Jade Lee - [Bridal Favors 03] (7 page)

“Really?” he said as he tried to smooth his expression. Once it had been easy to assume a bland exterior, but he found it difficult now. “I just saw someone I need to speak with.”

“An unhappy client?”

“Never.” Then he shrugged. “Someone who needs my attention, that’s all.” And he needed to get away from the intriguing Irene Knopp. She distracted him too easily, and he shouldn’t be seen with her while courting a different woman. And yet, he was loathe to abandon her.

It was folly really—just the merchant part of him clinging to a life that had become familiar. But he wasn’t a mill manager anymore. He was Lord Crowle, and he needed to pursue that future, not cling to a past that had been a five-year aberration. Still, he couldn’t leave her flat. That would be ungentlemanly. So he lifted Irene’s dance card.

“May I beg the favor of a dance?”

She flushed as she showed him her card. It was extremely thin of names. Just two: Lord Redhill, and his brother, Baronet Murray.

Excellent, you can be the hero. Take a waltz. Take two!

Grant hesitated, then hastily scribbled “Mr. Grant” beside two country-dances. He couldn’t let her be a wallflower on her first ball out of mourning, but he couldn’t very well claim the waltzes either. Not if he were to catch Miss Josephine.

Better
hope
she
forgives
you
when
she
finds
out
you’re Lord Crowle.

He grimaced, horrified at that thought. But there was no changing it now. So he focused on the next step. He grabbed lemonade for her then escorted her back to her mother-in-law. A quick bow later, and he was off to catch an heiress.

It took him a while to make it to Miss Josephine’s side. First he had to wait until Lord Lawton had been pulled into a discussion with some friends. Lawton’s dismissal of him two weeks ago still rang in his ears. Then he had to wait even longer for her mother to be distracted before he approached the surprisingly lovely girl.

And as he waited, that strange sense of destiny gathered around him again. It was yet another bizarre happenstance, especially as he hadn’t felt it in years. But it was there—just as it had been on the night he’d burned down the barn. Back then he’d thought it was luck, not even considering the idea that it might be
bad
luck. This evening, he was not so blithe. That his madness remained stubbornly silent caused his belly to tighten. It was imperative that he dazzle the girl. And when they were wed, he would finally be able to hold his head up before his family and his ancestors. He would finally feel worthy of his title.

The moment arrived. He had a friend ready to perform the introduction. He and Mr. Scott Klein stepped forward and bowed over her hand, Scott speaking just as he ought.

“Forgive me, Miss Josephine, but my dear friend has been pestering me for a week now to gain an introduction to you. Miss Josephine, may I introduce you to Grant Benton, Lord Crowle.”

The woman cried out in surprise, the sound a little more loud than proper. Then she laughed. “Lord Crowle! But there was no need for a formal introduction. We are, after all, about to be related.”

Grant frowned, his insides freezing. “I’m sorry?” he managed.

She sobered, a frown of confusion on her face as she brought up her left hand to cover his. There, clear as day on the fourth finger of her gloved hand, was an engagement ring. Why hadn’t he seen that before? True, it was rather small, but somewhere in his fuddled brain, he recognized it.

“No, I’m sorry,” she countered. “I thought you knew. But then Will said you’ve been gone for five years, and he had no way to contact you.”

Will? As in his
brother
Will? His mouth was dry, his throat tight, but he still managed to speak. “I don’t understand.”

She grinned, happiness shining through her eyes. “I’m engaged, Lord Crowle. I’m to marry Will, your brother.”

Will? As in Will, the second Crowle son, was to marry the heiress? His younger brother would gain all the profitable Crowle land? That was excellent. At least a Crowle would have the land. But… but Grant was the heir. And without that land, he would have nothing but a crumbling castle to support his title.

“I can see this comes as a surprise,” drawled a male voice behind him.

Grant spun around to face Lord Lawton. Finally the pieces fell into place. Lawton had called him a feckless Crowle. Lawton had said the land would never go to him. And Lawton had said he would beat Grant senseless if he caused a scene at the
wedding
.

Oh,
drawled his madness.
That
wedding! The one where your brother gets everything, and you get nothing.

“Papa, be nice,” admonished the blushing bride. “We are to be related, after all.”

“Don’t distress yourself, Miss Powel,” Grant pressed through numb lips. “Your father and I understand each other very well. I couldn’t be happier.” At least he hadn’t choked on the lie. After all, he’d been lying for five years now, pretending to be something other than the unlucky, doomed Lord Crowle. “I came to offer my felicitations. Welcome to the family.”

Then he endured a few more awkward moments of gushing happiness from the bride before he escaped. He walked blindly through the ballroom crowd, not stopping for anyone or anything. But a few moments later, he realized he had indeed been heading somewhere.

He’d been heading for a footman. Robert, after all, had an excellent bar.

“A brandy,” he ordered the man. “Bring the bottle to the card room.”

Because
a
good
drunk
is
always
best
around
cards
and
dice.

“Shut the bloody hell up!” Grant growled, and he didn’t even care about the footman’s startled glance. If nothing else, it ensured that he got a full bottle in rapid time.

Irene watched Mr. Grant leave the ballroom with a sickening disappointment. She knew from experience years ago with her father that once a man went into the card room, he would not emerge for the rest of the ball. Time disappeared for a man while gambling. And the free-flowing liquor did nothing to help them keep promises, no matter how heartfelt they were when uttered. She might as well scratch his name off her dance card because he would not remember to claim them.

She didn’t. She thought about it, but then hope whispered traitorous words into her heart. Perhaps Mr. Grant was different. Perhaps it was only aristocrats who were gamblers and fools.

Fortunately, a new arrival distracted her completely from her own dark thoughts. At the top of the stairs, Penny Shoemaker and her new fiancé Samuel entered with Wendy stepping in behind. Penny looked lovely, of course, and Samuel had managed to keep his cravat on straight. Well, he did for a moment, but as he descended the stairs, a self-conscious tug had it out of place. But that was nothing compared to the sensation of seeing Wendy fully revealed before she too descended the staircase.

My God, she was stunning. Her honey brown hair was pulled up in a topknot, her elfin face lifted in a quiet challenge that made her look regal, and her dress—sweet heaven that dress! It was the most amazing creation she’d ever seen. An emerald green silk so shimmery rich, Wendy appeared a living gem. There was little decoration on it. It had likely been sewn quickly and only for this party. But it didn’t need adornment. The color was beautiful, and the body it sheathed was beyond amazing. Irene felt a little flash of guilt that she hadn’t realized how beautiful Wendy was. The little seamstress had always appeared hunched, always working, her brow furrowed in lines of strain.

At this particular moment, Wendy could have been a duchess. And Irene wasn’t the only person to notice. All around her people turned their heads—men and women alike—and every mouth whispered, who is she? What is her name?

While Lord Redhill greeted Samuel, Helaine went directly to Wendy. There was no disguising the warmth with which the two women embraced. Irene saw the first flash of uncertainty cross Wendy’s face. The girl bit her lip, and she squeezed tight enough to crinkle Helaine’s dress.

Without even thinking about it, Irene crossed the ballroom floor. These were her best friends in the world: Helaine, Penny, and Wendy. And she was welcomed into their circle with enthusiastic grins.

“I cannot believe how beautiful you look,” breathed Penny as she stared at Wendy.

“Not just me,” Wendy said as she tugged awkwardly at her bodice.

“Don’t fuss,” Helaine said with a laugh, but her slap was sharp on Wendy’s hand. “It messes with the line.”

Then they all laughed because Wendy had said—and done—exactly that to every client at one time or another. Meanwhile, Wendy looked about her uneasily. “I shouldn’t be here. I am not one of you.”

“You are my dearest friend,” returned Helaine. “You will always be the first person on my guest list, and if you do not belong here, then everyone else should leave.”

“But—”

“No more, Wendy! You are here. There are men lining up to meet you. And I shall make it my mission in life to introduce you to the best and most eligible bachelors of the land.”

“Indeed,” agreed Helaine’s husband from the side. “Cinderella has arrived. So who will be your Prince Charming?”

“No—” whispered Wendy, and Irene saw panic growing in her expression. So she stepped forward, reaching out between Penny and Helaine to touch Wendy’s hand.

“Stay with me, Wendy. We shall be wallflowers together, you and I.”

“I doubt she’ll lack for partners,” drawled Samuel, his eyes narrowing on the men who were angling for an introduction.

“Shhhh!” hissed Penny. “She’s nervous enough. But don’t you worry. We shan’t leave your side.”

“But—” began Samuel, his expression adamant. “Just look at the men.” That was the logical side of the Bow Street Runner coming out, insistent on the facts rather than the emotional subtleties.

Penny rolled her eyes as she pulled Samuel to the side. Meanwhile, Irene took hold of Wendy’s gloved hand, startled to find that the girl was trembling. “It will be all right. I will introduce you, and everything will be fine.”

Wendy didn’t answer. Instead, she closed her eyes a moment, took a deep breath, and squared her shoulders.

“Good girl,” whispered Lord Redhill in approval. “Lady Irene will keep you safe.” Then he touched his wife’s arm. “Come along, Helaine. We have more guests to greet.”

Helaine left reluctantly. With Penny and Samuel still deep in discussion in a corner, Irene was left as Wendy’s sole guide through the crowd. She headed steadily to her mother-in-law and Mrs. Schmitz. The two women would be thrilled to keep an eye on Wendy.

“Where did you find that silk?” Irene asked as they walked. “I didn’t buy it, but I sure would like to get—”

“Don’t know,” Wendy interrupted. “It was a gift.”

“Goodness! From whom?”

“I…” Wendy blushed. “I…”

She didn’t want to say. Irene watched as fear, confusion, excitement, and perhaps a little lust, filtered across the seamstress’s face. All of that emotion clogged the mind and colored her skin pink.

“It’s all right,” Irene said. She remembered being just as confused when Nate had started courting her years ago. “You needn’t talk now, if you don’t want to. Just know that I can be a discreet ear if you need one.”

“Thank you,” Wendy breathed, gratitude in her eyes. Then they arrived at their spot on the floor, and the men started crowding around. Fortunately, Samuel and Penny joined them a moment later, and as fortune would have it, Samuel was known to most of the hovering men. Which meant they could finally gain a proper introduction to Wendy. En masse, they stepped forward with cries of greeting to Samuel.

“Morrison, dear man!”

“Good to see you, Samuel!”

“Wonder if I could prevail upon you, ole chap—”

“Introduce me to your lovely companions.”

So it began. Samuel, with his ears red and his cravat decidedly askew, was pressed into service to introduce more than two dozen gentlemen to the ladies at large. He did his duty exceptionally well, using everyone’s correct titles, including Irene’s as Lady Irene. And then, by way of a nod of approval or a disapproving tightening of his lips, he let everyone know his opinion of the gentleman in question.

The most diligent chaperone could do no better. And very soon, everyone’s dance card was filled. Even Irene’s mother-in-law and Mrs. Schmitz were prevailed upon for a couple of the more sedate country-dances. Which meant that as first balls went, this was absolutely beyond her wildest dreams.

Irene danced. She laughed. She even flirted, while beside her Wendy seemed flushed and happy as well. Then came the country-dance with Mr. Grant’s name upon it. She looked around hopefully, but as she’d expected, he was nowhere in sight.

She tried to suppress her disappointment, but she couldn’t. It buried her in a wave of sadness well out of proportion to what had occurred. A gentleman had forgotten their dance. That was nothing unusual and certainly not a hanging offense. She was grateful for the respite in any event. Didn’t her feet hurt? She grabbed a cup of lemonade from one of Wendy’s admirers and drank it down.

That’s when she saw him. He all but stumbled out of the card room, his eyes hooded, his gaze dangerous. That was the word that flitted through her mind: dangerous. And he was headed straight for her.

She watched his progress across the ballroom. She noted that his hair was wild, as if he had been running his hand through it over and over, without even being aware. His cravat had the uneven look of a man who had tugged at it then tried to right it afterwards. But what she saw the most was the way his body moved. As Mr. Grant, he had been charming, seductive, and even a little bit fun. He had coaxed her into dancing with him, tempted her into buying his wares, and charmed her into thinking him a friend.

This man who crossed the ballroom wasn’t Mr. Grant. No, he was a man with a dark madness inside. She knew the symptoms and had seen them in her father often enough. And like a fool, she could not look away.

He was stopped multiple times as he wended his way across the ballroom. She saw him grimace more than once at the interruption, though his eyes remained locked on hers. The thrust of his chin, the force of his step, and the dark need in his eyes—all created a cage around her body and her mind. It was ridiculous. She was a strong, mature woman, but she was helpless as he stalked steadily, carefully, inevitably across the room.

“Lady Irene, I believe this is our dance,” came a man’s voice from her side.

Irene blinked, brought back to herself almost painfully. “What?” she said as she turned to a young man at her side. Mr. Palmer.

“Our dance, I believe,” he said.

“Oh yes. Of course.” She dredged up a smile and willed herself not to look back at Mr. Grant. She almost succeeded. But as she took up position for the dance, he finally made it to the point directly across from her. Then he stood there, like a dark force, and he watched her dance. She tried to ignore him. After all, it wasn’t her fault he’d missed his chance to partner her. But every time she turned, every shift in position, had her eyes inevitably drawn to his.

This was ridiculous, and it made her angry. At herself and at him. By the end of the dance, she had worked herself up so much that she snubbed him as she walked by. He held out his hand, he gestured to her, but she blithely walked by. It was unfair to him. He was clearly trying to apologize. But she did not like his hold on her, and so she stepped right past him and gave her most brilliant smile to her next partner.

That strategy worked for a time. After all, her dance card was filled. But she had forgotten about his second slot on her card. And worse, it was the dance before the midnight buffet. He would expect to take her to supper, most likely. She had not promised her hand to anyone else, and so she would be stuck.

She was still deciding what to do when he stepped up to claim her hand for his dance. She turned, her heart pounding in her chest so much she wondered if she would be able to hear his voice. Apparently she could, especially as she watched his mouth shape each phrase.

“I am a cad,” he said. “You have every right to be angry.”

She lifted her chin, but her eyes remained locked on the shape of his lips. They were somewhat full, she realized. Not thin or tight as with so many men, and she decided she liked it. “I’m not angry,” she lied. Then when his eyebrows rose, she huffed out a sigh. “Very well, I admit it. I prefer a man who keeps appointments.”

“But I did keep it,” he said. “I was just tardy. Much as you were some days ago.”

She frowned then abruptly flushed. She had been so absorbed in the ball, so strangely caught up in the life she’d never had as a feted debutante, that she’d forgotten how a man could be delayed. People made mistakes. And only a shrew would be angry that he had missed a dance.

“I—I beg your pardon,” she stammered.

He caught her hand. “No, it is I who am behaving badly.
Again.
We are at a ball, and I should not have made reference to…” His voice trailed away, and he appeared acutely uncomfortable.

“To an association outside of a party? But Mr. Grant, I am not ashamed of my job. Anyone can know of it.”

Of course, almost no one did. They thought of her as Lady Irene, school friend of the new Lady Redhill. And if they really pressed, they thought of her as chaperone to Miss Wendy Drew, the stunningly beautiful woman who was stepping onto the dance floor with her latest partner.

“The set is forming. Shall we?” Mr. Grant asked.

She placed her fingertips to his. “Of course.”

He took much more of her hand that she expected. His hand was large and powerful, and her long fingers felt engulfed by his strength. After spending the evening dancing with dandies who used their hands simply to hold their horses’ reins or lift a drink, she appreciated a man who labored. Who seemed as if he could hold her up with just one hand should she stumble.

She liked that in a man, and she felt her anger melt as they formed the pattern of the dance. They moved easily enough. She had recalled the motions after the first hour of dancing, but he seemed to dance as though it was second nature—very odd in a fabric salesman. Even more unnerving was the way he watched her through the entire pattern, completely ignoring whomever danced opposite him.

“You are amazingly athletic,” she said as the dance pulled them together. “You must have practiced this.”

“I danced with my mother,” he said simply, his gaze canting away for the first time since he’d left the card room.

“Not this,” she countered. “This cannot be done with just two.”

He flashed her a smile. “Most perceptive. But there was also my brother and sister.” His voice broke slightly on the word “brother,” but it may simply have been because the air was dry. At least her mouth felt incredibly dry.

They moved apart again, and her hand felt weirdly empty until she was brought back to him. Ridiculous, and yet, the impression was so strong. In the end, the next step was inevitable. As the dance came to its end, he smiled.

“Please, will you join me for the supper buffet? Allow me to apologize for being tardy on the dance floor?”

“Of course I will,” she said with a gracious smile. Because of all things, she had been taught to be gracious when a man offered to apologize. After all, it happened so rarely.

They gathered up Wendy and her partner. Her mother-in-law waved her ahead, obviously wishing to discuss something in detail with Mrs. Schmidt. So the four spent a happy mealtime discussing everything inconsequential from the weather to the musicians. Soon Mr. Grant had them laughing at a silly story. He was speaking of a carriage race that had happened many years back. It was the kind of story that was hysterically funny, unless one thought about the dangers to horse and driver, not to mention any hapless stranger on the road. She laughed along with everyone else, but the note cut at her mood.