Lady Anna Marlowe lived in the real world.

“I
VOW
'tis succeeding,” Lady Sterne said, laying a hand on Lord Quinn's sleeve. “Just look at them, Theo.”

Lord Quinn had been looking. His nephew and Lady Sterne's goddaughter were sitting at a table some distance away from their own and were focused entirely on each other even though they were surrounded by other guests. It was something he had observed before. It was perhaps what had always made the lad more sought after than almost any other gentleman in Paris, both as a husband and a lover—that ability of his to give his whole attention to the lady of the moment, almost as if he had forgotten the existence of all others. But usually his attention was given to some beauty of high rank and easy morals, some beauty he could reasonably expect to lure into his bed for as long as he cared to keep her there.

For all the animation of her ways, which might almost be described as flirtatious. Lord Quinn did not believe his nephew would have mistaken Lady Anna Marlowe for an easy or even a possible conquest. Not as a mistress, anyway.

“I warrant you, Marj,” he said, “he will have her brought to bed of a boy before ten months have passed.”

Lady Sterne sighed with contentment, too long accustomed to her lover's manner of speaking to be shocked by his bluntness. “Lud, Theo,” she said, “I hope you are right. Anna has had a hard time of it, as witness the fact that she is almost past marriageable age despite beauty and rank. Lucy would never countenance my coming to visit her when she was ill and I never forced myself on her, but I have often wished since that I had. I wished it especially when I knew about the other troubles. Certainly Royce lost all his money and almost brought the family to ruin. By gambling, word has it.”

“Aye,” Lord Quinn said, “and word has the right of it there, Marj, though I never knew the man personally. One must not judge others, but it does seem criminal for a man to indulge in reckless living when his children are still unsettled in life. There are the boy and three gels?”

“Four,” Lady Sterne said. “There is the one young girl still at home and Charlotte, who was married to a rector just recently, a year almost to the day after Royce's passing. It was a decent match, I believe.”

“A nasty business, that,” Lord Quinn said. “Falling off the roof and all that. Messy.”

“There is a walk up there,” she said. “I remember it well from years ago. The house is at the top of a rise and there is a splendid view in all directions from the roof walk. But the balustrade, I recall, is no more than waist high. I would never walk too close to it. It seems that Royce did. I suspect, Theo, though it may be slanderous to say so and dear Anna would never admit it even if I asked straight out, that he drank more than was good for him.”

“Aye, very like,” Lord Quinn said.

“He doted on Lucy,” Lady Sterne said. “My guess is that he went all to pieces when she became consumptive and then died.”

“Aye,” he said. “'Twould be hard to lose someone one had long loved, Marj.” He set a hand over hers on the table for a moment and patted it. But he did not keep his hand there. They were ever discreet in public.

“I do believe,” she said, “that Anna, the eldest by four years, was forced to bear all the burdens alone. She has been weighed down by them, Theo. Not just by the grief of having lost both parents in such a short time, but by more than that. I wish I had known sooner so that I might have gone there to Elm Court and given her some assistance.”

“You are helping her now, Marj,” he said. “You have brought her to town and decked her out in fashionable rig and presented her to the most eligible bachelor in all England. If the lad can but be brought to heel!”

“Will you but look at him,” Lady Sterne said with a laugh. “The fan, Theo. 'Tis outrageous. 'Tis an affectation, would you not say?”

“Aye, as I live,” Lord Quinn said. “All is affectation with Luke. 'Tis what is behind the artifice that matters, though, Marj, but it is never easy to know with Luke. By my life, though, he seems taken with her. She is a lovely gel.”

“Yes.” Lady Sterne sighed. “'Twould do my heart good to see her hold her own child, Theo, and to know her settled happily for life.”

He patted her hand again.

•   •   •

Anna
was feeling flushed and hot after the vigorous country dance and it must have shown. After filling her plate and his own and seating himself beside her at one of the long tables in the supper room, the Duke of Harndon drew out his fan, opened it, and cooled her face with it. She laughed at him.

“Do all gentlemen in Paris use fans, your grace?” she asked.

“By no means.” His eyes roamed her face. “I do not follow fashion, madam. I set it.”

“So I am like to see more fans in gentlemen's hands in London during the coming weeks?” she asked.

“I do not doubt it,” he said.

“It must be wonderful,” she said wistfully, “to live in Paris. Is it?”

“If you enjoy a life of glittering frivolity,” he said, “there is no place on earth to compare with it. Do you?”

She laughed. “I have no idea, your grace,” she said. “I have lived in the country all my life and am but recently arrived in town. I am what one might call a country bumpkin.”

Ignoring the food on her plate, she had set an elbow on the table and rested her chin on the back of her hand. She smiled at him. She was deliberately fishing for a compliment and felt no doubt that it would come. She had never before done anything nearly so shamefully brazen. It felt wonderful.

“If that is true, madam,” he said, “then it seems I have been spending my days in the wrong place. Perhaps I too should have been in the country.”

“Ah, but,” she said, “'twould have been a different part of the country, your grace. That is the problem with the country. It is too vast.”

“Yes.” He paused in his gentle fanning of her face for a moment. “After all, madam, it appears that I did the fortunate thing in coming to town on my arrival in England instead of going into the country.”

She had had her compliment and tingled with the joy of it right down to her toes. He closed his fan and they began to eat. But though she knew that her godmother was sitting some distance away with Lord Quinn and that Agnes was seated with one of the dancing partners Lady Sterne had selected for her, she was not fully aware of her surroundings. The Duke of Harndon talked exclusively with her, telling her about Paris, amusing her with details of fashion and anecdotes of gossip, and it seemed to her that his attention was as fully focused on her as hers was on him. There was something in his manner—she found it impossible to identify what it was—that made her feel special, that made her feel almost cherished.

It was an exhilarating game that she played—something entirely uncharacteristic of her and beyond her experience. It was something she would have thought herself incapable of even a few hours ago. It was a game for one evening only—until, that was, supper was at an end and guests around them began to drift back in the direction of the ballroom.

“I shall do myself the honor of calling on Lady Sterne tomorrow afternoon,” the Duke of Harndon said, “if I find from enquiry that she is to be at home. Perhaps, madam, if the weather is favorable, you would care to walk with me in the Mall of St. James's Park afterward. It is the strolling grounds of the fashionable world, as you are probably aware.”

She was not. But it was an invitation she could not—must not—accept. She must not try to carry the fantasy beyond this one night. Doubtless it would mean nothing to him to dance with her tonight and walk with her tomorrow; there would be no declaration of attachment in his doing both. But it might well mean something to her. She was already in love with him in much the way all females are in love with Prince Charming while reading “Cinderella”—in a warm, detached way that would bring sighs but no real pain tomorrow. But if she walked with him . . .

She did not wish to fall in love. Indeed, she dreaded doing so. Life, which had been barely supportable for several years past, would be finally and totally unbearable if she were indiscreet enough to fall in love. All her instincts and all her common sense told her that it would be so. She must not be tempted to continue this flirtation beyond tonight.

“Then I must pray fervently tonight, your grace,” she heard someone—herself—say, “that the weather tomorrow afternoon will be favorable.”

He pushed back his chair, got to his feet, and reached out a hand to assist her to hers. He bowed over her hand as she rose and set his lips lightly against her fingers. She barely restrained herself from snatching them back as if she expected to be burned.

Five minutes later she was back in the ballroom, dancing a quadrille with someone else. And still smiling. And still feeling that welling of happiness that had carried her through the evening. Much as she tried to scold herself for the answer she had given the duke in the supper room, and much as she tried to tell herself that she would be sorry, she could not feel regret. Just a few days ago she had promised herself a couple of months of enjoyment, though she had not expected enjoyment to be quite this vivid or all-encompassing. Why, then, had her vision narrowed to just one evening? Why should she not give herself longer? One more day? Perhaps even the two months? It would be wonderful to live this fully for two whole months.

Would life in the future, when she had returned home, be any more dreary if she allowed herself to live now when she had the chance? Yes, a little demon somewhere in her mind told her. It would be unbearable once she knew that life could be so very different. And yet perhaps if she denied herself now, she would be forever sorry that she had not grasped more tightly the jewel she had discovered tonight.

And perhaps life in the future would be only dreary. She would be thankful if that was all it was. It might be so much worse if
he
returned from America. Surely he would not. There was panic in the thought that he might—he had promised to come back. She would not be able to bear it. She would want to die.

The Duke of Harndon was not dancing. He was standing near the door in conversation with two gentlemen and the Marquise d'Étienne. But he was watching her. Anna, catching his eye, gave him a dazzling smile before concentrating her attention on her partner and the quadrille once more.

•   •   •

Luke
was up early the following morning, as he always was, regardless of the time he went to bed. He had been out for a lengthy and vigorous ride and had breakfasted before his unexpected visitor arrived, unfashionably early.

But then there was nothing fashionable about his visitor, instantly recognizable despite the gap of ten years since they had seen each other last. He was a little more ruddy of complexion and a little more portly about the middle so that he looked every one of his nine-and-twenty years, but he had not really changed. He wore a carelessly powdered bob wig, loosely curled, a somewhat ill-fitting frock coat, a waistcoat that was unfashionably long, and stockings rolled over the tops of his knee breeches instead of the more fashionable breeches buckling over the stockings. He was clearly a man who lived in the country and cared not a fig for town styles.

“Will!” Luke said as William Webb, Baron Severidge, strode into the morning room hard on the heels of the butler, who announced him. “My dear fellow.”

Lord Severidge stopped abruptly and gaped inelegantly. “Luke?” he said. “Egad, man, is that you?” But he must have been convinced of the identification for he grasped his former friend heartily by the hand and pumped it up and down several times. “What the deuce has Paris done to you?”

“Ah, this, apparently,” Luke said, looking down at the silk morning robe he had donned after returning from his ride.

“Zounds!” William said. He reached into an inner pocket. “We heard that you had come to England. I am a messenger boy, Luke, though I had business that forced me up to town for a couple of days anyway. It brings me here about twice a year, which is twice a year too many for my liking. I have a letter from Henrietta.”

“Ah,” Luke said, ignoring the feeling that a heavy fist had collided with his stomach and taking the offered paper from his friend's hand. He slipped it inside a pocket of his robe. “That was good of you, Will. How is she? And how are you? Married with half a dozen hopefuls in your nursery already?”

William's already ruddy complexion flushed. “Not married,” he said, “and not really looking. The only place to do that properly is London, and I cannot bear the thought of spending time here and trotting off to balls and such all done up like a painted maypole. Oh, sorry, Luke.”

Luke motioned to a chair and rang for refreshments as Lord Severidge seated himself. “I appear like a . . . ah, painted maypole to you, Will?” he said. “Goodness me, and I am not even dressed in all my finery.”